He didn't mention the incident during the next conversation with his father. Instead, Aziraphale chattered about a group discussion in Theology about the reliability of the subject as a logical construct for discussion of faith and religion, a topic which had brought out some very strong feelings in some of his classmates. (But Mary had been in his group, which had been nice. He'd thanked her profusely for recommending the plant shop.) He also mentioned an upcoming fencing match, scheduled for the weekend before the fall semester mission trip. Gabriel had sounded distracted, and there were mutterings in the background of the call as if he was holding another discussion while on the phone with his son. Nothing different there, Aziraphale thought sadly, then chided himself for the uncharitable thought. He's a busy man, after all. He's an important figure in the community. But before ending the call, Gabriel had mentioned how much they all missed him at home, and Aziraphale's heart ached a little less when he hung up.

Every night after dinner, he went to the gym and practiced for his fencing bout. He had chosen the sabre as his weapon, despite the larger target area and faster pace of competition; he didn't think his short, stout frame would suit the foil or épée, and the instructor had agreed. So far, he'd been fairly successful, as many of his classmates were unprepared for fencing with a left-handed opponent. But the upcoming bout would include competitors from other local colleges, and he wasn't confident that the luck he'd had so far would continue. Besides, Brian and Heather had both promised to attend and cheer him on, and he didn't want to embarrass himself too much in front of his friends.

A few other classmates joined him occasionally at night to spar, practicing lunges and parries until they were all sweaty and out of breath. He felt lighter each time when he left, buoyed by the physical exertion (and freed of the bulky sous-plastron and jacket).

Suddenly, his schedule was quite full with classwork and preparation for the bout and the mission trip, as well as social plans. Brian and Heather had invited him to a costume party, along with Dave, Chuck, and several other friends, and he'd tentatively agreed. The thought of an alcohol-fueled bacchanal made him uneasy—Halloween was, after all, a celebration of pagan temptation. He'd always been discouraged from dressing up and going out even as a small child, although trick-or-treating was not as popular at home as it was here. But in the spirit of trying new things, and perhaps gaining some secondhand insight into the attractiveness of getting drunk and endangering one's immortal soul, Aziraphale decided to make a costume. Heather had pilfered some wire, impressively realistic synthetic feathers, glue, and other supplies from the art school, which he'd initially refused until she'd reminded him how much her tuition cost (and that therefore, the supplies were hers, really, if you looked at it that way).

Despite being kept company by a crowd of notebooks, textbooks, other books, and craft supplies, Aziraphale's peace lily (now named "Oscar Wilde", or "Wilde" for short) seemed quite happy with its diet of steady sunlight, appropriate watering, and frequent entertainment in the form of his confessions and poetry readings. Returning to the quiet familiarity of his room each day eased him when the noise of the world grew too much.

"I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise, Regardless of others, ever regardful of others, Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man, Stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse and stuff'd with the stuff that is fine," he read one night, and sighed. That is the truth, isn't it. Seemingly caught here in this state of waiting even as I reach out to the new and unfamiliar. So restless, but for what? But some of his thoughts were too much weight to put on a simple houseplant, so he saved them for the times of quiet contemplation during Sunday service. If he didn't speak them into the air, then his shameful weaknesses would remain unfinished, unknown, locked away from judgment by anyone but himself and God.

He dreamed of Crowley's eyes, even though he'd never seen them. Sometimes, they a brilliant blue, or a luscious green, or a bright searing golden yellow, like searchlights in the night.


Somehow, through some holy miracle, he had won his bout. Barely, and by the end he'd been a trembling, exhausted mess of nerves and physical exertion, but still: a victory. He'd even managed a feint, although he'd missed the next hit and had to scramble to recover. At the end, Brian and Heather had cheered so loudly that people had stared at them, and at him, and he felt a loving sort of embarrassment as they hugged him and slapped his back and treated him to dinner at a hole-in-the-wall 24-hour diner downtown. (He'd practically inhaled the chocolate cream pie. Fencing was hungry work.)

The next morning, though, Aziraphale couldn't lift himself out of bed, his rubbery arms as useless as overcooked noodles. He'd suffered through another day of stiff, achy soreness until afternoon tea with Anathema. She'd presented him with a small jar of mentholated muscle rub that apparently worked wonders after yoga inversions, and it had helped him function enough to be able to take notes during classes without his hand shaking from the exertion.

"So where are you going again?" Brian asked during their weekly Jeopardy watching, as both of them struggled over math equations and grumbled about the general education curriculum and its torments.

"It's a regional homeless shelter, about two hours away. We'll be serving dinner and breakfast and helping bag purchases at their food pantry," Aziraphale replied, frowning down at a particularly stubborn equation as a commercial played in the background.

"Cool. So, um, d'you mind if I have company over, while you're gone?"

The cagey hesitation of his tone made Aziraphale look up from his textbook. "Company? Like, friends?"

Brian shrugged and grinned. "More like, a particular friend. I kind of met this girl. She's pretty cool, but her dorm is usually pretty crowded."

The joy on his face made Aziraphale smile in return. "Oh, that's wonderful! What's her name? What is she like?" He learned that Rachelle, a fellow freshman, was a friend of one of Heather's friends and studied journalism, planning to become a reporter at a big paper after school. He expressed his hope of meeting her soon and learned that Brian planned to bring her to the Halloween party—and apparently, one of her friends as well.

"Chuck said we can bring as many people as we want, the place is a mansion. And hey, maybe you and one of them could, y'know, hang out."

The suggestion sent Aziraphale into a sudden peal of laughter that brought tears to his eyes. "Oh no, I don't think so. But thank you for thinking of me." Brian's protestations that he hadn't even met them yet fell on deaf ears. "Truly, I'll be fine attending with the group, don't worry about me."

Brian had grinned back at his amusement, then they gave up on math for the night and focused on Jeopardy.


As if Aziraphale had blinked and time had flown in an instant, it was the night of the party. Truthfully, though, the last few weeks had been a slog of research papers, math tests, and keeping a food diary that made Aziraphale a bit embarrassed (did he really eat dessert that often?) until he convinced himself that gluttony, although a deadly sin, was far from the worst of them.

He'd managed to finish his simple costume in time to add a few embellishments, like gold paint swirls on the shoulders of the white robe-like smock Heather had also nicked from the art department and a few artful streaks of gold in the grey-white feathers of his wings. (The paint matched his halo, which was really a metal and papier-mâché circlet on a stick that pinned into his curls.) He didn't have any sandals, so he'd just slipped on his tan brogues. (At least they went with the khakis he was wearing under the robe, even if they were quite anachronistic. He wasn't about to traipse around a party at some stranger's house in bare feet.)

As they waited for their ride, the three of them stomped their feet and shuddered in the cold. Although fall was well arrived, the weather had been fairly mild until the last week or so, and now it seemed closer to winter than summer. Heather and Rachelle were particularly vulnerable; Heather was dressed in a revealing costume that Aziraphale assumed was a cat of some kind, with feline ears and tail accompanying her striped leotard, and Rachelle was dressed in a similarly revealing vampire costume that bared her midriff to the cold wind until Brian loaned her his coat.

They crammed into Dave's rusted minivan, which smelled of cigarettes and the thick, skunky scent of marijuana. (Aziraphale had smelled plenty of it during his rounds to nearby apartment complexes to talk to the tenants about their Lord and Savior. Usually as a door was closed firmly in his face after a polite refusal.) The close proximity of so many people, combined with anxiety about the party, made him restless and uneasy for the half hour ride…but the sight of the enormous house when they arrived was an unexpected distraction.

The massive brick structure was at the top of a steep hill at the end of a cobblestone drive. The front courtyard alone was practically the same size as Aziraphale's dormitory. Lights gleamed from dozens of windows set into the mansion's brownstone face, speckling the many landscaped shrubs and trees set to the side of the courtyard. Dozens of costumed partygoers were scattered across the adjacent lawn and crowded near the door, smoking and drinking and kissing and laughing.

Inside was pandemonium. Music blared from hidden speakers, barely audible over the din of dozens of intoxicated college students, laughing and fighting and throwing rolls of toilet paper up and over the chandelier. Everywhere he looked, there were people: girls dressed in colorful fairy costumes with hair full of glitter, men dressed as sailors or monsters or other characters. Or, as was true of many of the attendees, barely dressed at all. Miles of bare skin was on display, chests and legs and hips that were an invitation to press closer and slip away with their owners into the shadows.

Aziraphale tried to refuse the drink that Heather handed him, but she passed the plastic cup into his hand anyway. He took a small sip that burned his throat and followed his friends through the crowd, until Dave and Heather, and soon Rachelle and Brian, made their way through to the makeshift dance floor. Brian met his eyes and soundlessly gestured him over, but Aziraphale shook his head and stayed put. He didn't know how to dance at a party like this. He didn't want to dance alone. He stood back and watched his friends for a few minutes, looked around for anyone else he might recognize, and then left them to their dancing.

He had told himself this was a chance to perhaps pull a few more misguided attendees aside, chat with them about the other, more righteous path they could be on, but a sinking feeling in his stomach accompanied the realization that any efforts towards redemption here, on this night, would likely be wasted. There was too much noise, too much drink, too much...everything.

After pushing through the maze of grabbing hands and pointy bits of costume accessories and sloshing beer cups, Aziraphale finally reached a door and found himself on some small, empty side porch overlooking an expansive backyard. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he wiped it away with a corner of his robe, sighing with relief at the sudden quiet and space. Looking down at his cup, he shrugged and downed half of its contents in one gulp. He winced at the bite of the alcohol and leaned on the balustrade to watch drunken stragglers frolic around the lawn, their laughter echoing up from below. He closed his eyes and savored the chilly air.

What was I thinking, coming here? Besides, it's not like anyone wants to talk to me anyway, he thought, fully aware he was moping alone under the stars and not really caring.

Alone until someone barged out onto the balcony, laughing and stumbling over to collapse against the balustrade next to him. And, of course it was Crowley of all people. But the surprise wasn't that Crowley appeared next to him as if summoned, but rather what was wearing...or not wearing.

"Oh good lord," Aziraphale said in admonishment, both at Crowley's outfit and his own thoughts at the sight as he tried not to gape.

Crowley's skin-tight black leather pants left little to the imagination, clinging to the swell of his backside. They were low-slung enough that Aziraphale could see the dips of the dimples at the base of his spine. Sans shirt, Crowley was adorned with a collection of tarnished silver necklaces and what Aziraphale really, truly hoped were not real tattoos of Satanic symbols on his neck and chest, along with the ever-present round sunglasses. He smelled like sweat and red wine, and his grin did things to Aziraphale's insides in an instant.

"Well, well, look who's here," Crowley replied, slightly out of breath. "What're you supposed to be, hmm?"

"Hello, and I'm an angel, thank you very much."

"Your halo's crooked, y'know." Crowley pointed up at his head. After Aziraphale struggled for a moment, he took pity on him and reached up, brushing Aziraphale's hands out the way to fix it himself. "There y'go. All right and proper again, angel."

"Thanks. And just what are yousupposed to be?" Aziraphale replied quickly, hoping the dim light hid his blush. His head felt fuzzy and his mouth was dry (purely a side effect of the alcohol, he told himself).

Crowley flopped over, resting his weight on his elbows and displaying a long, lean torso marred only by an appendectomy scar right above one of his sharp hipbones. (Oh my, Aziraphale thought.) He tipped his head back, sweat-damp red curls draped over his shoulder as he laughed, then angled his face to look up at Aziraphale.

"I'm a demon, of course. Can't you see my horns?" He gestured to his head, but Aziraphale looked confused. "Oh shit, I've lost them. Well. Dunno then. Suppose not all demons have horns. You here all by your lonesome, little host of heaven? Enjoying the revels and debauchery, I'm sure?"

"As much as any angel could, I suppose. What with the liquor and bebop and nakedness and all." He pointedly glanced at Crowley's bare front, then back up.

"Hey, look—" Crowley replied, staggering up to poke Aziraphale's chest with a long, thin finger. "Just 'cause you don't want to wander around, hrmkh, naked like the rest of us...wait, bebop? Who are you, my granddad?"

"Fine, 'rock and roll' then," Aziraphale said, emphasizing with air quotes. "But it's much too loud in there, and people kept stepping on my robe and mussing my wings."

"Excuse you, it's punk, first of all," Crowley fired back with an amused grin. "And second, you didn't seem to mind the volume at the show the other night."

"Well," Aziraphale replied primly, "that was quite different. I don't know anyone here." He paused. "Er, other than Brian, and Heather, and Dave, and you, I suppose."

"And you plan on hiding out here all night?"

"I'm not—"

"—Hiding? Oh, c'mon. Sure, it's getting a little sloppy in there, but can't you find a nice cherub gal to cozy up with?"

"I don't think it's any of your business who I decide to cozy up with or, er, not cozy up with." He regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth.

"Well, ex-cuuuse me," Crowley replied, his eyebrows shooting sky-high as he frowned. "Fine then, see you. Enjoy your brooding." He stood, wobbling a bit on unsteady legs, cleared his throat, and strode off in a more or less straight line, disappearing through a door on the other side of the balcony.

"Wait, where are you going? I don't think we should be snooping around, this isn't—" Aziraphale called after him, but Crowley was gone. Aziraphale took a few steps, then stopped, mouth opening and shutting soundlessly, then he straightened his robe, nodded resolutely to himself, and followed.