TW for this chapter: Homophobic slur


"Oh! Crowley, hello!" Aziraphale exclaimed before his brain could stop his mouth.

The man tipped his head to study him from behind those dark glasses as he handed back the plant. Aziraphale's heart sank, but then Crowley snapped his fingers and grinned. "That's riiight, you're Brian's friend from the show! You looked...different then. More edgy, or something," he said with a nonchalant wave at Aziraphale's outfit. Instead of his borrowed ensemble, Aziraphale had today donned a robin's-egg shirt under a velveteen vest, topped off with a brown plaid bowtie and his khaki coat.

"Er, well, I didn't really have anything appropriate to wear that night, so Brian and Heather kindly lent me some of their things. And fixed my hair. This is what I usually look like, more or less." At least Crowley hadn't tried to yank his bowtie off or asked him where his old-man cane was, like the children back home at school used to do. (Gabriel insisted that they needed to present their best selves every day, not just in church, because God was always watching. But honestly, Aziraphale had always liked to dress this way. He thought bowties made him look rather smart.)

Crowley shrugged with a smooth roll of his shoulders and they stood silently for a moment, looking at each other, until Crowley exclaimed, "Ezra...Azra...Ah ha! Aziraphale! Knew it was in there somewhere, name like that you remember! Not like 'John' or 'Mike' or whuzzat."

Once he'd recovered from the startle, Aziraphale smiled broadly. "Pleased to meet you again. I'd offer a handshake but I don't want to risk another accident with the poor plant—"

The air left his lungs as Crowley, swift and smooth as a snake, leaned in close to peer at the pothos, expertly inspecting the undersides of the leaves and testing their hardiness with short, sharp pokes that made the plant quiver. His research concluded, he stood, yanked the pot from Aziraphale's hands and plunked it on a nearby counter.

"You don't want that one, it's got leaf spots. Trust me, one leaf spot and then all the other leaves think it's fine to let themselves go. You want something a bit sturdier, bit more robust."

He grabbed Aziraphale's sleeve and pulled him towards another counter. "Dracaenas are sturdy but no, noo, ugly little buggers. Let's see…no, nope, all wrong..." Crowley waved off the shopkeeper's help as he picked up and examined plant after plant, then froze and looked up. "What you need," he said, dragging Aziraphale to the window, "is this. Spathiphyllum, commonly known as—"

"Peace lilies." Amid the plant's luxuriously dark, shining leaves stood delicate, hooded white flowers that Aziraphale recognized from the Easter altar at church. "It's beautiful." He picked up the plant gently, turning it to study it in the light, with a soft smile on his face. It really was lovely, and it reminded him of home.

That Crowley had taken the time to help him when they were barely acquaintances, and without growing bored or impatient, meant a lot. Crowley seemed a bit taken aback at his expression when their eyes met, and they both looked away, cheeks flushed.

"So how do you know so much about plants? Were you here to buy a present for someone?"

"Nah, I like plants. Keep a lot of 'em around at home to liven the place up a bit. I actually came in here for a new fig," he said, pointing over to a floor plant with large, round leaves that reminded Aziraphale of spinach. "They say the Tree of Knowledge was more likely a fig tree than an apple tree. You know, in the Garden of Eden."

When Aziraphale chuckled, Crowley frowned and bristled ever so slightly. But Aziraphale shook his head and replied, "Well, Adam and Eve did make their loincloths out of fig leaves in Genesis, so it's not impossible. I study theology, you see."

"Ah." Just like that, Crowley's expression cleared, and he strode over to the fig plants, poking and examining them as well. Aziraphale followed him over, reading the sign above: Ficus lyrata (fiddle-leaf fig or banjo fig).

"I suppose it makes sense you'd want a musically named species. I think it's very fitting."

Crowley had evidently decided on a particular specimen and hefted it from the floor in its ceramic pot, his strength belied by his thin frame. "You know, I never thought about that."

Aziraphale practically glowed, pleased with himself for his wit. They continued to chat about plants as they hauled their purchases to the register, Aziraphale paying in crumpled bills extracted from his waistcoat pocket and Crowley sliding out a sleek, metallic charge card.

At the doorway, Crowley let out a blasphemous curse at the drizzle-turned-downpour outside. "Ohhh, come on. My car's parked two streets over. Blasted forecast's never right—"

"We could share my umbrella, if you'd like," Aziraphale offered shyly. "I can walk you to your car before I catch the bus. It's no bother."

"Really? All right," Crowley replied, mollified. They crowded underneath the slightly lopsided umbrella until both were reasonably covered from the steady patter of rain. Crowley pointed his chin in the direction of his car and they began a slow, careful walk, avoiding puddles and other sidewalk hazards.

Aziraphale was trying not to notice the frisson caused by the other man's proximity (not warm, not exactly, more like that peculiarly charged sensation when you'd shuffled across a carpet in socks and then touched a doorknob) when Crowley stopped and said, "This is it."

He looked up and gaped.

He didn't know much about cars, but he could read the crest on hood between the widely spaced, rounded headlights. And he knew that Porsches were not exactly budget vehicles. This one's sleek, two-doored body was, as he perhaps should have expected, a shiny black that seemed to absorb the light from the raindrops that rolled off its surface.

"A-are you sure it's okay to put these in there? Won't it get dirty?"

Crowley shrugged, then stepped out from under the umbrella's protection briefly to unlock the car, with a hiss and shudder as the cold rain hit him. As he loaded their purchases into the backseat, he motioned at the passenger door without looking. "It's unlocked, you can get in."

Aziraphale quickly shook out the umbrella and sat, shifting on the buttery leather of the seat and trying not to touch anything. This car was probably worth more than his father made in several years. Probably more than the church itself made in that much time. How did it belong to Crowley, who as far as he could tell was about his age? (Was Crowley in school as well, when he wasn't singing anarchical choruses in grimy, dank clubs?)

When Crowley got in and started the car, it gave off a low rumble that sounded like a faraway lawn mower to Aziraphale's unaccustomed ears. The sound made him jump, then titter nervously as he glanced over to see Crowley studying him again.

"Sorry, just startled me a bit. This car is quite nice. Um, is it yours?"

"Nah, just borrowed it," he said with a wicked grin before flooring it into traffic. Aziraphale clutched at the door handle and the belt across his chest as the Porsche dodged slower traffic, weaving between cars, trucks, and buses.

Any hesitation in deference to his uncertain feelings about Crowley was roughly shoved aside as he screeched, "Good heavens, you're going to get us killed!"

Crowley laughed but let off the gas just a fraction. Oh good, now we'll just die ever so slightly slower, Aziraphale thought. This is what I get for getting into cars with strange boys who lure me in with their smiles and their tight trousers and their knowledge of plants…

"Are you always this jumpy?"

"No," Aziraphale pouted as his pulse returned to normal. Mostly. "Are you always this neglectful of traffic laws and, and general safety?"

"Only on days that end in '-y'." He swerved to avoid a pedestrian and Aziraphale looked heavenward, silently praying that they made it back to campus in one piece. The plants in the backseat caught his eye in the rearview mirror and he turned to look at them, then back at Crowley.

"Did you... buckle them in?"

Crowley made a noncommittal noise that sounded like "Ngk," and the sound elicited a strange fluttering in Aziraphale's chest.

"So, whereabouts are you from, then?" Crowley asked him a moment later, as they waited at a stoplight. Aziraphale told him about the small town thousands of miles away, adjacent to a city not unlike this one, where he, his father, and his siblings lived in the parish house beside the church.

"And you're going to school to study religion? If you grew up in a church, why'd they send you all the way here to learn about God and whatnot?"

"Well, they didn't send me here," Aziraphale explained. "It was my idea, you see. I thought might be good to get away from home for a bit, see the world...gain a bit of perspective."

"Get away from dear old dad, you mean?" Crowley replied, and Aziraphale felt that cold knot creep back into his consciousness when the comment hit a little too close to home.

They had reached the edge of campus, and he ignored the question to point Crowley in the direction of his dormitory. "How about you?" he asked quickly, and if Crowley noticed his evasion, he didn't mention it.

"What, school? Nah, just the band for me. This it, here?" He brought the Porsche to a rather abrupt stop and reached back to unbuckle Aziraphale's peace lily. For a moment, Aziraphale hoped he might offer to help carry it upstairs (Crowley in his room near his bed oh goodness) but he turned back and waited. Aziraphale cleared his throat.

"Right. Thanks for the ride," he said briskly, clambering out to grab the peace lily, giving up on his umbrella and letting the rain soak into his hair. "It was nice to meet you properly. And thank you for helping me with the plant as well."

"Don't forget, water it once a week when the leaves start to wilt a bit. But don't overdo it."

Aziraphale nodded, gave him one last bright smile, and closed the door. "See you later, then."

Making his way carefully across the slick sidewalk and up the steps, lost in a fog of panic ('See you later'?! Was that the best you can do? And when will I see him later?! Hm. When will I see him later...) he didn't notice Crowley watching him, long thin fingers tapping at the steering wheel in thought, before gunning the engine and taking off in a squeal of tires.


When he was in his room, he fussed over the peace lily enough that Brian and Heather both started asking him about the girl who'd given it to him. He'd toyed with the idea of using Mary as a ruse but decided against it. But that meant his roommate and friend had continued to guess her name, what she looked like, and what she studied. He'd finally sighed and admitted that he'd bought it for himself to brighten up his space a bit and add a finishing touch now that all of his things had arrived and been put in their proper places.

Well, that's true enough, I did buy it for myself, he thought. Even if Crowley may as well have, since he helped me pick it out. But a tiny kernel of possessiveness kept him from mentioning Crowley to them. The sight of the lily in its plain terracotta pot cheered him every time he returned from class or meals or excursions with Brian and Heather.

(He'd also acquired his own Walkman now, slightly dented but still functional, as well as a few more tapes suggested by his roommate. Funny enough, though, while the bands Brian suggested were quite similar to The Doomsday Option, none held the same appeal. He had, however, listened quite a few times to the Vivaldi and Mozart tapes he'd found crammed into a back corner at Zedd's and acquired for a steep discount.)

Occasionally, the sight of the plant made his heart ache in a yearning way that felt a bit like homesickness. Which he'd also had plenty of, despite weekly calls home to speak with his father and whichever sibling was around at the time, usually Luke but sometimes Ruth, his favorite sister. (She was the closest in age to him, and as the youngest, the family agreed, got away with the most, like stealing an entire box of pastries reserved for the post-worship coffee hour). The times she'd grabbed the phone from Gabriel to shout hello, she'd babbled about her friends in the youth choir or a local mission trip to a nearby impoverished neighborhood to serve meals, and the familiar onslaught of her voice had soothed Aziraphale.

He'd been distracted by thinking about his last call home, as well as the latest algebra assignment, one day as he walked to the library between classes one day. Distracted enough, apparently, to walk straight into something warm, soft, and solid, with an oof that snapped him out of his thoughts and into eye contact with the large, pissed-off boy built like a truck who he'd run into.

"Oh, my, I'm so sorry—" he stuttered, before the boy shoved him to the ground.

"Watch where you're going," he sneered, his friends laughing at Aziraphale's stunned expression as he lay sprawled across the damp grass. They stepped past him, muttering and laughing to themselves. "Fag."

He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Ice ran through his veins and his stomach heaved as he struggled to pull air in and out. It wasn't the first time he'd heard that particular epithet thrown his way, but to hear it here, at a place he'd thought would be a fresh start away from the bullies he'd encountered so often at home…

A voice cut through the fog, repeating his name until he looked up and saw Ms. Device crouched next to him, her hand reached out and a concerned frown on her face. "Aziraphale, are you all right? Did you fall?"

"No! No, I'm quite...quite all right. I just…"

She seemed to recognize something in his expression then as her mouth set into a grim line. She helped him to his feet, guiding his unresisting body inside the library to a small office, where she settled him into a large, well-cushioned armchair and knelt beside him.

"If you don't mind me saying, you don't seem like the alcohol type. Tea, then?"

He gave her a small, grateful smile. "Tea would be lovely, thank you."

She strode briskly from the room, leaving Aziraphale to look over his surroundings in a daze. There were posters of palm reading diagrams and astrological charts on the walls and haphazard stacks of magazines with headlines like "BIGFOOT SPOTTED IN WISCONSIN?"and "LEY LINES: THE FACTS" piled near the window. At his feet, a cheery, well-worn rag rug adorned the floor.

Ms. Device popped back in, steaming mug in one hand and a damp cloth in the other. "Here you are. You've got a bit of mud on you, I thought you might want to clean up."

"I hope I didn't get any on your chair—" But she waved a hand at him, not unkindly.

"No, that's not what I meant! You're fine! Just, if you wanted it." She sat in her desk chair and leaned forward, resting her head in her hands as she watched him sip the tea. "So what happened?"

Between mouthfuls of tea, he began with details of the brief encounter but soon found himself telling her about his primary school classmates and others, the bruises and scrapes and hateful words. Things he'd never told his father, although his siblings had known and done what they could to protect him. Aziraphale had always been a target, more so than any of the others in his family. Even if those targeting him didn't really know the truth of their words.

Ms. Device had rested a comforting hand on his arm, and refilled his mug, and listened. When a clock in the corner had rung out a peal announcing the hour, Aziraphale froze and leapt up, barely remembering the half-full mug in his hand at the last second. "Is that really the time? I'm—I've missed Theology entirely!"

"I wouldn't worry too much. Missing a class now and then, it's completely normal. Besides, I don't think any of your teachers will think you're skipping for anything other than a good reason."

She walked him back out to the main library and pressed a book into his hands. "You might have already read this, but here. He's one of my favorite poets, and this always helps me feel better when things are rough. Keep it as long as you like."

He looked down at the copy of Whitman's Song of Myself and smiled. "It's been a long time. I'll give it another read, though. Thank you, Ms. Device."

She grinned back at him. "You can call me Anathema, you know. 'Ms. Device' sounds so formal. Besides, we can be friends in the 'Strange Names No One Can Pronounce or Spell Club'."

"I couldn't possibly...but thank you, again. Truly."

After the rest of his classes, he grabbed a quick dinner and retreated back to his room before Brian returned. Pulling the peace lily across his desk from its perch near the window, he flipped through the pages of Song of Myself, much like he usually did with his Bible, before deciding that perhaps with poetry it would be best to start at the beginning.

Clearing his throat, he spoke softly aloud, the flow of the words soothing him:

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass...


In case you were wondering, Crowley drives a 1983 Porsche 911SC. Also, Aziraphale's plant has a name, but I don't know what it is yet. (Have suggestions? Leave them in the comments, please!)

Special thanks again to Simon (BadNewsForBrainwork, whateverthepleasure) for beta reading.