While his family usually stuck to simple, healthy food, Aziraphale was quite fond of richer fare. That is to say, his breakfast tray included a large croissant, slathered in butter and jam, and a large mug of cocoa (with, of course, several marshmallows).

Brian had been a snoring lump under the covers when Aziraphale woke, later than usual but still fairly early. He'd grabbed his clothes and toiletries and padded down the hall to the shared bathrooms. Most of the rooms he'd passed seemed to be occupied by now, based on the name tags and other decorations adorning the doors.

He'd brought A House of Pomegranates with him to the dining hall, but the thought of accidentally smearing strawberry jam across the pages made him shudder, so he left it on the chair beside him and watched the people around him instead. Last night, there had seemed to be mostly freshmen, but now there were older-looking students in line and at the tables. Many of them were deep in conversations with old friends and classmates, catching up after a summer apart. A pang of homesickness rattled through Aziraphale as he sipped his cocoa, a unique feeling that he didn't like at all.

The thought of home reminded him that the campus post office would be open soon, and hopefully he could pick up the rest of his things and get settled in before the start of classes the next morning. He finished his croissant, dabbed any trace of jam from the corners of his mouth, and deposited his dishes at the counter, book tucked under his arm.

If he recalled correctly, the post office was near the far end of the main administrative hall, in the large student center that also housed tutoring services. He strolled along the uneven brick pathways, face turned up to the sun, until a harried-looking mother bashed a cart stacked high with storage cartons into his shins, exclaiming an apology and pausing briefly before continuing towards the dorms with her burden.

He grimaced at her in reassurance, waiting until she was a good distance away to limp towards the fountain and take a seat on a bench. A quick inspection of his shin revealed a purplish-red mark above his dress sock that would become quite a bruise later, but he was otherwise unharmed, so he continued to the post office.

Inside, a line of students who had also shipped their belongings to campus trailed towards the counter. Aziraphale said a silent prayer of thanks for bringing Wilde and a mild curse at the throbbing in his shinbone. He ignored the surrounding chaos and conversations and dove back into "A Fisherman and His Soul" as he shuffled forward in line, finishing it and "The Star-Child", a story about a vain, cruel boy who overcomes several trials to become a benevolent king, only to be replaced by a cruel, evil monarch when his reign ends. Wasn't that the way.

When he reached the counter, there were somehow still luggage carts to borrow...but the bags the assistant piled his cart were considerably fewer than he was expecting.

"Er, is that all you have for me? I'm expecting about five more boxes," he asked.

"That's all we've got here. Sometimes stuff that's shipped the same day takes a few to come in. We'll give you a call if anything else comes for you. Make sure you bring the cart back when you're done, someone else'll need it." He opened his mouth to ask another question but the woman had already turned to the next person in line, so he nodded his thanks and grabbed his cart.

While the brick sidewalk was beautifully picturesque, apparently the woman who'd hit him had been onto something: careening down the path was the only way to fend off the drag of the uneven surface. Luckily, he made it back to his room without any further collisions.

Brian was now awake, pulling on a backwards baseball cap that looked like it could use a wash and a pair of scuffed hightops. "Hey man, you're back! You need any help with unpacking?"

"If you could help me with some of the boxes, it would be incredibly helpful. A madwoman tried to run me over and injured my shin," Aziraphale replied, gesturing to his leg.

"Yeah, the sidewalks here could use some help. I've seen so many people trip on 'em. Just wait until the rain starts up in a few weeks, though, people will fall on their asses. That brick gets pretty slick when it gets wet." Brian snorted but rolled his eyes at Aziraphale's clueless expression, helping haul the cart's burden to their. "You okay to get the cart back on your own? I gotta run to the bookstore. I told my ma nobody gets their books before classes start, but she ordered 'em anyway and they've been hounding me to come pick 'em up."

Aziraphale politely declined the help and opened the boxes as his roommate left. He puffed a sigh of relief that his books had arrived intact, cushioned by his clothing. From what he could tell, most of what was missing was non-essential, at least for now: winter clothing, a small keepsake clock he'd found at a yard sale, an absolutely hideous ceramic snake made by one of his siblings in art class that he'd loved too much to see discarded, and unfortunately, his sheets. Looked like he'd be holding onto Brian's sleeping bag a little longer.

He trundled the cart back to the post office, which was busy as ever, and began to wander, enjoying the sun with a more watchful eye to the sidewalk traffic. As if guided by some internal compass, his steps brought him to the library. As he discovered when he pushed through the heavy wooden doors, its plain brick exterior belied a breathtaking interior. The first floor contained book-lined alcoves divided by glass-doored display cabinets for more precious tomes, with a bronze-railed staircase leading to the second floor, where the balcony looked up to the arched, plastered ceiling decorated with pale, intricate coats of arms and down to the well-worn wood parquet floor. Most of the ceiling was glass, allowing in ample light. The air smelled of paper mildew and history, and he absolutely loved it.

So much, in fact, that with his nose buried in a book about 16th century philosophy, he hardly noticed that the sky had started to darken just at the edges until his stomach growled loudly, startling him away from the text. A peek at his watch revealed that it was already close to dinnertime, so he stood and stretched, then grabbed his stack of books and headed to the front desk to check them out.

The dark-haired librarian raised an eyebrow at his selection but smiled when she handed him a slip with the titles listed in neat yet spiky writing. "Getting a head start on the semester?"

"Just a bit of side-reading, really. Although I suppose these couldn't hurt my theology education." He introduced himself and learned that her name was Ms. Device ("An old family name"). "I imagine we'll be seeing quite a bit of each other."

She broke out in a grin, laughing at his expression when he realized what he'd said. Aziraphale babbled a farewell and practically sprinted out the door, completely embarrassed. In addition to being considerably older than him, she was pretty but… not his type. At all. The thought nagged at him all the way back to his room, an icy terror and shame that he had to struggle to subdue.

Brian and Heather invited him to dinner with them, a welcome distraction from the tumult of his thoughts. The lemon and chicken scampi he chose was hearty, and he fished for chunks of bread with his fork as he listened to them chatter.

"Ugh, my first class is at 8:30 tomorrow, whhhy?" Brian groaned. "Stupid gen ed. Intro to Psychology has literally nothing to do with my major." He turned to Aziraphale. "What about you, 'Ziraphale, what time's your first class?"

He'd briefly scanned his course schedule and the other papers in the orientation packet, but hadn't managed to find his planner in the boxes yet. "If I recall correctly, I believe it's at 9:00—I start with Bio 150, Nutrition. Apparently it's required for theological studies."

Heather's eyes widened as she swallowed her food. "Theological studies? You planning to be a priest?"

"Well, no. My family isn't Catholic, you see. My father is a Christian minister, though, and I plan to follow in his footsteps."

"So ministers can get married and have kids and all that, then?" She waggles her eyebrows in a way that makes Aziraphale slightly uncomfortable.

"Yes, ministers can get married and all that. But I'm not particularly worried about settling down at the moment."

Brian laughed at his dry sarcasm. "No girlfriend back home then?"

"No, I'm afraid I'm single." As he'd ever been. Not that he necessarily minded the lack of romance, or friends. The former was something that so far, only happened to other people, and the latter...well, now he had two friends who weren't his siblings. "What about you two?"

Brian and Heather rolled their eyes at each other. "Nah, I'm free as a bird, but Heather here's got a guy."

"Dave doesn't go here. He works downtown as an assistant cook first shift, so I'll get to see him after class most days. He's pretty rad, as long as he stays away from his Valley Girl ex." She stuck her tongue out in disgust.

After dinner, they wandered back to the dorms. Heather sprawled on Brian's bed, flipping on the small TV perched atop a battered VCR on his dresser to watch Jeopardy. Aziraphale began unpacking more of his boxes, arranging his clothing and books tidily and putting his supplies for the morning in his satchel. He tentatively offered answers at first, but soon, with their encouragement, began to blurt them out unabashedly. Soon, all three of them were laughing and shouting answers at Alex Trebek and the episode's contestants.

Aziraphale smiled wider than he had in a long time.


He had been right: Nutrition was first, followed by a quick break for breakfast, then Introduction to Theology and Algebra II. Then he was free for the day to eat a late lunch and head to the library, where he reviewed the syllabi for his Monday and Wednesday schedule and organized his planner.

Four days later, he had a few new bruises: As part of his general education requirements, he'd apparently signed up for fencing. (It was better than running, which he had sworn he'd only do if hell itself was after him.) He'd never been particularly agile, and the class had begun with a rapid-fire introduction to footwork that had begun well enough—until he'd tripped over an untied shoelace and fallen hard on his forearms. Apparently, even after graduation, being fat and clumsy was still amusing, judging by his classmates' titters.

He trudged back to his room in the dark, ready for the day to be over...only to see Brian and Heather dressed in attire he'd only see in person at the church's "troubled youth" seminars. Brian's tight black jeans were adorned with a loose, studded belt; his t-shirt displayed the name of an unfamiliar band, covered by a worn-in denim vest with pins proclaiming "CLASH", "Dead Kennedys", "PUNK ISN'T DEAD", and other phrases in capital letters that looked to be cut from magazines. Heather's red hair was spiked high with gel, and she'd changed into a black miniskirt and fishnets, with a denim and leather jacket adorned with more pin-back buttons. She was adding another coat of thick black eyeliner in the mirror on Brian's closet.

Aziraphale gaped at them until both looked up from their adjustments to see his astonished face. "Oh good, you're back! Want to come out with us tonight? One of my favorite bands is playing at this shithole downtown. It's grody, but the band rocks, and they won't ID us."

The thought of visiting what his father most likely would refer to as "a den of iniquity to hear the sound of Satan corrupting young minds" both terrified and intrigued him. After all, wasn't part of his mission in traveling halfway across the world to also see what he'll be up against when he completed his education and began going out into the world to complete good works?

"Actually, I think I would love to." Their expressions matched his from a few moments ago. "Only...is this okay to wear?" He gestured down at his brown chinos, white dress shirt, and periwinkle tie.

They glanced at each other, then Heather stood and made for the door as Brian dragged him over to his closet. "You could wear that...or, if you want, you could borrow a few things. I'm a bit taller than you but I think we wear the same size shoes…" Maybe it was his exhaustion, or the embarrassing frustration of his fencing class, but some insanity prompted his mouth to open and agree to the items Brian handed him.

Soon, he had changed, and took a look at himself in the long mirror: Black boots, borrowed from Brian, under his chinos, rolled a few times at the ankle; a silky black vest over his dress shirt, its sleeves also rolled; some sort of tarnished silver chain choker necklace; and his white-blond hair mussed and gelled. He started to flatten with his hands in a panic when Brian called it "bed head" and explained what that meant, but his friend laughed and grabbed his hands away, reassuring him that it looked good. He did, however, manage to refuse Heather's offer to line his eyes with her kohl pencil. She, too, reassured him that he looked just right for the occasion.

The bus trip downtown was quick, any post-dinner traffic long gone, and soon they'd reached a street corner crowded with people their age in similar attire. Cigarette smoke wafted through the air, and the smell of beer only grew as they pushed their way through the loiterers to the front door. As predicted, the bouncer took their money without asking for IDs, and then they were inside, and everything was chaos.

The place wasn't large, but they pushed their way past what seemed to be masses of people crowded at the bar, shouting and waving money to get the attention of the bartenders. Bodies pressed far too close for comfort as Aziraphale trailed Brian and Heather; he hated being touched, particularly by sweaty strangers who reeked of alcohol. His friends (hmm, he quite liked the sound of that) managed to push their way to the bar and acquire drinks fairly quickly, and soon they were moving again through the dark towards the stage, where a band was setting up to play—drummer, bassist, guitarist. A microphone stood near the front, lit by a spotlight but conspicuously unused.

A few riffs later, the drummer began a beat on the symbol, and the crowd began to roar. Finally, then, as the music began to crescendo and the crowd responded in kind, a boy who looked about their age walked onto the stage, yelling into the microphone, "We are The Doomsday Option, and you can bugger off!" in a vaguely lilting accent, and the show began.

Oh no, Aziraphale thought, as he listened to the lanky man in a low-cut, silky shirt and skin-tight leather pants that hugged every angular curve. Oh no, he thought, as the man pushed back a wavy shag of bronze-red hair with long, thin fingers as he shout-sang about rebellion into the microphone. Oh no, he thought, at the dark-lensed tortoiseshell glasses so out of place in a bar at night, yet perfectly at home on the man's sharp-boned face.

Oh bugger, he thought, his heart dropping to the vicinity of his stomach even as it swooped into the rafters somewhere. I'm doomed.