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Chapter Text

One of the greatest questions of our lifetime and the lives of those before is whether or not things actually happen for a reason. Is there a point to us wandering the dusty landscapes of the Earth and then later wanting to jettison into space to see what is beyond the silver-dotted black curtain? 

A famous scientist once asked,

“Is the universe an inherently incoherent place? Random and chaotic? Or is there a fundamental order behind all things?” 

Is there such a thing as coincidence? Are things purely incidental? Well, of course, some must be, but are we all accidents of the swirling space around us? Is every choice we make done without feeling or opinion or purpose? Or perhaps we are, in fact, part of a larger design. Each individual as a piece fitting into a perfectly sculpted jigsaw puzzle. 

That does sound rather poetic, doesn’t it? -- Romantic, even. 

It would be terribly comforting to know that each and every person, creature, and speck of dust has its purpose in a grand design. Aziraphale thought so. As he pondered his own existence, sometimes he felt like he thought too deeply; enough to the point that he had to close his journal and pour himself another glass of wine. But then again, he found himself sitting back in front of that journal, another hit of alcohol in his veins and another wave of questions begging to be over analyzed.

“To be, or not to be, that is the question.”

We are here and present, so why not be ? And be yourself with no plan to follow or box to close yourself off in.

But perhaps that was a right-brained person thinking. 

Maybe it was more comforting to think that there was more to life than a role to fill in a design. It was the imaginative and free-flowing, combating the logical and stagnant.

Why be given the gift of choice and freedom of expression if it was all meaningless? Did life not move and provoke thought in every person, poet, and artist in a way more changing and unique than the swirls of an exploded star deep in space? Without purpose, determination, struggle and falling into one’s own psyche, writers and artists wouldn’t exist and life would be dull and automatic. 

That was what Dr. Azira Fell at least read between the lines of his poetry and prose. It was what he felt on every page in every book that lined his office and home. Whether he read about Moby Dick terrorizing the stormy waters or the murder plot of a Danish King, there was something riveting and arousing in the thought that a human, in the machine of life, was so creative as to inspire thought in others for years to come, dead or alive. In a world of confusion and chaos, he wondered whether or not God would play dice with the universe. 

In a world of confusion and chaos, humans have been desperate to find some sort of explanation as to why things are the way they are. 

Science throughout the ages is a stark example of that. Instead of the free-flowing writing of people like Homer or Dickenson that could pull an infinite amount of interpretation, there were people like Einstein or Galileo that used math to explain what was at one point inexplicable. What made no sense, suddenly made sense. As if the apple falling from the tree had knocked sense into the chaos mankind has found itself in its pursuit to find its place.

One topical law that should be noted is the Law of Attraction .

In its essence it is as follows:

Whatever you send into space and time, whether that be in the form of thoughts, feelings, actions, emotion, etc, will, without fail, be sent right back in a ripple of effects. 

If you think positively, you will experience a positive effect. 

If you think negatively, you will experience a negative effect.

This all boils down to the expression, ‘like attracts like’.

In a world of chaos, this makes a lot of sense. Things that are similar are to stay similar and to be attracted. A duck wishes to be around other ducks, not a fox.

It fits the ‘design’ scientists seem so desperate to find and make sense of.

And that was where Aziraphale found himself telling himself, or rather that was the situation he found himself in. It was logical. It was smart. It was safe. It was convenient. 

But if scientists were so smart, what can one say about the principle of  “Opposites Attract”?

Doesn't that disprove the Law of Attraction?

The easiest and most clear example is two magnets. No matter how similar a positive charge is to another positive charge, they will never be able to stay connected. 

Or, thinking with our right-side brains again, one could imagine the relationship between two people. Although two people may have similar values and opinions, they may find themselves fighting for space much as a magnet does. Things thrive on adversity and diversity and that is exactly how bonds grow stronger and things evolve. That is how Darwin earned his place in history, is it not?

Life finds a way of thriving in dangerous and new environments. When war plagues a land and the land is decimated, hope somehow survives against all odds. In the deepest of dark ocean waters, flickers of light dance back and forth perhaps never coming across another lifeform in its slow but sure bob throughout the ocean depths. Even a blind squirrel finds a nut sometimes, and the ducks at the park will be there at the same time Aziraphale is with his bag of crumbs.

But even with taking this all into consideration, it would be fair to think that there is a difference between attraction to intelligence, which makes sense in a left-brain way, and the attraction in a way of love-- perhaps more of a right-brain way to think about it.

Love is something humans have been trying to figure out just as long as they have tried to figure out the meaning of the universe. Again, scientists have used clinical ways to explain why people feel an attraction for each other. They chalk it up to oxytocin and a primal instinct to survive. The assurance of the survival of the species.  --Very logical, indeed.

In past history, ‘love’ was merely families coming together for convenience and political reasons. They took ‘keep it in the family’ a bit too literally. In religion, love and relationships were your connection to God. Take the book of Job. He was tested by torture and turmoil to see if his true love and devotedness was with God. He trusted him although he lost trust in his own friends. Or we can consider this the fear of God put into us by a religious system. Now, this is all very logical on paper. It fits into the narrative that there is a system and that things happen for a reason. Politics, the survival of the fittest, etc. 

But if we step away from that left-brained view for only a moment, things get foggy once again. How can we be so sure that attraction and love can be so easily identified and categorized? If we look at it like that, it seems as if there is a formula for love and attraction and that anyone and anything would simply have to crunch the numbers and find ‘the one’. But it isn’t so easy, is it?

Then we see the different types of Greek love. There is storge, philios, eros, and agape. Each one denoting the small yet monumental differences of how we describe our love for each other, ourselves, and the things around us. Each one is used to help describe the indescribable and give us some sort of sense of the world around us. Each one to help us understand the intense feeling described by poet to poet. Again, the quest for knowledge but we are still given satisfaction by use of definition. 

Art, music, writing… all of these mediums evoke an expression of love and attraction that cannot be explained through some mathematical formula or principle or law. Why shouldn’t we be uncomfortable with the unknown? Life wouldn’t be so interesting and fun and breath-taking without the adventure of experiencing attraction and emotion in our own unique and mind-boggling ways.

Oliver Wilde had put it well in his preface of  “The Picture of Dorian Grey”.

“All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex and vital.”

Oh, how that made Aziraphale’s heart sing. If everything in life can be explained so easily through a formula or principle, why then do humans seem to gravitate towards a medium which paints life and love in such a foggy and dazed fashion? Why do they pour their hearts onto pages which no one will read or truly understand? And why do they continue to question themselves and interpret something that should be so easily explained? Art and writing give us the option to fall into a hazy mist that has no definitive answer. 

If opposites attract, life seems to be more exciting. 

But, perhaps these thrown dice aren’t really thrown. The universe is ineffable, after all.

_____

Aziraphale was in the business of writing and reading. As a professor working towards tenure at Niel University, he had his dream job. He could get lost in his books and literature and get paid for it. But that wasn’t why he was there. From a very young age, he had been reading stories from all of the greats.

Homer to Wilde to Shakespeare to Freud.

Growing up, he was surrounded by books and a passion for artistic expression. His mother was an artist by trade. His father was a writer. Aziraphale’s childhood memories were filled with sneaking a peek into his father’s dusty old study where he would grind away hours in front of his journal and typewriter waiting for inspiration to come and then just as quickly flee. Aziraphale was enraptured by the figure sitting in a stiff, creaky wooden chair, their fingers poised and ready to jot down any thoughts that came to mind and were deemed worthy to be written and remembered by anyone other than himself. He reminisced about being caught by his mother who would set her hand lightly on his shoulder with a smile. He would look at her who mirrored his enraptured expression at his father at work. Her eyes would sparkle between her two boys and then bring a finger up to her mouth to silently remind him of the silence they must have. With a nod of acknowledgment from Aziraphale, she left her son to sit quietly outside of the door with his own journal and books. 

Every now and then as he sat on the floor in the hallway, Aziraphale would hear the clacking of his father’s 1940s Royal typewriter sitting heavily on the cherry desk, and he would observe with intense interest. All the while his father would smoke a pipe, putting down on paper what would later inspire Aziraphale to become a writer and lover of literature for the rest of his life.

If Aziraphale was lucky, sometimes his father would break from his deep stupor and notice his son watching him as if he were the most interesting thing in the world. The blonde boy would quickly avert his peeking gaze and bite his lip in the hope that his father hadn’t noticed and wasn’t distracted by him. Aziraphale wouldn’t dare garner his attention for the fear that he’d lose an enrapturing and captivating scene, but to see his father gesture with a hand, inviting him to come in and sit next to him as he worked was one of the greatest gifts he would ever receive in his life. There would be few words between them during his father’s short life, but those spoken were spent reading his fantastic and insurmountable stories that were filled with peril, love, adventure, and horror, to his son, who could never look away, enraptured by each syllable. It was the most beautiful and real love he’d ever experienced throughout his life. He never thought he would experience something like that again, and he accepted that.

Aziraphale wasn’t the only one who fell in love with these works. His father had procured some fame within the writing community and had even won a few writing accolades. He was a beloved part of the community. He held fundraisers for young writers in the local schools, donated books to the public library, and did presentations at the local university. 

These honors would continue to come and his father would be recognized long after he had passed.

Over time, his father would become more and more reclusive in his study and there would be fewer invitations to come and sit next to him as he worked. Aziraphale understood that this was in no way to say his father fell out of love with him and his mother, but rather he was beginning to fall out of love with life, it seemed. The inspiration and curiosity he wrote about on-page began to stay inside his father’s head instead of being punched out on a typewriter or scribbled down in a moleskine journal. 

When Aziraphale was 15, he got the call that would change his life.

Since then, everything he read and wrote was in part due to his father. Even when he didn’t read something from his father specifically, he heard his father’s voice reading it to him. His gravelly articulation worn from smoking too much and speaking too little. 

The written word opened doors for Aziraphale that he found himself wandering into every moment he could. In a world of chaos, confusion, and stagnation, his books of poetry, philosophy, adventure, and love were a way for him to fall into that hazy study completely enamored like he had as a young boy. 

He thought he’d never experience love as he had through the page and written word. He had accepted that when his father passed. If what he felt with his father was as good as he’d get when it came to love, he would be satisfied.

That’s exactly how he felt as he sat next to his fiance. 

His fiance wasn’t a bad person. He was knowledgeable, smart, and devoted to his studies just as much as Aziraphale was. He was well dressed, well versed, and was blunt with Aziraphale. It made sense that they would end up together. They were similar and things alike are naturally attracted to each other. 

Gabriel was a professor at Niel University as well. But instead of being interested in literature and poetry like Aziraphale, he was interested in theology and religion. They had met when Aziraphale had first come to the university as a visiting professor, and after Aziraphale received a permanent position and an office near Gabriel’s in the Liberal Arts Department, things developed into a relationship, and then eventually a proposal. It just made sense. 

____

Currently, they were on their way in Gabriel’s silver-grey Mercedes 190e 2.3-16 convertible on a sunny Summer day in Tadfield to one of Aziraphale’s best friend’s home. But they weren’t just any best friend. They were Anathema Device. She was incredibly well known for her knack for prediction and expertise on books of prophecy. She had predicted the boom of the Apple computer and even figured out how many licks it would take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop without ever picking one up. 

--But, she was also, more importantly, his best friend, which he counted as much more notable than any fame she may have acquired within an intellectual circle. He didn’t write off her ability or skill, but when it was just them, Anathema was a person and someone he found himself growing close to after the untimely death of his father. She looked out for him and kept him from locking himself up in his study and falling into old habits, which never lead to good places. 

_____

“Are you listening to me, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale shook his head as he heard Gabriel’s slightly annoyed tone. The wind bustled around them, their hair blustering around on the tepid day. He moved his spacey, unfocused gaze from the passing street to Gabriel who leaned easily back in his seat, his left arm resting on the door while his right clenched the wheel with steady control. He was dressed in his typical slate-grey suit with a purple tie securely tucked into his white dress shirt as they drove throughout the neighborhood. 

“Did you space out again, Aziraphale? You didn’t hear anything I said, did you?”

Aziraphale sat back in his seat and gave him a sheepish grin,

“I’m terribly sorry about that, dear. It certainly wasn’t intentional. What were you saying?”

He didn’t get to know what he had missed because just as Gabriel was opening his mouth to repeat something probably about the wedding ceremony and church they were planning on booking, there was a loud sputtering noise coming from their mechanical carriage.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at that. He may not have been very knowledgeable about cars, but he didn’t think that sound was a good sign. Both of Gabriel’s hands immediately went to the wheel as another loud sputter was spat from the muffler-- or engine-- or some part of the car. Who was to say?

“I just had this car tuned up! 

Aziraphale wasn’t exactly worried about the car, but he didn’t wish to be rude and late to Anathema’s. Cold tea was no good. But he had a sneaking feeling that she would know when to put the kettle on to make sure the tea was the perfect temperature. She certainly had a knack for timing. 

As Gabriel huffed and muttered under his breath about something Aziraphale was sure was probably unhelpful, he smiled and set his hand lightly on Gabriel’s shoulder.

“Worry not, my dear. I see a mechanic just up ahead. Oh, yes! Temptation Tune-Up . How utterly ironic. Temptation accomplished.”

Aziraphale chuckled at his own little joke and Gabriel rolled his eyes. Aziraphale tried to curb the chuckles and lightly squeezed Gabriel’s shoulder.

“Just pull over there for a spot.”

________

“Crowley. Crowley! ”

Crowley rolled his eyes and didn’t look up from his “Literature: Old & New” as his two coworkers, well,  friends , shoved each other next to an old Ford pick-up that needed new brakes.

“ What!? Can’t you two lug-heads see that I’m reading here?”

Hastur and Ligur stopped shoving each other for a moment to turn their attention towards the redhead.

“We need you to settle a bet .”

Crowley let out an annoyed breath through his nose as he set the magazine down and finally forced his attention to his friends. 

When they saw they had his attention, they smirked at each other and moved to where Crowley was leaning against a messy workbench covered in tools. Crowley was already mentally blocking out what ostentatious thing that was bound to come out of their mouths.

Hastur spoke first,

“ I think that the Queen is actually a lizard person. How could she possibly be alive this long if she wasn’t?”

Crowley closed his eyes and took another deep breath. Honestly, he wasn’t surprised that Hastur thought that. He was always looking for conspiracies to dive into.

Before he could continue his case, Hastur’s brain seemed to switch gears as he noticed what Crowley was doing.

“-Wait, what are you reading there?”

Crowley forgot what they were talking about until he saw their gaze at his “Literature: Old & New” magazine.

“Something you two probably wouldn’t understand. It’s an article about a literature prize they are founding at the end of the month at the university. The Abraham Fell Foundation Prize of Fiction. It is in honor of an author you two have probably never heard of. ‘Died a couple of decades ago.”

The two looked at each other and then back at Crowley,

“Right. Very interesting. Didn’t know you dabbled in gushy poetry, Crowley.”

Ligur spouted.

Crowley just rolled his eyes in response. He wasn’t ashamed of the fact that he liked to read, even if he didn’t know too much about the different periods and types of styles of writing, or whatnot. He still enjoyed it. 

Hastur piped up, 

“Yah, I’ll be waiting for a love note in my lunch box, tomorrow. I am disappointed you haven’t sent me one yet!” 

The two chuckled and lightly shoved each other again as Crowley crossed his arms,

“Don’t you two have some brakes to replace?”

They just continued to chuckle until they all began to hear the tell-tale popping and sputtering their next victim- er customer. 

______

“Mercedes 190e.”

Crowley said with no hesitation. If he knew anything thoroughly, it was cars and engines. 

He and his friends in the shop always had a small yet relevant competition when it came to the cars they heard roaring - or sputtering -  down the street in front of their garage. The record had definitely favored Crowley thus far, but who didn’t love a little surprise? It made life interesting. 

“Naw. You’re crazy. Stationwagon, obviously.”

Hastur licked out as he turned his attention from shoving Ligur about to listening carefully to the ambiance around them. Crowley swore this was the only way to pique both of their interests other than those bizarre “New Aquarian” magazines. 

“Okay. But you’d be crazy to not think it was a busted carburetor.” Ligur commented.

Crowley had to agree, but what fun was that?

“$20”

“You’re on!” 

What Crowley didn’t realize would how little he’d care when that stupid Mercedes eventually sputtered up, just barely, into their parking lot in front of the garage. 

What he saw would be more important and earth-shattering than any bet he could make with his wiley cohorts. He saw a blonde; and not just any blonde. Hair that seemed to sit on its respective head in a halo. Angelic. It may seem silly and utterly poetic , but Crowley felt time slow down as he literally rolled into his life.

Whoever this person was, they were doing things to Crowley. From a distance, he could see the silliest and unruliest of blonde curls. They looked like little buzzing bumblebees about his head as they whipped into the lot in their convertible. And then blue eyes were trained on Crowley. On him . It almost felt like it wasn’t right. Those eyes felt like they were reading into Crowley’s very thoughts. That was terrifying. The way they looked so friendly and amused at such a situation he and the obviously very flustered driver were in.

None of this made sense to anyone but Crowley, but he didn’t care, did he? 

Not everything had to be explained in such a crystal-clear fashion. 

He almost didn’t hear an annoyed and hurried voice.

“It seems that we’ve run into a bit of an issue. Is there something that can be done about it? Sir? Oh, this is hopeless.”

Blue eyes glanced back at the tall, grey-suited man and Crowley’s own eyes had to follow to where the irritating sound had come from, almost jealous that the blonde’s attention had turned from him.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. You came to the right place. Let me take a look.”

Crowley smirked with a confident grin and leaned against the very hot hood of the car. He really couldn't care less even if the sweltering heat was currently sizzling him up like an egg on a griddle. It didn’t have nearly the heated effect that his heart -amongst other things- was experiencing. Not when the angel was looking at him. He couldn’t stop staring as khaki-colored legs stepped out of the car.

The angel was wearing a cream-colored suit jacket that matched his waistcoat. Brown leather Oxfords graced his feet while a blue tartan bowtie sat snuggling under a white collar. He must have been absolutely sweltering in the heat of a summer day in June. It wasn’t something Crowley ever saw himself throwing on his usually tank-topped body, but he could appreciate a piece of art, couldn’t he? It certainly fit the beaming man, even if he was joined by the deep frown of the bothersome taller man next to him who continued to grouse over how he had just had the car tuned up. 

Crowley went to the front of the Mercedes and popped the hood looking towards the engine.

“So that’s the engine, huh? You don’t see that every day.”

It earned a chuckle from the tartan-angel, even if it hadn’t from the man he was with.

~ Oh, that chuckle.

It was going to be too easy to get under this guy’s skin. Mr. Grey-Suit genuinely looked like he thought Crowley was being serious, and his blonde-haired companion shared an amused look with Crowley.

“Perhaps we are in the wrong place-”

Crowley couldn't help the racing of his heart when the tartan-angel rolled his eyes playfully.

“Why don’t we just trust they know what they are doing. We certainly do not.”

Crowley smiled a dopey toothy grin and cleared his throat, picking at the engine carefully a bit with a grease-covered finger.

“It seems as if your stroke is too short and you’re getting premature ignition. Would you agree?”

He asked pointedly at the two of them as he continued to lean, a bit too nonchalantly, over the distressed engine of the car. He made a special effort to coolly cock a hip and look actually interested and invested in fixing the car but he couldn’t help but sneak a peek or two under his ginger-dusted arm to watch the angel move a bit closer to the engine as if he were trying to analyze and see what Crowley was seeing. It was adorable. 

Gabriel just squinted his eyes and shook his head trying to come off as if he understood.

“Right… and what does that mean?”

“Like I said. Your stroke is too short and you’re getting premature ignition. Perhaps you’ve experienced it.”

Crowley just threw a pointed look at Aziraphale who was getting so close he could almost swear that he could smell the aftershave on that smooth baby-face. Cinnamon. He decided to push a bit further and cocked his head and grinned like a Cheshire cat.

Aziraphale had a ghost of a smile across his face, but then he looked virtuously down to the machine below again.

“I’m quite sure that I don’t know what you mean.”

____

Of course, he did. Was it true? -that was the question.

He didn’t kiss and tell.

Crowley released a small breathless chuckle and pushed himself off of the silver hood as coolly as possible. He didn’t really have a choice as his hips began to lose their grip on the smooth metal and decided to slide vaguely downward. How could you blame them? Crowley’s attention wasn’t on balance. He managed to make it seem ‘cool’ off enough to not give himself away, and pulled out a rag from his back pocket and wiped his hands.

“Let me just talk to my colleagues about what can be done here. Don’t drive away.”

Maybe he imagined it, but Crowley received the most lovely smile as he pulled himself away from the two after giving the car a little pat and went back into the garage where Ligur and Hastur were putzing around.

___

“I’m going to marry him.”

He was smitten .

Hastur and Ligur looked at each other with raised brows and shook their heads.

“Oh, really? Is that so, lover boy? And you just know that out of nowhere, Romeo?”

Crowley had to take a few breaths as he leaned back against his cluttered workbench only to push himself off of it in a moment of discomfort and restlessness to walk aimlessly around the garage where their many projects sat idly waiting for any one of them to actually get the motivation to fix them. With the crew there, it was not very likely to happen soon.

“When I saw him, I saw a light and felt a warmth like I had never before. I felt something come to an abrupt stop inside of me when I saw him and something scarily new began to heat up. It was like death, but in a good way.”

Hastur and Ligur looked at each other in actual worry and approached Crowley carefully at each of his sides, as if he were a scared street cat, and set their hands on his shoulders.

“Uh, yah know, we think you’ve been reading those sappy romance novels for too long. You just need to get laid and get over it.”

“Yah! This heat is just getting to you in the wrong way, boss.”

Crowley just rolled his eyes, shoving their hands off his shoulder and didn’t have the chance to respond before that angel walked in with a particular swagger in his walk that had Crowley’s mind reeling.

“If we are sitting ducks and are to have our car fixed here, I really do think it logical for me to call a cab. We do have places to go, after all. Do you mind terribly if I were to use your phone? It will be just a minute of your time.” 

Before Crowley could really understand what he was saying, his brain spat out the first and most genuine thing it could to sabotage him.

“Right this way, Angel. Anything you’d like.”

The tan-suited man bit his bottom lip and held back a chuckle. “What good service, already.”

Crowley tried not to mentally kick himself as he led the blonde to the very messy office he and his cohorts shared. It was a fucking mess in there. There were pin-up pictures slathered all over the walls -purely Hastur and Ligur’s doing- and tools waiting about to be put away.

He again tried to lay as casually as possible over the desk like some boneless snake as he needlessly pulled the wall phone off of the wall with the flourish of a hand and handed it to his new customer. Shit, he didn’t even know his name.

Now that he was closer to him, Crowley could pick out all the details of his Juliet in front of him.

_____

As he held the wall phone in his hand, Crowley noticed how there were all the details of a bloke from the victorian era or something like it. -Or perhaps Peter Rabbit. With the blue tartan bow tie came a gold pocket watch that a soft and delicate hand was worrying at while punching out a number for the taxi company.

It was in stark contrast to what Crowley wore. His upper half had a slightly damp, but well worn black tank top. The khaki-colored trousers were finely pressed while Crowley’s work pants were black and stained with grease and dust from bustling about the garage all day. A golden-colored waistcoat cinched up a white dress shirt but the slight roll of a gut was still visible even under so many unnecessary layers. It must have been at least 80 degrees Fahrenheit -27 degrees celsius- outside. He must have been sweltering under the clothes he was wearing, but damn did he look good in them. Crowley was sure he would look just as good without them-

“Excuse me, sir. But what is the address of this establishment? I need an address so we can be picked up”

Crowley was shaken from his shameless gawking and cleared his throat, trying to pull himself together. He nodded and pulled out a folder filled with customer information so he could take it down and perhaps not look so crazy as he stared. 

“Sure, sure. It is 0428 Pratchett street” He responded and looked carefully at how his customer held the phone so snuggly to his chest. He tried to imagine how it would feel if he were pressed so snugly against it-

“Quite right. Thank you, dear.”

He repeated it into the receiver and continued to toy with that interesting and antique-looking pocket watch. After a few more hums and grunts of affirmation to whomever he was speaking to, The angel set the phone back in its home on the wall. He turned to Crowley and gave him another blustering smile.

“They should arrive to pick us up in 15 minutes. I hope that won’t be too much of a bother.”

Crowley blinked and shook his head. If anything, it was a bother it was so short of a time!

“Of course not. Stay as long as you like. I, uh, need your name and information for the book if you don’t mind.” Crowley stuck the end of a pencil in his mouth and chewed on the rubber-tipped end to keep himself grounded. It wasn’t working.

Aziraphale’s mouth went slack for a moment and he closed his eyes with a small huff,

“Oh, I do apologize! How careless of me. I didn’t even introduce myself.” He stuck out his soft hand and smiled. “Dr. Aziraphale Fell. You can just call me Aziraphale. I work over at the local university in the literature department.”

That name seemed familiar, but he just couldn’t place it. It was on the tip of his tongue but he had better things to worry about at night and other things he’d rather have on his tongue. He looked like the professor type. That was not a bad thing, of course, it was just that it was the complete opposite of Crowley, who had barely graduated high school. He had taken a few community college courses but had realized that school just wasn’t really his scene. He was good with his hands, not so much a textbook. There was nothing wrong with that, but he couldn’t help feeling a wave of nervousness, considering he and Dr. Fell probably had very different upbringings.

Crowley reached out his own hand after wiping it off on his rag again for good measure, wrapping his spindly fingers around the professor’s -Dr. Fell’s- Aziraphale’s . Even his name was like it was from a fairytale. 

“Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley, but you can just call me Crowley. That’s what my friends call me anyway.”

Aziraphale smiled and shook his hand for a much-too-short amount of time and then let go, taking the breath from Crowley with it for what felt like the 100th time that day.

“ Crowley ,” He repeated as if trying it out on his tongue. Crowley would love to try him out on his tongue-

“Well, I’m glad I can be counted as a friend then.”

Oh, how he had a way with words.

Crowley couldn’t just stare at him for the next 15 minutes, although he felt like he could for forever and a day. He smiled and cleared his throat, thinking of something clever to say.

“If you like literature, you probably know that they are having that big award ceremony for the new fiction prize next week at the university. I’m sure you would be excited about that if you like to read so much.”

Crowley wasn’t quite sure what emotion seemed to settle on Aziraphale’s face. At first, it seemed a bit knowing, but that made sense as he was a literature professor. It would astound Crowley if Aziraphale hadn’t known about the ceremony. But then the expression turned to a bit of sadness, small frown lines at the corners of his eyes making themselves known. Crowley hated it and he hated knowing he had somehow, unknowingly, made him feel that way. As quick as he saw it, it had changed into a smile and those frown wrinkles turned into amused ones.

“Oh, quite. I am excited about it. I’ve been waiting for it to happen for a long time. Longer than you know. Will you go to the ceremony? Do you have an interest in literature?”

Crowley scratched the back of his neck and flicked out a tongue quickly moistening his chapped lips. “You could say that. I like to read just like any other guy, you know. Probably not nearly as much as you do. I’m sure it would be hard to find you without a nose in a book.”

Aziraphale gave an impish grin in response. 

“You could not be more right.”

_______

It was really too soon before that cab arrived and Crowley may or may not have exaggerated a bit when he told them how long it would take before the car would be up and running. But the look on Gabriel’s face was worth it, as was Aziraphale’s tutting of Gabriel’s attitude.

“We should leave it to the professionals, dear. Thank you, Crowley. Have a nice rest of your afternoon.”

He was so polite, even to someone like Crowley. That wasn’t to say that everyone shouldn’t be treated with respect, but in Crowley’s experience, he and his grease monkey friends weren’t usually treated and spoken to with such reverence. 

He just stuck a hand in one of his front pockets causing the jeans to hang a little lower of his hips and gave them - or rather just Aziraphale- a little salute with his other hand as the taxi cab bumbled off down the road. When he went back into the shop, he ignored the little taunts and hollers from his coworkers and instead went back to where he had written Aziraphale’s information to reread what he had written down. Anything to do with Aziraphale, he would count as the most intellectually stimulating thing in the world. The way the name looked on the page, even on a gross sickly-yellow colored notepad, looked like Shakespeare. Then out of the corner of his sunglasses-covered eyes, Crowley noticed something shiny. He approached the desk to take a closer look and found the pocket watch that the professor had been toying with while he was on the phone. He didn’t see him unclip it from his waistcoat, but nonetheless it was laying there, a shining piece of treasure among the cluttered mess on the desk. As he took a closer look in the palm of his hand, he saw that it had thin metal banding work of an apple tree on the front; thin snaking metal details all around the edges of the circular piece. The beautiful snaking metalwork seemed to almost slither around the apple tree in the light. It was quite beautiful. It made sense that someone like the professor had it. He popped open to see the clock face and two hands not ticking away dutifully as they should have. Why would the professor have something that didn’t even work? He saw that upon closer inspection that on the upper part of the clasp, there was a fitting inscription. 

“All we have to decide is what to do with the time given to us”

~ J.R.R. Tolkien 

________________

After finishing up with the oil change on a 1967 Red Ford Camaro that he was in the middle of when Aziraphale and the crab apple he was with had puttered in, Crowley quickly went back to the office and grabbed hold of the golden pocket watch that the professor had left behind. He couldn’t just keep it for himself, he knew that. No one just kept a broken pocket watch of all things if it wasn’t important, or sentimental. At the same time, it was a reason to see the professor again and perhaps even impress him with his chivalry. 

He could just see him now- Aziraphale looking an absolute nervous mess after not being able to find his little trinket, and then there would be Crowley swooping in like some hero in an epic tale, watch in hand, and perhaps even fixed. 

Well, it wasn’t fixed, but he was sure that if he tinkered with it for a bit, he might be able to repair it. He was quite good with his hands, even if they were rough and calloused from working on automobiles all day. 

He sat down at his desk and carefully unscrewed the back piece where the small mechanisms were hiding. It was quite beautiful unto itself. It was a shame that it was covered by gold- that was poetic. It was what was on the inside that really mattered, right? 

Crowley rolled his eyes at the cliche thought and set to work, looking at the bits under a magnifying glass. It wasn’t an easy task and he certainly didn’t want to damage it anymore than it was, but Crowley very quickly noticed a small gear stuck. It took a simple squirt of gear grease for it to slide freely once again. The mechanic smiled and lightly twisted the small wind and set the time. Like clockwork, the hands began to move and a small ticking sound gave a constant and steady beat with every second that passed. Perfect.

With that, he wiped the sweat from his hands, chest, and forehead with a towel and tried to freshen up as much as possible. He didn’t want to stink too much if he was going to go to Aziraphale’s home to return the watch. He glanced at himself in a mirror and stared. He wasn’t a bad looking guy, but he certainly wasn’t as put together as Aziraphale. There was no time to get self-conscious about that! - He was determined to win him over somehow- fancy clothes, or not! He slid on his shades and grabbed a leather jacket, totally inappropriate for the hot weather, and off he went.

______

Crowley stepped out of his black Bentley once he reached the neighborhood that the address indicated which Aziraphale had given him. He looked up at his reflection in the side view mirror one last time and fussed with his hair a bit. This was it. Showtime.

He straightened up and realized that the address he had driven to didn’t exactly look like a typical home. Two storeys to begin with and it had a vintage-looking outside with columns, red wood shutters, and a layered brick exterior. It had a glass surrounded 3-season porch attached to the side which Crowley was sure was incredible to sit in at night when the stars shone brightly. It even had little cement rabbits outside the front in the flower beds which held some hostas that had seen some better days. It certainly stood out from all the other typical two-story houses on the block which were renovated to look as boring as some suburban neighborhood outside of London. It made Crowley smile, knowing that the professor lived in such a unique building. It looked kind of like him. -Vintage and surely hiding treasure within. He just had to go inside.

_____ 

After knocking on the front door, Crowley rocked slightly back and forth on his heels until he heard the sound of feet padding across the floor and finally to the door. That was nothing abnormal. What he didn’t expect was the young woman peering- no, reading him, after opening the door. Crowley could almost not believe his eyes. It was Anathema Device, the incredibly famous fortune teller and guru on anything that had to do with prophecy. Crowley would have really had to have been living under a rock if he didn’t know who she was.

“Can I help you?”

Crowley blinked a few times and felt a dry itch in the back of his throat.

“You’re Anathema Device.”

There was a small quip of lips that seemed to be laughing at him even without a sound.

“You have the great powers of observation. I am, and you are?”

Crowley chuckled sheepishly. Right, introduce yourself to Anathema Device as if it were any joe-schmo person.

“‘Name’s Crowley. I work in a car garage down a couple blocks. Temptation Tune-Up. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

Anathema gave a little nod and clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth, leaning on the door frame and looking the mechanic up and down. Crowley couldn’t help but think that she was analyzing him like some of her prophecies. It was honestly terrifying. He tried not to give anything away, but he was sure he was coming off as a crazy person, clear as day.

“Can I help you, Mr. Crowley?”

Ah, right. The watch. His angel . 

He shoved his left hand in his pocket and fumbled around grabbing at the gold pocket watch. 

“Ah, right, sorry. One of my customers forgot this at my garage and I wanted to return it to him. Aziraphale.”

He revealed the pocket watch and noticed how Anathema seemed to recognize it. She reached out and picked it up out of his hands taking a closer look.

“-Aziraphale’s. I would be more than happy to give it back to him for you-”

“Actually, I rather hoped to give it to him in person.”

He wasn’t sure what his face was betraying to Ms. Device but by the look on hers, it must have been very red. She smiled and placed the watch tenderly back into his palm.

“And what business do you have with Dr. Fell?”

Crowley bit his lip quite unsure how to answer that question. What business did a garage mechanic have with Dr. Aziraphale Fell? Before he could botch up an answer, Anathema was walking back inside the foyer, leaving the door open for him. She seemed to know something he didn’t.

“I think you ought to come in, Mr. Crowley. We have a lot to discuss.”

Chapter Text

He swallowed, not quite sure what had just happened or what she had planned for him, but she hadn’t kicked him off of the property and it was Anathema Device, for Satan’s sake! You didn’t just ignore something like that if you knew what was good for you.

Stepping into the house, he saw it was just as unique and had just as much character -if not more- than the outside. It looked like there was a giant library inside the walls. The walls themselves were filled with bookshelf after bookshelf. It was quite impressive and must have taken more than a lifetime to collect all of the transcripts, tomes, and journals. After hearing the clearing of a gentle but reminding throat, Crowley quickly made his way into a large sitting room that had a massive fireplace and a few armchairs sitting about. The walls were lined with more books, old and new looking, but it wasn’t constricting. The room had a comforting feel, a feeling of love, if he tried to explain it. There must have been some really lovely memories made in this room. He slowly lowered himself down onto a maroon-colored leather chair, turning his gaze back to Anathema’s which seemed to be trained on him. It wasn’t predatory but seemed kind and inquisitive. 

“Tea, Mr. Crowley?”

He preferred coffee, but she was seemingly already pouring him a teacup of a dark black coffee as if he knew. He watched as the liquid swirled around the cup. She smiled softly as she filled her own teal china cup that was lined with painted golden swirls. 

“It’s just Crowley, Ms. Device.”

She stared at him for another long moment while taking a sip of the hot liquid, steam from the drink fogging up her glasses. She set it down after a moment and cocked her head to the side, her long brown hair falling to one side. 

“You came an awfully long way to return the watch, and it is working condition, I see. It was broken before. That was an awfully nice thing to do for Aziraphale, someone whom you don’t even know.”

What did she want him to say? He was dying to know what she already knew. It was probably written clearly on his face. 

“What can I say, Ms. Device? I think it is clear, but I don’t know exactly how to explain it if I’m being honest. The moment I saw him, I just felt-”

The apples of his cheeks reddened, and he picked up the pastel yellow tartan teacup to take a sip.

She smiled again in response and they heard a bustling in a neighboring room. For a moment, Crowley’s heart began to race realizing that it could be Aziraphale, but he was disappointedly relieved when two other people bumbled out.

Out sauntered a young-looking man and an older looking woman. He must have been in his late 20s to early 30s. Half of his Gingham checkered shirt was untucked, and his chocolate-brown hair was wild on his head. Thick looking glasses were sliding to the end of his nose as he struggled to hold an armful of vintage books. Behind him was an older, and quite pretty, woman splattered in a pink fuzzy sweater and a mound of sandy-blonde hair done up in a 50’s beehive hairdo. They looked quite a pair.

“Be careful, Newt! Those books are fragile! You know what Mr. Aziraphale would say if he saw you fumbling about with too many at one time!” 

The older woman tutted, and ‘Newt’ let out a sigh through his nose,

“Madame Tracy, I am doing the best I can. No matter the amount of books I have in my hands, I am going to fumble about as you so kindly put it!” 

Anathema let out a small chuckle and stood from her throne of an easy chair going to take the vintage books from a flustered looking Newt. With the books safely out of his hands, Anathema gave a small peck of a kiss to his cheek and he looked as if a spirit was exorcised from him. He took another step forward in a desperate attempt to return the sign of affection but, in turn, tripped on an edge of the royal red carpet that was in the middle of the room, sending him over like some felled log.

‘Madame Tracy’ just rolled her eyes and then turned her gaze on Crowley.

“Anathema, I didn’t know we had company.”

She looked him up and down with curious eyes just as Anathema had and felt himself gulping.

“Who is this young man?”

Without giving time to Crowley to respond for himself Anathema sat back down on her throne and took her teacup back into her hand.

“Aziraphale has an admirer, it seems. He came here looking for our favorite bookworm to return his forgotten pocket watch.” 

She wasn’t lying, but it still sent a shiver down his spine hearing her say it. Madame Tracy’s look of confusion turned to one of pure delight, and she quickly pulled a chair up to their little seance circle they had created. Crowley stood up and stuck his hand out, quickly wiping it on his pantleg used to having car grease on his hands. She took his hand in his and gave a little reassuring squeeze.

“Oh, why isn’t that just lovely? Sit down, dear. I am Madame Tracy, and this is Newt Pulsifer. We are good friends of your Mr. Aziraphale.”

Crowley didn’t really have a choice if these were Aziraphale’s friends. He didn't want them to be spiteful because he didn’t want to stay for a spot of tea, and if Aziraphale lived here then he would show up eventually. He did what he was told and tried to sit up straight. 

Anathema took a breath and put on a small stressed smile.

“We need to talk about Aziraphale.”

____

Crowley was at a loss of what to do. Aziraphale had a fiance, and it was that egotistical grey blob to add to it. Crowley wasn’t a homewrecker, but he certainly didn’t want to give up on him. He would be better than Gabriel. Uhg- even the name. But Gabriel was an educated professor at the university and was probably more alike to Aziraphale in interests and education than Crowley could ever imagine himself to be.

“I just don’t see how I can impress him into even considering me. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t try, but-”

He sighed and set his face in his hands groaning.

Anathema and Madame Tracy shared a look and smiled. Madame Tracy reached out and patted his knee.

“Crowley. You seem like you are smart as a whip. You’re clever and even fixed his watch for him. You seem to have the passion and courage to come here and talk to Aziraphale. Aziraphale should be with someone like you, not that stuffy theology professor. Gabriel is just so stuck up and righteous, nothing like what Aziraphale deserves.”

That certainly helped Crowley feel a bit better knowing he had the support of Aziraphale’s close friends, but that didn’t change the facts.

“If you all seem to hate this theology asshole so much and you are all such close friends, then how did Aziraphale even end up with this jackoff?”

Anathema sighed and looked at her lap. 

“Aziraphale is an incredible writer, actually. When I get glimpses of his journal, there are beautifully written sonnets and intriguing story ideas, but he only seems to read dusty, overdone books and writes hilariously serious academic papers. He’s so much more than that. He lacks confidence, to put it simply. He thinks that perhaps his contribution to the world will only be through teaming up his brain with the stuffy, uptight brain of another academic.”

Crowley shook his head and sipped at the edge of his now lukewarm coffee.

“That’s crazy. Aziraphale is way too smart to think that he needs another intellectual to be incredible.”

Madame Tracy nodded and leaned in.

“We all know that, but he’s using his logic here,”

She tilted her head and smiled, pressing her ring-covered fingers to her forehead then to her chest.

“Not here. He needs a chap like you! Someone who is fun and free of the idiosyncrasies and constricting nature of the intellectual space. He needs freedom to be himself and not be controlled by the system. But the problem is, he’d never go out with someone like you.”

That was reassuring. -Someone like him. A mechanic who barely graduated high school and who makes a living sweating it out in a machine shop. He loved his job, but how could he use that to support his cause? It was preposterous. He would need a miracle.

“But how can a mechanic win over a literature professor? Oh, right. Just let me have all of your brains for a day, ha!”

He chuckled and rolled his eyes at the thought crossing his leg and shoving a biscuit he didn’t really want into his mouth.

The look that graced Anathema’s face was almost scary. She picked up Crowley’s teacup and looked inside to where the coffee grounds were settled. They were close enough to tea leaves. A trickle of sweat went down the back of his neck and a shiver cascaded down his spine.

“Are you thinking what I am thinking, Crowley?”

“What would be the odds of that ever happening?”

“You leave that to us.”

____ 

Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure where “Dr.” Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell had received his formal education, but nonetheless here was Aziraphale sitting in the Dean of Liberal Arts’ office. Some things weren’t meant to be understood and while he didn’t dislike Dr. Shadwell, he certainly was a lot to take at times. When Aziraphale had gotten the cryptic message of Dr. Shadwell’s willingness to see him, he wasn't going to say no. Not with how the message was a scribble of messy penmanship on the back of an old newspaper from 10 years prior in the shape of a surprisingly beautifully folded origami swan shoved into his mailbox. That’s something you just don’t ignore.

“Now come closer, you wee boy. Come on. It won’t bite ye’.”

What the dean was referring to was something he had just pulled out of a drawer in his very cluttered desk. How did he find anything? 

What the Sergeant was holding in his hands was a small pin. It looked like any other old pin, but the way his boss looked at it, it was like it was the most important thing in the world. 

“A pin, Dr. Shadwell. Why that’s quite nice.”

“Don’t patronize me. It ain’t meant to be nice, yah Great Southern Pansy!”

Now, anyone else would take offense to this, but Aziraphale took pride in this title. He was the Great Southern Pansy.

“I do apologize, Dr. Shadwell. I just am curious as to why you are showing it to me.”

A look of realization grossed the dean’s face as if he just remembered why Aziraphale was here.

“You’ll need it on your next mission, of course. Aren't yah’ listening to meh?”

He handed the pin to Aziraphale who gingerly took it as to not poke himself.

Right. His next mission. His last mission was to inquire whether or not his friend Madame Tracy had 3 nipples. Sergeant Shadwell was pleased to hear she was in good health and had just the 2.

“Oh, of course, I am afraid my reading and writing skills are a bit stronger than my listening, perhaps. Do forgive me, sir. What can I do for you? What mission?”

Shadwell stood up and paced with his hands behind his back. “As you know, your father’s Prize of Fiction ceremony will be coming up this next Friday. It is right important for the literature department, as you know. But I don't think it will gain enough traction for the department in the eyes of the administration, those wiley buggers. Always sucking blood from us like ticks! We need something to really impress them before next Friday, so they actually come to our star event with your father. This is where you come in.”

Aziraphale gave a small nod, his eyes training on the pacing dean.

“How so, dare I ask?”

He already knew but he had to hear it from the Sergeant himself.

“You need to come up with an event that will gather the writing community and cast light on the future of our department. We need new writers. We need something fresh. Something to showcase other than the overdone and overrated works of Shakespeare and Homer.”

Aziraphale didn’t agree with that last part about some of the most prolific writers to ever have existed, but he had to agree that the administration was tired of hearing about the past. They were throwing all their funds into the colleges of technology and sciences because they were always working for the future and coming up with ideas and discoveries that were putting the university on the map and in the eye of the international community.

“Ah, but Dr. Shadwell, I understand that the department wants to somehow celebrate the ceremony in a thorough manner and garner more attention, but I don’t see how we have time to throw anything together in such a short amount of time. It is only next Friday!”

That was only one week away. He’d only have the weekend to organize something.

“Exactly my point, lad! This department needs something to impress the Liberal Arts Community before the award. Just think of it, something new to compliment and read about and they will get their start here.”

Before Aziraphale could complain anymore, Shadwell was pushing him out the door. 

“I have faith in ye, boy. You’ve got the pin and your mission. Don’t disappoint me or face the ultimate consequences.”

And then there was a door in his face. He had no choice, but what to do? Where was he going to find the literature community’s next Shakespeare?

“This is your idea?” 

Crowley slowly spun around with his arms spread out, palms facing the ceiling as if mentally saying, ‘take me now’. The idea was to dress Crowley as silly as humanly possible, that’s what it was. He was wearing one of Newt’s blue and yellow plaid button-ups with Madame Tracy’s brown cardigan around his pointy angular shoulders. He looked like a newborn bird that hadn’t grown in all of its feathers and looked more like a blob than he did an intellectual.

“But what happens when Aziraphale tries to pick my brain and ask me a question. Dressing up doesn’t automatically make me Shakespeare.” 

Anathema went to her bag and pulled out a spare glasses case. She opened it out of view of Crowley, and Newt and Madame Tracy both nodded, impressed at what was inside. Oh, God. That couldn’t be good considering what he was already wearing. Inside the case was the dorkiest looking glasses he had ever seen. They were a silver metal frame in a completely circular shape, as some attempt to make Harry Potter’s already obnoxious glasses look even more obnoxious. They put them on his face, and he looked down at himself. He couldn’t see a damn thing through the thick lenses. Perhaps that was for the best.

Newt went behind him and squeezed his shoulders, quickly pulling away when Crowley turned his head with a glare.

“If he asks you a question, it is easy. Just do what all intellectuals do. Open up a journal, scribble some nonsense down, fix your eyes on some inanimate object like it is the most interesting thing in the word, tap your chin, and say ‘interesting concept, who’s to say?’ Then just change the subject.”

Anathema looked quite pleased with herself while Newt and Madame Tracey ruffled his product-stiffened hair to loosen it from its nice meringue peaks. That really bothered him. He made sure his hair looked good and here they were making him look like some kid with a bad bowl cut. They stepped back and looked at him like some weird piece of modern art that no one was sure how to interpret but were trying really hard to.

“The coffee grounds don’t lie, Crowley.” 

“I can’t just fake it!”

After the shock of the outfit they had styled for him had worn off, all four of them sat back around the coffee table hosting a tray of biscuits and more coffee to talk about the plan. Madame Tracy rolled her eyes, scoffing while crossing her legs and sitting back in her chair. 

“Trust me, dear. It isn’t that hard to.”

Newt looked across the circle and shook his head, “I don’t think we’re all on the same page here.”

He threw Madame Tracy a scandalized look and turned his attention to Crowley. Newt put his hands on his knobby knees and leaned forward a bit too far into Crowley’s personal space.

“Listen, Crowley. Madame Tracey, Anathema, and I have been in the literature and fine arts game for a long time. Our whole lives. If there is anyone who can help you convince Aziraphale that you know anything about the written word, it is us! From what you’ve told us, you like to read, and you dabble in writing yourself. You know some basics of poetry and prose. We’ll help to fill in the rest. It will be easy! And at the end of the day, he’ll see your personality, not just the knowledge that you possess.”

Anathema sipped her tea and flipped through a book half listening.

“And besides, Gabriel is just rotten. He’s a right piece of work. No fun. At least you’d make things interesting. A person of few words can have the greatest impact. People will rave over something 10 volumes long, or 10 words long. Let him decide if he’d pick up your book.”

That was actually profound and comforting-ish, but he didn’t have time to really take it in when there was the jingling of the front door and a voice calling out. 

“Anathema? Newt? I just got back from the office! I know that I went to do that over an hour ago, but I spotted an estate sale on Kennedy street and I just had to stop and see if there were any books that could go into my collection. Don’t be mad, but I may have purchased a box full, b-but they were only 25 cents each! How could I possibly say no-”

What Aziraphale saw upon entering the room, was not just his friends reading and discussing some book, but another man there. They seemed to be in intense debate about whether or not the Oxford comma was necessary in literature and if writing over time had outgrown it or needed it. It seemed trivial and, although Aziraphale actually had a lot to say on the matter, that wasn’t what he was focused on. What he trained his eyes on was the tuft of red hair in his sitting room.

Anathema ‘ignored’ her friend’s look of surprise for dramatic effect and then smirked as she looked up. She couldn't help it! The look of utter surprise on his face was something she wouldn’t forget. She sat back in her chair.

“Ah! Aziraphale. There you are finally. What kind of finds did you scavenge up this time?”

Aziraphale tried his very best to answer his friend’s question, but his attention couldn’t pull away from a very oddly dressed man with familiar red hair sitting in his parlor. What on Earth could he be doing here? And why was he talking about grammar as if it were his passion? 

Anathema bit her lower lip and slowly swooped behind him and set her hands on his shoulders. She leaned in and spoke quietly in his ear.

“Oh, you haven’t met him? I’m surprised. He’s quite a genius in the literature field.”

Aziraphale blinked a few times in disbelief and shifted his dampening hands on the corners of the cardboard box so he wouldn’t drop it.

“Oh, is he? Maybe you should introduce us then.”

She smirked. Bingo.

She went out in front of him and took the forgotten box of books from his hands, setting it down. She lightly put her hand on his lower back and pushed him forward. Clearing her throat, the three sitting down paused their ‘debate’ and turned to look- or rather Newt and Madame Tracey did. They both smiled. Madame Tracey winked at Aziraphale giving him another wave of utter confusion and stood.

“Oh, Aziraphale! Welcome back. Let me just put on another spot of tea for you. Here, come take my spot.”

Anathema lightly pushed him forward and around so that Crowley was finally in view. At least partially. There was a mop of red hair flopped down on his forehead and black-painted nails holding some sort of book upside down in front of his face so Aziraphale couldn’t quite see him.

‘Oh, shit. This is never going to work. He’s going to see right through this.’

Crowley’s mind whispered to him as he chewed his lip behind the book. He looked crazy with the clothes he had on and his hair a mess. In what world was this fetching? He had to be brave here. This was his second chance at a first impression, and by some entity, he wanted to have the professor give him a chance. 

He didn’t have a chance to think anymore before Anathema was clearing her throat from up above him.

“Aziraphale? I’d like you to meet my very good friend Mr. Crowley. He’s working on a project with me and was showing us some of his work.”

With a deep breath, Crowley lowered the dusty old journal that Anathema had shoved in his hands from a box she had dug out of a closet and set it on the little coffee table in front of them.

What he saw pushed the air from him just like it had when he had seen him at the shop earlier. The view he had was Aziraphale but in a whole other light. The cream-colored suit and waistcoat with the blue tartan bow tie seemed to just fit in perfectly in his home. Crowley’s mind wandered and imagined Aziraphale sitting in the maroon chair in front of him reading a book while the fire roared. Crowley would be sitting across from him with a glass of red wine in his hand and just be taking in the man across from him. The light would give an ambient glow and the warmth would have him swooning even more.

Aziraphale rose a brow in piqued interest and took a step forward and reached his hand out. 

“Aziraphale, though I think we may have met only just a few hours before this.”

Nonetheless, the professor smiled, and Crowley could see the wrinkle lines on the edges of his eyes from smiling. He just wanted to trace them with his lips. Newt kicked his chair and Crowley quickly stood up and took Aziraphale’s hand.

“You’re right. I couldn’t fool you if I tried.”

Madame Tracey walked into the room and shot Crowley a warning glance and he quickly took his hand back with an inward grimace. Aziraphale’s hand was so soft and warm. He never wanted to let it go. His hand instead went behind his head and scratched the nape of his neck where the ginger hair was a bit shorter. Aziraphale chuckled quietly and the rumble of it made Crowley weak at the knees. He almost needed to sit down. 

“It’s Crowley, right? Not Anthony, your friends call you Crowley.”

He remembered. The softest look of appreciation went across Crowley’s face and he felt the nervousness leave him as Aziraphale smiled just as sweetly back at him. This man was an angel. Usually, people didn’t regard their local auto mechanic so kindly. Aziraphale spent one more thoughtful glance at him and then looked around at the mess of books and journals on the table.

“I hope this doesn’t come off in the wrong way, but what is my auto mechanic doing in my home discussing grammar rules with my best friends?”

Oh, right. The nervousness quickly returned, and Anathema took the lead. 

“Ah, yes. Didn’t I tell you before? This auto mechanic is quite the poet. We have been working on some excerpts together for a project.”

Aziraphale quirked another one of his slightly bushy brows inquisitively. He turned his smile on Crowley again. “I had no idea you were a writer! How wonderful! Why didn’t you say anything before?”

Anathema nodded at Newt, who picked up the old journal in front of Crowley that he had been ‘reading’ and slipped it to Anathema, who went to the back kitchen with a new journal and a pen.

Before Crowley could botch a response, Aziraphale was sitting down in the chair across from him, and his slacks rose and tightened just perfectly against his thighs. His eyes sparkled as he picked up some of the scribbles in front of him, reading and then picking up the next pages. He was really gorgeous even when he didn’t know that someone was looking. The strong hands glanced through the various books of his friends and sat back in his chair. 

“Well, I just was just focused on the job at hand. What I said was true. I like reading like the next guy and I didn’t really think that some writing I had done was worth a mention. I am sure you read all multitudes of writing. What was another auto mechanic’s scribbles?”

Before he knew it, Anathema handed the new journal to Newt. Newt smiled and sent her a wink, handing it to Crowley.

“Crowley here was just showing us some prose that he had been writing. Maybe you’d like to see it. It is quite good.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes were suddenly on him and he held the book unconsciously to his chest as if he had actually written something and was scared of a tough crowd ripping it to shreds. In a way, he was.

“Oh, really? I’d love to take a look. Would you mind?”

It wasn’t really a question as Aziraphale finagled the journal from Crowley’s hands and opened it up, leafing through the pages. Crowley watched as the blue eyes flickered back and forth, then as the professor began to sit forward in his seat. He watched Aziraphale carefully as his eyes widened and he flipped back to the beginning and read through it again. A look of familiarity crossed his face.

“Crowley, I-”

Madame Tracey cocked her head,

“What do you think, dear? It’s smashing, isn’t it? All Mr. Crowley’s good work.”

Crowley took a deep bated breath as Aziraphale set the journal on his lap.

“This is spectacular. I haven’t read anything like this since my father-”

He cleared his throat and then gave a weaker smile looking back down at the journal. Anathema’s hand went to his shoulder giving it a light reassuring squeeze. 

“That’s what I thought too, Aziraphale. There is such a spark of life in there. Truly beautiful.”

There were a few moments of silence and then Aziraphale quickly sat up again, looking at Crowley with what seemed to be the ‘idea’ look - the same that Anathema had when she had her ‘idea’, dressing him as ridiculously as humanly possible. Oh, no. What had Crowley gotten himself into? 

Aziraphale picked up the journal and lightly smacked it.

“The world needs to see this, Crowley.-”

Crowley was beginning to shake his head as Aziraphale quickly stood up from his chair pacing around the room, looking at the journal.

“Do you have more written?”

Before Crowley could shake his head no, Anathema nodded,

“Well, of course! He’s a writing machine. What did you have in mind?”

She threw a scarily threatening look at Crowley, whose throat had gone dry as the plan took an unexpected turn.

Aziraphale held the journal to his chest as if it was something he treasured. “Ironically, I just got back from Dr. Shadwell’s office. He assigned me to organize an event to rally the troops before next Friday’s ceremony. A way to tie in the new age of writers with the old age. I think we just found our first candidate for my poetry slam! Crowley, this work would be perfect. A new-age author. Just what the department needs for this event.”

Aziraphale gave him yet another breath-taking glance of adoration.

Fuck. 

With a look like that, how could Crowley say no?

Chapter Text

It was a whirlwind couple of days. With the poetry slam that Aziraphale had thrown together for the sake of the department came with a dusty old journal shoved into Crowley’s hands and stern glances from his ‘friends’. 

This was the plan for the event. 

• Take the journal home.
• Pick out at least 10 different poems and write them down in sloppy handwriting.
• Read 4 of them at the poetry slam. Give a dramatic effect between each one and stare around the room as if distracted by something inspirational.
• Wait for snapping.
• Read 5 more. Repeat aforementioned.
• Save the last one as a secret weapon at his disposal. A poem actually from Crowley as a curveball.
• Succeed at winning the heart of Aziraphale.

Simple. Child's play. 

“But Anathema, isn’t this plagiarism?”

He looked at the journal that most certainly wasn’t his and Anathema rolled her eyes giving him another journal that was fresh to write in.

“For someone who doesn’t know much about literature and writing, you should have a mouth full of annoying vocabulary. Just trust me, okay? This will work. The writing is incredible and will be sure to garner his attention.”

-And Gabriel’s, as well-

At least when he was getting ready for the poetry slam, he could have more control over how he dressed himself. He went along a certain vein of what his ‘pals’ had concocted before but made sure to tone it down. The darker colors would complement his dark sunglasses, which Newt seemed to approve of.

“They make you look edgy. They make you look cool and aloof. Like Stevie Wonder”

Crowley rolled his eyes and peeked out of the little office adjoining the lecture hall where he would soon be announced. Shit. He was sweating. 

“That’s because I am all of those things, Newt. Take notes, why don’t you? And besides, Stevie Wonder is blind. I’m not sure if it was a fashion choice.”

Newt gave an awkward laugh and glanced out towards Anathema. 

“Perhaps… I’ve gotta go take my seat. Now, remember.”

He turned back to Crowley and put both of his hands on his shoulders.  When Crowley gave him a warning glance, he removed them and shoved them into his pockets.

“Walk out all aloof-”

“Check.”

“As I was saying, walk out there like you’re all in a mood. -Like you’re about to say the most important thing that they’ll ever hear in their insignificant lives. The meaning of life, as they call it. Then say your shortest poem. The shorter the better and-”

It was Crowley’s turn to set a hand on Newt’s shoulder.

“Newt. I’ve got this. It is just a little reading, right? Go, before I kick your aloof butt out of here. Thanks.” He said in earnest. 

Newt flashed him a quick smile and then scampered off to take a seat next to Anathema and Madame Tracey, who seemed to be paying more attention to the department head in the first row.

Before Crowley went out, he heard a hearty but full voice call out. Aziraphale.

“And our final poet for the day is a personal friend of mine.”

-A friend - That was personal.

Crowley didn’t hear anything Aziraphale may have said after that, but he did hear-

“Anthony J. Crowley. Please give him a warm welcome”

Fuck. 

And there was that. He couldn’t move as he heard some polite applause emanating from the lecture hall. He was frozen. Alright, maybe there was more to this than just confidently going out there and swooning the pants off of Aziraphale.

“Anthony J. Crowley, we are waiting for you!”

Shitshitshitshit. He had to go.

He slowly and awkwardly walked out and the applause eventually tattered off. He felt sweat on his forehead and cursed it as it was probably mussing up his hair in a certain way that was not cool, aloof, or edgy.

He looked out from his podium at the crowd. He closed his eyes and breathed shakily. 

Just read the poems. Follow the plan, Crowley.

Crowley, again, was asking himself why he was putting himself through all this nonsense, but then he saw the appreciative and captivated look on Aziraphale’s face. It all suddenly made sense to him. It was like the clouds had parted. Just like he had been a poet all his life, he was reading the poetry with aptitude all while remembering that it wasn’t his poetry to boast.

It seemed to flow out of him like some well-rehearsed script that was overdone one too many times in a high school’s more than amateur theatre department. 

But Crowley would be damned if he wasn’t dramatic. He knew how to put just enough flair and inflection on words to hold the audience’s attention. Every now and again, his eyes would lock on Aziraphale and he would falter. But the crowd just ate that up. Emotion. Feeling.

-Yadah Yadah.

But Crowley would also be damned to say he wasn’t impressed by the poetry itself. It was soft and hard. It was quick but then lethargic. It had just enough enunciation to make it sound percussive and hit you in the right way. Whoever the author was, they were a genius. But to these fools, it was Crowley. He almost felt bad. If Aziraphale were to ever find out, he would surely be disappointed, which was worse than the professor being mad at him.

“Why, you were quite something out there, Mr. Crowley.”

Dr. Shadwell had targeted Dr. Fell’s ‘personal friend’ immediately after the poetry slam. Although Crowley knew it wasn’t an interrogation, it certainly wasn’t calming to be approached by a man he didn’t know with his finger pointing out accursedly. Luckily, Madame Tracy was there to reign him in with a few glances here and there.

“-Never expected it from the likes of someone like you. Red hair all a’ floofed and nails painted black like some occultist. The Great Southern Pansy did an impressive job finding someone like you. Quite impressive, indeed, but how many nipples have you got-”

Madame Tracey had heard quite enough of Dr. Shadwell’s rambling on and took his elbow to get some drinks. She didn’t have to ask twice.

Thank God. He threw Anathema, Newt, and -Aziraphale- a helpless look.

“That was your dean?”

Aziraphale gave a nervous chuckle and couldn’t help but mentally note how expressive Crowley’s eyebrows were when he spoke. 

“I guess so. Best not to question it. You were absolutely splendid out there, you know. Really marvelous. I hate to say it, but I didn’t quite expect you to be a poet when I met you.”

Crowley was already leaning in to give the coolest, most aloof, and edgy response he could without a car to lean on. He was about to reply when a clear ear-piercing voice butted its way in.

“Me neither. Appearances are deceiving. Who would have thought that a mechanic was literate?”

Crowley broke his gaze off of Aziraphale and turned it to the smirking egotistical driver from the machine shop. They stared at each other while Aziraphale floundered.

“Gabriel. Oh, dear. That is no way to speak to someone.”

Crowley just gave a petulant smile back to Gabriel and shook his head. He reached out and set his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, his fingers giving it a squeeze.

“Don’t apologize, Angel. Just a little joke. I’ve got thick skin, but I wonder how thick his is. Care to comment?”

Gabriel’s smirk wavered for a moment and Crowley would count that as a win. 

The ‘after party’ wasn’t much of a party in Crowley’s eyes. It was more eating much-too-small crackers with stinky cheese and some champagne on the side. The champagne was alright, he’d admit. He was more a vodka-tonic man himself. As he was taking another flute of it from a waiter’s tray, he heard a throat clearing.

“Well, what’d yah think of that, Ms. Device? I think I pulled it off quite well if I do say so myself.”

Anathema gave him a knowing smile and took a flute of champagne for herself. She lightly set her hand on his elbow and directed him to the side of the large conference room where the ‘party’ was staged.

“You did do quite well, I’ll admit. You fooled the whole room with your antics and spaced-off looks. Very convincing, indeed, but you haven’t quite fooled everyone.”

Crowley shook his head in confusion.

“What are you talking about? I haven’t gotten one bad comment and they’ve been eating it up like-”

“Then why is Gabriel still hanging off of Aziraphale?”

Anathema questioned and moved her gaze towards where Aziraphale was milling around with Gabriel. By the looks of the trying face of Aziraphale, Gabriel seemed to be as dry as the wine they were serving. Crowley didn’t blame him. Gabriel seemed a bit of a bore.

Crowley turned back to Anathema, feeling a bit put out. He read the poetry. He followed the plan. How could he get Aziraphale to separate himself from his fiancé?

It was as if Anathema was reading his mind. 

“Go out to the balcony and wait… Just trust me.”

Her plans had worked out thus far, so he did as told, and after butting her head into Gabriel’s circle to ask him about all the innocent witches that were burned at the stake by organized religion, Aziraphale came bustling out onto the balcony to get some air.

Crowley was leaning back against the railing looking up at the clear stars as he heard a long exhale of breath. He opened his eyes and Aziraphale was pinching the bridge of his nose, looking quite tired.

“Was my poetry that boring, Angel? I think I got them fooled”

A pang went through his chest at that. A pang of guilt. 

Aziraphale opened his eyes and then slowly approached the trying-to-be-very-nonchalant Crowley.

“On the contrary, dear boy. It was…”

Crowley waited with bated breath. 

“Quite extraordinary. I hadn’t heard written word like that since-” 

Aziraphale leaned towards the rail, his hands gripping the edge and leaning in, and stared out at the sky speckled in stars. It was such a lovely, clear summer night. 

“Since?”

Crowley cautiously questioned. He learned quickly that there were some things that put Aziraphale off in conversation, and from what Madame Tracy had alluded to, he knew better than to dig.

Aziraphale’s face seemed to be conflicted but then it settled on reminiscent.

“My father, actually. He was a writer. Quite exceptional. Your writing reminds me of him.”

Aziraphale restlessly reached up tugging on a blond curl; a nervous tick, of sorts. Crowley leaned back against the railing again and dropped his voice just above a whisper,

“You seemed to have been close. You miss him.”

It was more of a statement than a question. Aziraphale bit his lip and Crowley could see how they were becoming glossy, the starlight catching it.

“I’m close to him through his writing. He had such a way with written and spoken words that I can only wish that someday I might have even a fraction of the finesse that he commanded through his writing. I miss him every day. I’ve never felt that way about anyone since. One of the only things he had that is now mine was an old broken pocket watch. Of course, I misplaced it like some oaf.”

Aziraphale reached up and cradled his head in his hand, the blond hair falling over it as his mind raced with guilt and sadness. The watch, of course. In the excitement, Crowley had completely forgotten to give back the watch. It had been sitting on his dresser when he had realized that he hadn’t given it back at Aziraphale’s home. To be fair, there were a lot of other things on his mind. This was the perfect time to give it back. It wasn’t his to keep as emotional barter. He felt bad enough waiting this long if Aziraphale had such an attachment to it. Crowley smiled at him and set a hand on top of Aziraphale’s own where it sat on the railing next to them. 

“That reminds me, Angel. I may have something that will pick your spirits right up. I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you earlier.”

He dug his free hand into his back pocket and pulled out the watch and chain. He held it out in the palm of his hand and Aziraphale’s eyes widened.

“It had slipped my mind, frankly. You must have forgotten it at the shop when you were calling for the taxicab. I just hate seeing you so upset. I really can’t. Here.”

Aziraphale carefully picked up the golden watch and pulled his hand from under Crowley’s to cradle it. Crowley would have felt dismal, but he couldn’t pull his eyes from the expressions on Aziraphale’s face. The little lines barely lit up by the lamps and starlight showed the small wrinkles at the corners of his blue eyes contort with thought and hesitation. Aziraphale pressed the small button on the bottom and the watch flipped open. Aziraphale’s eyes read over the inscription over and over. He couldn’t believe it.

“Crowley, I-“

Then he heard something. A tongue darted out to the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth, and then the cradling hands brought the watch carefully up to his ear like a baby bird.

Crowley wasn’t sure if the tick-tock tick-tock pitter-patter he heard was from the watch or if it was from his heart beating into his ears.

Aziraphale felt the same. A washing of love spread throughout him as he closed his eyes and listened to the careful cadence of the watch. His father had given it to him near the end. He had taken special care of it since then and when he had lost it, he-. He had it back. He was safe and sound; all thanks to Crowley. He hadn’t felt this amount of love thrumming through him in a long time. Crowley had gone to all that trouble to fix it for him and then return it. He had done the poetry slam for him, been kind to his friends, and now gifted back his watch. He couldn’t understand exactly what emotion was coursing through him. He knew what the love for his father felt like, but what he felt right in that moment as Crowley looked at him and his watch… he hadn’t quite felt this way before. He carefully put the watch back into a padded pocket and patted it; once then twice. He cleared his throat and lightly dabbed at the corner of his eyes where the smile lines had finally broken out.

He blindly reached out and then found Crowley’s hand sitting on the railing. He lightly took the fingers there and gave them a light, tentative squeeze. Crowley was so thankful that it was dark out, or else everyone might see just how red and lovesick he looked. He turned his own hand and threaded their fingers together and returned the squeeze. He could see by the look on Aziraphale’s face just how grateful he was. No words needed to be said. It was written clear as day all over his soft face.

Aziraphale finally looked up from their combined hands and smiled at Crowley, his other hand reaching for the champagne flute he had forgotten. He cleared his throat again and with a slightly tight and croaky voice spoke quietly.

“A toast, perhaps?”

Crowley would take it if Aziraphale continued to look at him with such reverence. He nodded and cleared his own throat, standing up straight for the occasion. It seemed like the right thing to do. 

They both raised their flutes and Aziraphale started, his eyes not leaving Crowley’s.

“To poetry, to literature, to my-”

And he faltered… 

Crowley could see there was a storm of something behind those eyes and he took a step closer to Aziraphale, the tips of their toes barely touching. He would help him. He would do anything for him. He’d fix 100 watches. He’d attend and fumble his way through 1000 poetry slams. Anything. 

“To the things that are too ineffable to explain, even through the written and spoken word. To the things unsaid.”

Aziraphale gave an appreciative look and chewed on his lip, conflict coursing through him. They were closer now. Their feet slotted between each other’s and champagne flutes forgotten, lowering to the railing where they were being set. There were only unwavering eyes and Crowley’s beating heart slowing down as he felt a comfortable rhythm between them. It was as if it was the balance of the push and pull, the negative and positive, things canceling each other just right until they were inseparable. Crowley’s eyes flickered to the red-stained lips of Aziraphale and saw in his peripherals Aziraphale reach out with his now free hand towards him. He could almost feel the champagne-tainted breath blow across his chin.

“Angel-”

“Crowley-”

“Aziraphale! Where have you run off to!”

Crowley closed his eyes, his heart stopping and a wave of ice hitting him waking him from this fantasy too good to be true.

Gabriel. 

Chapter Text

Aziraphale didn’t quite understand what he was feeling. It was like a bucket of ice-water had been poured all over him when Gabriel had come onto the balcony looking for him. In a way, he was thankful that Gabriel was there. It broke him out of this hazy spell that Crowley had cast over him. Maybe it was the pocket watch that had made him so sentimental. Perhaps it was the stress of the day rushing throughout him that had put him on edge. Or… it was Crowley’s eyes and soft voice that had put him into his stupor.


Aziraphale couldn’t stop his mind from replaying the scene over and over the inside of his head. He could still feel Crowley’s hand placing itself gingerly on his. Those long, black-painted nails carefully wrapping around his wrist and giving a gentle squeeze. The pocket watch was almost forgotten, other than its grounding ticks tocking always close to his heart as he held it against himself.

What was this feeling he had felt? It was unlike anything he had experienced. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It felt like a warm hug or the comforting burn of a good bourbon going down. It was his home in the winter all decorated in holly and softly flickering candles while he sat snug in his armchair with a hot cup of cocoa. It was the laugh of his friends and the biscuits Madame Tracey made for his afternoon tea.

It was all of this combined and more.

It was his father’s writing. It was his smile. It was his grumbly laugh. It was his hand patting Aziraphale’s back when he showed his father the scribbles of a story he had written about the rabbits in the garden. It was…

Love.

Oh, but could it be just that? He didn’t understand. He had only just met Crowley. How could such a person have such an effect on him?


But it was simple. Crowley was kind to him. He laughed at his rambling stories and helped him with his boxes of books when he brought more and more back into his home while Crowley worked with Anathema.

He had spoken in the poetry slam and his poetry-

Why that was something else wasn’t it?

It seemed so familiar, yet he couldn’t pin it. Aziraphale knew all the great poets and yet something about Crowley’s writing was hidden in the back of his mind.

It was full of emotions that were sadness and anger and happiness and turmoil and love.

Crowley was lovely and the way he made Aziraphale feel was lovely. But could you call that love?

That was quite silly. He knew what love felt like. He had it with his father. He had loved him so, and when he had passed on, Aziraphale knew he wouldn’t feel a love like that ever again… But this wasn’t the same exact feeling. This was more. He couldn’t describe it. As Crowley had said, “to the things ineffable”. You can’t always put things down on page even if you wanted to.

Aziraphale needed to get a hold of himself. When Gabriel came out onto that balcony that night and interrupted, well, whatever was happening, the wind was taken out of him and he remembered his position. He had a fiancé and he was going to be married. He loved Gabriel – well in a way that was different. Gabriel was smart and beneficial to his field. He was a proper gentleman and a hard worker. As bad as it may sound, Aziraphale was thankful that Gabriel would even give him a second glance. Gabriel could take his pick of scholars and partners, yet he had proposed to Aziraphale. The thought sent a wave of pride into him, he’d admit. He was good enough for Gabriel and that was the end of it. Others would love to be in his position. If- when he married Gabriel, he would be set for life. He could have all the books in the world. He could work on as many papers as he wished and watch as his husband was continuously successful in his field. People would come up to him and say, “Gabriel is your husband? What a catch!” and “You have got quite a man there. You must be very happy.” And he was happy… enough.


No if, ands, or buts about it. He had a fiancé who he cared about and knew that he cared about Aziraphale in return. He had told him so. He had said he cared about Aziraphale.

But had he said he loved him?

Did it really matter? Of course not. Love was such a desensitized and overused word. Love could mean anything. Aziraphale had accepted this a long time ago.


But on the other hand, he felt something new begin on that balcony- or perhaps even in his home when the grease-monkey had donned a silly tie and quill. He bewildered Aziraphale, and he knew that this wasn’t the last of these feelings. What to call these feelings, he did not yet know.

He didn’t owe anything to Crowley. Well, he had returned his watch fixed. He had helped him with his poetry slam. He had made Aziraphale laugh like he hadn’t in a long time. He made him yearn to feel that way again. He looked at him under those stars like he hadn’t seen anything so beautiful in all his life.

“Aziraphale, are you quite ready to leave yet? I do not want to be late for this dinner. You know how important this department head is for my next project grant.”

____

And just like that, Aziraphale felt that unsatisfying rush of ice wash over him again. He had been reading too many romance novels. He took a deep breath and rubbed his face with his hands. He called over his shoulder, trying to sound happy.

“Quite right, darling! I just need to dab a bit of cologne and straighten my bow tie. I’ll be down in a shake of a lamb’s tail!”

He closed his eyes and sat at the end of the bed. He felt around in his pocket for his pocket watch and was immediately calmed when he felt it there, ticking this time. He bit his bottom lip. It was all thanks to Crowley, wasn’t it? And there he was on his mind once again. He let out a breathless chuckle and shook his head, pushing himself off the end of the bed. There wasn’t time to compartmentalize that now, he had a dinner to go off to with his lovely fiancé.

The dinner was filled with all sorts of professors from the theology department as well as the department head. Gabriel’s boss had invited them all out for a lovely night of wine and deep conversation. It sounded quite ‘lovely’ to Aziraphale, except for the fact that he felt totally out of his depth in the room. Aziraphale was religious himself, but at the same time, felt completely excluded from the group. He didn’t care. He was here to support Gabriel and that was that. He didn’t care if Gabriel’s colleagues gave him strange looks when he quoted passages of poetry and Shakespeare they didn’t care about. He enjoyed the filet mignon enough to make up for it all.

He was, however, broken out of his stupor when his name was being said. He swallowed a mouthful of his white wine, cleared his throat, and attempted a smile.

“What was that?”

Gabriel chuckled and looked at him.

“Off in your own little world, aren’t you? Mr. Adams asked you a question.”

It might have been a cute thing to say if not for the strained look on Gabriel’s face,

“Oh, I do apologize. I was just so enraptured by this lovely wine. I wouldn’t mind being bricked into a cellar of it until my unfortunate or perhaps very fortunate demise.”

He chuckled at his reference and raised his glass. There was an awkward silence throughout the room. The gulp of a throat here. The wiping of a nose there. How had they not understood his reference to Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Cask of Amontillado”? It was well known outside of literature circles. Even high schoolers read it. He decided to grin and bear it.

“What was the question?”

The department head gave a little smile and looked between Gabriel and Aziraphale.

“Do you like to travel, Aziraphale?”

What a trivial question. Usually, he was asked about his beliefs or tested on his knowledge of his faith.

“Well, I- I suppose so. London is just lovely this time of year and I know Gabriel was talking about heading to the coast for a conference some time.”

He reached out and took Gabriel’s hand on top of the table and Gabriel weakly held it. It was nothing like Crowley’s-

“What would you say to Israel?”

“Israel, sir? I’m not sure I follow.”

Gabriel immediately let go of his hand and sat up in his seat.

“Yes, Israel. It has just come to my attention that the committee has approved Gabriel’s research proposal and it was pushed through. It seems very likely that your proposal will be approved to research scripture in Israel, Mr. Winger. Congratulations and mazel tov.”

Gabriel stood up from his seat and stuck his hand out to shake his boss’. His face was the brightest Aziraphale had seen it in a long time. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this happy. Perhaps it was when he had proposed.

“Sir, I don’t know what to say. I cannot believe this! This is incredible news! I’m going to Israel!”

The table laughed and others stood to give Gabriel a handshake and congratulations while Aziraphale sat quietly, forgotten at his seat.

He knew that Crowley had been researching scripture related to Israel, but he had no idea that that could mean he would go there. Rather, they would go there. Gabriel had worked so hard on that proposal, but Aziraphale had pushed the thought of ever leaving his home from his mind. He liked his home and his books. He couldn’t just pick up and leave.

He tried to be as supportive through dinner as possible, dreading the moment they had to start talking about moving. Gabriel couldn’t actually expect him to go all the way to Israel, could he?

___

“Aziraphale. Dearest.”

Gabriel spoke with a bit of stress in his voice, his jaw clenched tight like a spring.

“You know I couldn’t do this without you. You are so important to my writing and would do so well helping in my research. Your knowledge alone of ancient texts could put my book months ahead and think about all the editing you could do. Your work would benefit scholars for ages to come!”

Aziraphale was sitting in the passenger seat of their now very fixed vehicle and was staring out the window.

“I don’t know, Gabriel. I just… I don’t know if I want to go all the way there for all that. I love my life here. It is a big move and I don’t know if I could really- just-”

He sighed,

“I have my own research and work here, Gabriel. I’ll have to look to see what I can move around.”

Gabriel stewed in the driver’s seat. He took some deep breathes and tried to keep his temper intact.

“Aziraphale, you don’t have much going on other than your classes. You haven’t written anything in ages. You sit with your journal for ages and stare off into the distance like some lass whose husband has gone off to war. You should be using your skills for something that’s actually productive.”

The words were harsher than he had meant them to be. He chuckled in an attempt to lighten the mood, lightly patting Aziraphale’s thigh before returning it to the wheel dutifully.

“What I am trying to say is that your skill could be put to good use in my work. You and I are a team! I research and write, and you edit and review. Two gears in sync, punching out articles and prepping for my next book.”

Aziraphale gave a weak laugh and shook his head. He wasn’t a secretary although they did do important work. He was Gabriel’s fiancé. He was meant to be cared for and his feelings taken into consideration. He wasn’t an editing machine. He may have been a professor who loved all the ins and outs of higher education, but he loved his classes teaching poetry. He adored his Shakespeare lectures where he could act out Julius Caesar with his students. He may not have written anything in a long time, but… that didn’t mean he couldn’t! He could, he just had to find something worth writing about.

He lacked confidence. He was caught in his father’s shadow. He had been for a long time.

What came out of his mouth next shocked even him.

“You don’t love me, do you?”

There was a thick silence in the car. Thicker than the summer night’s humid air. Aziraphale was surprised he had said it, but he stuck to his guns and looked over at Gabriel awaiting an answer.

Gabriel was tentative, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, carefully thinking over what to say next.

“Aziraphale. Of course, I care for you! We are two intellectuals and we mustn’t’ just let our emotions get the best of us. I know that tonight was a lot of big news, but that doesn’t change anything between us! You and I…”

he gestured over to Aziraphale,

“… are a team. Two educated people who found each other and give each other purpose. We are a good match, and with our two heads together, we can do great things for the community. Things that are alike should be alike. Silly girl-school love isn’t what life is about. It isn’t real. I care about you in a way that will make us both happy and prosperous. You know that, don’t you? I proposed to you for a reason.”

Aziraphale didn’t respond. Gabriel shook his head.

“You’re thinking much too hard about this. What has come over you, dear? You are never like this. Was it the joke about Oscar Wilde? I know that the dean can get a bit much when he’s been drinking.”

Aziraphale knew it was a losing battle. Of course, when he accepted Gabriel’s proposal, he knew what he was getting into. But he didn’t know he would experience such things as he had. He had experienced for the first time in his life the racing of his heart upon hearing Crowley’s name come up in conversation. There was the thrill of instant attraction, he would admit it. Crowley was quite something to look at. His red hair striking to the eye. His light amber eyes trained on Aziraphale with keen interest. Was it gravity pulling them closer together?

And there he was again Crowley somehow managed to cross his mind, begging the question: was there more to life than what he had signed up for?

Gabriel pulled into Aziraphale’s driveway and turned off the vehicle. He sighed and set his head against the steering wheel.

“Aziraphale”

Aziraphale sniffled a little and then cleared his throat, trying to stop any of these silly emotions from butting their insistent heads into their conversation. He lightly fingered the pocket watch tucked safely in his pocket.

“Yes, dear?”

“You’ll love Israel. It won’t be forever.”
 
Gabriel chewed his lip, reached out his hand tentatively, taking Aziraphale’s.

“We can go, make a difference, explore the world a bit- together. We can broaden our horizons. We can start everything we’ve been talking about. Our lives together. Just think about it. Gabriel and Aziraphale Winger. That will be us! Forget about this place, there is nothing for you here. I intend to take this grant for my research, and I want you with me. That speaks enough for my affection for you.”

Perhaps he was right. Gabriel wanted him to come with. He wanted him beside him. He could do good by Gabriel, help him with his book. What was holding him there? All there was were ghosts of his father in this town. Anathema, Newt, Madame Tracey, and… Crowley were here, yes, but they would stick around. This wouldn’t change their friendship. It would develop. They would want him to be happy and he knew they always tried to push him to write and be more confident in himself and his abilities. Nothing said confidence more than moving half-way around the globe to a land that you never expected to be, a place you didn’t speak the language, and getting a jump start on editing the next big book on modern theology.

Or was he hiding from what could possibly be something real with Crowley? Could he gamble on the fact that there was something more than the love he already had and that it actually existed? Did he want to play God?
____

“What do you mean you’re moving to Israel!?”

Anathema watched helplessly as Aziraphale paced the room looking for certain books, pulling them off of the shelf and then putting them into boxes.

“Ana… You know that this was a possibility. Gabriel has been working on this research proposal for a long time, and now that he has been granted the possibility to go, I can’t stop him.”

She shook her head with unbelief, plopping down into a chair in his sitting room, watching him wander aimlessly.

“Of course, you can’t. I’m not saying you should. Let him go off to Israel to study whatever it is that interests him. That doesn’t mean you should go! You have a home here. A life here.”

Aziraphale brought a hand up to his face and rubbed it with anguish. He stared at the book in his hand for a moment and then tossed it into the cardboard box at his feet; with care, of course.

“I can have a life and a home there, with my fiancé. I do not plan just to leave him to his own devices. In sickness and in health, as they say. Ana-“

He choked up for a moment and then stopped, looking down at the box. Anathema watched him intently for a time.

“Azira, what about your own writing? You’re saying that you’ll travel halfway around the world for him and his research, but what about you? You are so talented. The school needs you here. So do the students.”

She bit her lip and sighed,

“I need you. What about Newt and Madame Tracey and-“

Aziraphale looked up at her, waiting for her to say it with bated breath. Of course, he knew what she was thinking. He would be daft to think if his friend hadn’t noticed his change in behavior.

“Crowley. We all want you here.”

Aziraphale’s frown turned to one of a small quip of the lip. He temporarily forgot his boxes and then went over to sit in front of her in the seat opposite. He reached out and took her hand, chewing on his bottom lip.

“It is better to use my writing there then talk hopelessly about romantic poetry with a mechanic-“

He cleared his throat and looked down at his lap, his hand releasing from Anathema’s.

“You know what I mean.”

She caught his hand before it could fall and held it snuggly in hers. She watched her friend carefully and smiled giving his soft hand a squeeze. She knew the look on his face. She knew what memories were coming back to haunt him once again.

“I knew your father growing up, Aziraphale.”

She waited for a response but got none.

“He fell into hard times because he didn’t go after what he truly wanted. He became uninspired. I don’t want that for you. I know he wouldn’t want that for you either.”

Aziraphale sniffled and Anathema cautiously moved from her chair onto her knees in front of him.

“You are truly special, you silly man. You have so much potential in you, yet you are caught up in the past. Your father was brilliant. You loved him like nothing else, and that is fine. You needn’t tamper with that love and emotion. But you can love other things, too. You can love your work, you can love your friends, you can love someone who loves you back.”

She slowly moved forward and felt her chest touch his knees. She brought his hands up to her cheeks and pressed them there, looking up at his downcast eyes.

“You are so much more than you realize. Why not share that with someone who sees it? Share it with someone who cultivates it. Share it with someone like…”

She didn’t want to outrightly say it, but it was important.

“With someone like Crowley.”

And there it was again. There were those scenes from the night on the balcony. There was Aziraphale, sitting in Crowley’s machine shop calling the taxi, Crowley staring helplessly at him. That couldn’t be right! It couldn’t be. That warm hand on his. Those eyes staring at him. The moonlight shimmering and exposing everything that Crowley was feeling.

Was it love? Was it adoration? Was it an interest? Was it only friendship?

He didn’t know, and he was scared to find out. He had found Gabriel and Gabriel, in return, had given so much.

He had a duty. He couldn’t break that. He knew what would give him a prosperous life. But would it be a happy one?

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes for the first time in a while. He smiled at his friend. He knew she meant the best for him, but he had to do the best for himself.

“That’s why I am so lucky to have Gabriel.”

He brought her hand up to his face and kissed it.

“He pushes me to go out and travel and leave my home-“

He paused,

“-for research that would be beneficial to the whole community of theology. He’s brilliant. He’s organized and a planner. He’s thinking about me and what I could do with the skills I have. I can’t keep sitting here wasting away. He and I are alike. It is the law of attraction. He and I are alike-“

“But you’re not!”

Aziraphale was a bit surprised by Anathema’s sudden outburst but he paused and smiled at her nonetheless.

“This is logical, Ana. It is.”

She shook her head,

“What about love?”

He faltered. What about love? What about love? He accepted what he would get a long time ago. Why should he get his hopes up, even if what he had felt only a night before was scarily promising?

He pulled his friend into a hug.

“It will work out, Ana. You’ll see.”

She smiled and set her head on his shoulder.

“I see it now.”