Huzzah! We're back. I do enjoy their shenanigans :D but the good stuff is yet to come..muhaha. Single reviewer, I dedicate this chapter allll to you. Thank you for your very kind words, I continue to gush over them. aw shucks...awkward shuffle

Enjoy!

Aziraphale groaned as his last class of the day ended. He was exhausted and the prospect of having to lug the enormous weight of his books all the way back home on his bicycle made him physically ache. Still, he brightened - at least his flat would be empty; Anathema was still on her Geography trip and Newt hadn't been home in weeks. (He'd turn up sooner or later... Aziraphale imagined they'd probably find him sporting some new kind of fashion statement whilst snoring outside the front door, as he was constantly forgetting his keys). But the absence of his flatmates meant that he could have a nap in peace and get started with his work earlier. He could work at the table in the living room rather than having to squish all his schoolwork onto the squalid desk in his room. He stuffed his pencil case and Literature folder into his bag, pausing to squish his copy of A Midsummer Night's Dream rather forcefully into the depths. He hurriedly fastened the clasp shut in case it got any ideas of gasping open under all the stress that nearly had it bursting at the seams. Aziraphale really needed another rucksack. Tucking his hair behind an eerily-pointed ear, he readjusted his circular frames. Like most items belonging to Aziraphale, his glasses were ancient and old-fashioned but drastically needed. Hoisting his bag onto his bruised and aching back, he set off to find his battered bicycle that he'd ungracefully dumped this morning in the blazing heat. Home, he thought longingly.

It wasn't until Aziraphale had safely closed the door behind him and threw himself against it, that he allowed the glaringly loud oddity-of-the-day that was Crowley to enter his head. He shrugged off his rucksack and let it sink to the floor with a soft thunk whilst he thought. Crowley. The "demon". Although he supposed it was just demon now: he could lose the quotation marks - Crowley's eyes spoke for themselves... Demon or not, whatever he was, it certainly wasn't human. Aziraphale trudged to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He needed caffeine. Or maybe Cocoa. Maybe both. Urghh. There was too much to think about. Too much to process.

He thought it through again; they'd arranged to meet up tomorrow after school. Here, Aziraphale groaned. After his embarrassing encounter at lunch - that still made him want to gouge his eyes out with heavy-duty pliers - Crowley had said they needed to speak somewhere in private. Aziraphale had been quick to suggest that he'd be perfectly happy to meet him during school hours but Crowley told him he didn't want to risk being overheard. He didn't ask how Crowley knew where he lived nor did Crowley mention how he'd be getting there. Somehow Aziraphale didn't imagine he'd ask for a lift on his bike...The sudden image of the two of them cycling a tandem sprang to mind. Aziraphale snorted on his tea.

Suffice it to say that Crowley unnerved Aziraphale. He was his polar opposite; loud and obnoxious, constantly at ease with himself yet constantly in-your-face and infuriatingly condescending. He'd always acted like he knew more than he was letting on - now of course, Aziraphale knew why.

Crowley had a reputation as a bit of a deviant. He was a troublemaker - he was always messing around in their Musical Studies class. But he was clever, vastly intelligent (he knew everything about everything) and talented and...supposedly something of a looker. In a bad-ass, nineties rocker-kid look kind of way. If you were into that sort of thing. Which Aziraphale was not, anyway. The girls in their music class had said that Crowley dressed in a way that screamed sex. Aziraphale still didn't know what that meant, but he supposed that it must be a good thing because many of the girls and guys in Aziraphale's year had eyes on him. Crowley knew all this, though. And that made him an arse. God, he was such an arse. Plus there were those people he hung around with...

Surprisingly, Aziraphale felt a little saddened by Crowley. Beneath all the disgust and annoyance..He felt a smidgen of sympathy. At how far he had fallen...It was kind of pitiful. He had so much potential. He felt somehow that Crowley would continue to plummet, further into a world of dark, that he would sink into the devastating shadows that had haunted him thus...Hmmm. Maybe he'd had too much of English today. All this poetry was rubbing off on him.

Anyway.

Apparently Aziraphale was an angel. Ha. This concept he was still struggling with, though he supposed he'd learn more about just exactly what that meant tomorrow. No, don't think about that..
This angel had essays to write.

He twined his fingers around his mug and carried it back into the living room, dragging his bag up onto the round dining table in the corner of the room. The flat he shared with Anathema and Newton was strangely spacious for student lodgings but it had very sparse furnishings. However with the belongings of all three of them strewn about the place, it looked fairly cluttered. The living room operated as both the living and dining area, consisting of one battered sofa, a towering bookcase stacked and stuffed with books of every shape and size, various multi~coloured rugs (spread over the wooden floor at Anathema's insistence) and the ancient table Aziraphale sat at. He figured he'd start with his English Language work first...He upended his rucksack onto the table; its contents tumbling and splattering out all at once. Seizing the necessary utensils, he grabbed his books and notepad. Tonight looked like another all-nighter...

The next day all seemed to pass in a blur. What with Anathema and Newt absent, Aziraphale felt no marker in his day to safely detach himself from the world of work and study and eat and rest and - worry. Worry worry worry wor-. Breathe and breathe and pheeeeeew, ahhhhh. Better. He was not an almighty-powerful angel sent down from the heavens to mingle with the other mortal, human life-forms so he could learn their ways and chop them up for dissection. He was student. Man. Boy. That bookish one who sits with the redhead and the weirdo. He was Aziraphale, he was normal. He was fine. He'd deal with the worry later. When a certain cretin showed his unsightly face. In fact Aziraphale had passed the whole day with neither sight nor sound of Crowley - which suited him just fine. He'd sat with a group of Anathema's (unfortunately) more gossip-y friends at lunch and had tried to ignore the high-pitched giggling and raucous squealing they tended to make when something was just un-BOH-lievable! He'd read in silence (only surfacing when shouted at for his opinion on certain scoundrels) and shoveled down many a spoonful of cream cake before re-joining class and eventually cycling home at 2.30 when his lessons ended for the day.

He planned to work for a bit before napping for an hour. Before he..Before he'd have to. Urgh. Well. It'll be..

Time to face the music. Aha. Haha. Literally...He needed to work on his puns.

Evening swung around in no time at all. (Aziraphale's hour-long nap had accidentally evolved into a four hour-long slumber from which awakening proved difficult and involved a lot of drooling and yawning. Yet, he'd managed it.) The sun setting orange cast a fiery glow in through the living room bay windows, bathing everything in amber light. Aziraphale had just showered and was towel-drying his golden head when there was an irritating knock at the door. How he managed to make the sound of rapping knuckles against wood annoying was impressive. And typical.

Typical, Aziraphale cursed under his breath.

"Just a minute!" he called out in direction of the living room. He abandoned his hair, shoved on a pair of faded blue jeans and pulled a loose-fitting cotton jumper over his head. It felt blissfully soft on his bare skin and oddly provided some much-needed relief and comfort. Then he darted from his room, into the living room and pulled open the front door.

Sure enough, Crowley stood in the hallway, beaming from head to foot. "This is Newt's house." he announced proudly.

"Y-Yeah.." Aziraphale quickly looked him up and down; Crowley was sporting his usual thumping boots and red-tinted, circular shades but also managed to carry off a faded Queen t-shirt, very skinny black-skinny jeans and he'd tied an open long-sleeved checkered shirt around his waist. A wallet chain glinted as it dangled from the pockets of his jeans. Aziraphale also noticed a guitar case strapped to his back.

"I didn't know you guys were roomies! I didn't even know you guys were friends at all, actually.." Crowley stepped inside, past Aziraphale who hadn't even been about to say 'Come on in' but he shoved the door closed after him anyway, already shooting daggers at his back.

Crowley admired the living room, letting out a low whistle. "This place is pretty big.."

"Yeah. We got a good deal with the owner of this block. All the flats are student-housing, but Anathema's mother is friendly with the woman who lets it out so...She's the other girl who lives here. Anathema." Aziraphale added to Crowley's look of inquiry, "I share with her and Newton."

Crowley raised an eyebrow and nodded, "Right." He was eyeing Aziraphale's damp hair, which was now springing into curls. His gaze gradually trailed down Aziraphale's person until they spotted his bare feet, then his eyes flicked back up to his hair. Aziraphale resisted the urge to squirm.

"How'd you get here?" he asked loudly, wanting to break the uncomfortable, stubborn stare as quickly as possible. Crowley seemed to snap out of it.

"Oh, I have a car." he smiled deviously.

"Convertible?"

"..Yeah."

Ah. That explains the hair. "Thought so-do you want a drink? Tea or Coffee or something?" he asked immediately before Crowley could intercept him. Impatience with him was already setting in.

"Got anything stronger?" he peered over his sunglasses at him, looking peevish.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at him but said almost reluctantly, "There's cider in the fridge."

"That'll do, angel." he said, instantly sparking the first of many death glares from Aziraphale. Crowley instead pretended not to notice and lugged off the guitar from his back.

"Shoes," Aziraphale muttered furiously under his breath as he entered the kitchen. He guessed Crowley somehow heard him however, because when he returned Crowley's scuffed boots stood next to the door. Huh. Apparently demons have really good hearing. Great, he thought bitterly. Add that to the list of the hundreds of things he can use against me. Crowley himself had sprawled out on the sofa, his guitar laid across his knees, strumming idly.

"Here," Aziraphale dropped the can of cider into his reach. Crowley yelped when the cold came into contact with the skin of his arm. Since he'd taken the sofa Aziraphale seized a flowery-looking armchair they usually left at the table and dragged it over to sit opposite Crowley. He sat on the edge and balanced his coffee on his knee. Crowley watched the proceedings with the usual smirk and cocked eyebrow. Aziraphale's temper flared.

"I wonder, do you practice being a douchebag or does it just come naturally to you?"

Crowley never missed a beat. "Uh, demon," he smiled ruefully, "But yeah, every night before bed."

Aziraphale's lips twitched. He shook off the chuckle bubbling up and instead regarded the instrument, "Why did you bring a guitar?"

Crowley looked amused. He cracked open the can of cider. "Music project, remember? I'm not here for a candle lit dinner, y'know." He took a sip.

Aziraphale scowled at him, pink grazing over his cheekbones. He brushed a hand through his pale hair, pushing it off his forehead and raised his coffee to his mouth. Crowley lurched forwards, re-establishing himself on the sofa and leaning over his acoustic to Aziraphale.

"I was thinking heavy death metal. Full on KISS; make-up, headbanging, the outrageous exposure of tongue, the lot." When he got no response from the angel's pallid face, he added, "That was a joke, angel."

Aziraphale looked at him. "Right. Good one."

Crowley sighed dramatically. Aziraphale was sure something insulting about his good self was being muttered under the coal-haired idiot's breath.

"I was just sort of hoping to deal with the whole biblical-supernatural-life-changing thing that's going to happen to me first. Then we can move onto how bad your jokes suck."

Crowley clutched at his heart, mouthing Ouch. Aziraphale groaned, rolling his eyes and he collapsed further into his seat. Crowley laughed, delighted with how easy the angel was to irritate.

"Alright, alright angel. Sure we can deal with the life-changing stuff first." His face looked serious enough but his tone betrayed him; sarcasm. Aziraphale gripped his mug tighter. He breathed calmly.

"Wh-"

"-Strictly speaking, I'm not really meant to be telling you any of this." Crowley moved his guitar to rest against the arm of the sofa.

Aziraphale paused, raising an eyebrow. "Then why are you?"

That did it. Crowley stared at Aziraphale blankly. Aziraphale smiled a little, smug at catching him off guard. He blew innocently on his coffee. Crowley started chewing on his lip ring, face still seemingly vacant. Then with a flurry of movement he shrugged and put his hands behind his head.

"Just figured I'd give you a head start is all."

Aziraphale looked coldly at him from around his mug. "How kind of you."

Crowley grinned and jolted upright - "So, what d'ya wanna know?"

..Annnd we're gonna leave it there folks.