During algebra, Aziraphale doodled in the margins of his notebook, sketching the Minotaur and Perseus in an epic battle as the professor droned on about linear and quadratic functions. He wasn't an artist by any means (the Minotaur looked more like an angry, broken-legged horse with horns) but it was something to do as his thoughts wandered away from mathematics in boredom.
When he drew Orpheus, the legendary mortal had Crowley's sharp grin and angular face, the waves of his hair held back by a laurel wreath. How fitting, he thought. But I rather suppose in this daydream, that makes me Eurydice. Not a very happy ending there. But the robes would be utterly comfortable.
After class, he met Brian for lunch. His friend caught him up what he'd missed while he was in the library with Crowley, including a fight that had left one poor bystander with a massive black eye and one poor girl soaked in red punch. But otherwise, he'd enjoyed the party, and asked where Aziraphale had disappeared.
"Oh, I was outside for a bit. Then I, er, found some books," Aziraphale replied, not meeting Brian's eyes as he answered and poking his fork aggressively at the chicken pot pie in front of him.
"Uh huh." Brian answered, studying him. "What kind of books make someone blush like that?"
"I-I'm not—," he stammered, then changed the subject. "Oh! Did you know that huge mansion is Crowley's? I had no idea! Honestly, I think you could fit this dorm and the two next door in there and still have room left over!"
"Yeah, no kidding. I've been over there a few times with Chuck, before rehearsals. Place is giant. Chuck said Kyle got lost in there one time a few years ago trying to find a bathroom." He paused to cram a gooey bite of pizza into his mouth, barely chewing it before swallowing. "I guess Crowley's dad is some big business mogul or something, makes tons of money buying and selling companies. Crowley explained it to Chuck and the guys one time but they didn't really follow."
"Oh?" Aziraphale replied, feigning casualness as he took a bite of pot pie. He thought of hand-me-down sweaters and peanut butter sandwiches and purposefully lost permission slips for too-expensive field trips. "That must be nice, having that much spending money."
"You'd think, but…" Brian cleared his throat and leaned in. "Look, don't bring this up around them or anything, but Crowley's...kind of wild, man. Got in some trouble a while ago, and his dad must've paid off the cops or something." At the horrified look on Aziraphale's face, he shook his head. "Nothing like...he didn't murder anyone or anything. Just some drugs, some breaking and entering, that kind of thing. Chuck says some of his other friends, not the band, those dudes are really bad news, but Crowley isn't that bad. And he throws a great rager."
It was a lot to process. Aziraphale schooled his features into bland neutrality and steered Brian away from the subject of Crowley with questions about Rachelle. His friend was all too happy to talk about his girlfriend (and he was genuinely curious about her). Brian's chatter combined with stuffing his own face full of chicken and flaky breading gave him a moment to lock what he'd learned away for later perusal. (He was good at composing himself in the face of strong emotions, if he did say so...it sort of came with the territory of door-to-door evangelizing and being a middle child in a large family.)
When he'd finished up his classwork for the day, he made a quick stop at his dorm to water Oscar Wilde and grab Metamorphoses, then headed to the library. After Anathema handed him tea and set out a plate of chocolate biscuits, he handed her the beautiful volume. She gasped and ahhed over its navy leather covers and the oil painting illustrations of gods, monsters, and mortals as he explained that a friend had loaned it to him.
"I thought you'd like it. The artistry is impeccable. But, there's something...could I ask you for your advice on something?"
"Is this about your friend?" she replied, a knowing look in her eyes as she handed the book back to him.
"Well, yes. He's a friend of a friend's friend, and our mutual acquaintance informed me today of some...not so good things he's done in the past."
"Wait, I'm getting confused over who is whose friend. Does this...does he have a name?"
"Um...Crowley. Well, Anthony, but he goes by his last name."
Anathema's eyebrows shot up behind her large round glasses. "I know that name. Is his father Lucien Crowley?"
"I don't know his name, only that he's some very successful businessman, according to Brian."
She whistled. "I bet it's him, all right! Here, I have…" Anathema bolted up and went over to a stack of magazines, rummaging through the pile until she found the issue she was looking for and handed it to him. "His dad's not just a businessman, he's, like, the businessman. Made his fortune buying and dismantling the competition. At any given point, he's under investigation for all sorts of ethics violations and bribery charges, but it doesn't seem to have had any effect."
The man on the cover of the magazine was handsome, his wavy blond hair slicked back and a cocky, smirking grin on his face that Aziraphale had seen before on his son's face. In all caps, the headline beside him declared: "IS THIS THE FACE OF THE FUTURE OF BUSINESS?" He flipped to the corresponding page number and skimmed the article:
As global competition heats up, one man is taking the mergers and acquisitions world by storm. Lucien Crowley, head of Morningstar Corporation, is riding a boom tide of profits after his company's latest success … Some question Crowley's methods, claiming that working conditions and salaries have declined after their companies were bought out. Some even claim that they were refused contracted pensions and bonuses … accused of shady deals with offshore investors tied to third-world human rights atrocities. But there's no question: Whatever game he's playing, Crowley is winning.
"Oh my…" Aziraphale said quietly, handing the magazine back to Anathema. "How terrible for Crowley. Er, the son, I mean. He did mention his parents aren't home very much. And if that's his role model, well."
"And you're friends with him, the son?"
"Well, I suppose so. We've only met a few times, but he was kind enough to show me the library at his house when I attended a party there recently…" At the hungry look in Anathema's eyes, Aziraphale laughs. "Yes, it was absolutely magnificent. Imagine a room full of volumes of this quality. I didn't want to leave."
He set aside his tea and folded his hands tightly in his lap. "And, well, I haven't ever really had all that many friends, especially if you don't count my siblings. Mary, from Theology, and I get on well, and there are Brian and Heather, but…"
"But you're worried about what Crowley thinks of you?"
"Yes!" he blurted out, eyes wide. "I don't know, he just seems so much more worldly and posh than I am, and that's fine, he hasn't made a big deal of his family's wealth, but I want to thank him for the book somehow, and I have no idea what would be interesting to him."
There's a flash of a knowing look in Anathema's eyes, but it's gone in a moment before he can truly process it. "Well, then, you know he likes to read. What else do you know about him?"
Aziraphale gives her a brief recounting of the times they've met. From what he can tell, Crowley likes loud music, plants, and classic literature. When Anathema suggests perhaps Aziraphale ask him to a show, he shakes his head. While he knows Crowley likes creating music, he's not sure how the other man feels about going to shows. (Perhaps, like a master chef, he'd rather cook at home than go to other restaurants.)
Anathema thinks for a moment, then rummages around for a phone book and excuses herself to make a call at the phone on her desk. Aziraphale reaches for his tea and occupies himself with draining the cup, trying not to eavesdrop. After she hangs up the phone, Anathema grabs a pamphlet as she dashes out of her office, then returns with a photocopy that she hands to him.
"I think this could be perfect! It isn't too expensive, with a student pass, and they're only doing it for a few weekends before it moves on."
On the paper is an advertisement for an event at a botanical garden and art museum. Admission provides access to both venues and a special display of tropical flowers—including the anticipated blooming of one of the world's only corpse plants.
"Those are super rare," Anathema says, nodding at the flyer. "There's only five or so cultivated each year worldwide, and they only bloom once every seven years or so. How about it?"
"Oh, Anathema, it's perfect." He'll have to scrounge up his pocket money, and perhaps borrow some from Brian, but he'll figure something out.
A few days later (and a loan from his roommate, who thankfully doesn't pry and just laughs when he says the money is for an art museum), Aziraphale calls the number on the flyer and purchases two tickets to the event, to be picked up at the will-call window at the art museum.
Classwork distracts him from calling Crowley, and it would be a bit of a relief but for the absolute pile of assignments. The Metamorphoses will fit perfectly into his theology essay comparing different cultures' perceptions of God, at least, but the paper requires a minimum of ten primary sources, so he's stuck in the library after class most of the week. Even with Anathema's help, he has dozens of books to look through. And when he's not working on his essay, his math homework seems to have gotten more complicated overnight, the problems taking longer than before as they learn increasingly complex formulas. (He's worn his pencil erasers to nubs, and the keys on his pocket calculator now stick from overuse.)
Fencing has to be the worst, though. A few of his classmates have adjusted to his left handedness, and unfortunately for him they're all in much better physical shape than him. After watching him huff and puff and strain through the jogging and agility work, the instructor pulled him aside to ask if he has asthma and needs his inhaler. When he shook his head no, she frowned at him and suggested he try to get some exercise outside of class.
As soon as class ended, he didn't bother to change out of his gym clothes and strode as quickly as he could back to his dorm. Heather was there, watching Jeopardy!, but she sat upright with a frown when she saw his face. "What happened, 'Zira? Dude, are you okay?"
"Yes, I just…" he sighed, out of breath and so very embarrassed. "My fencing teacher told me I need to lose some weight. And now I just feel awful."
"No shit! I would feel that way too, if someone called me fat! What a bitch!" Her heavily lined eyes widen in anger as Brian barges in, hauling his backpack and skateboard.
"Who's a bitch this time, Heather?"
Aziraphale gives him a quick recap of his fencing lesson, and soon he's as outraged as Heather. The descriptions and epithets they call her are entirely un-Christian, but utterly hilarious, and soon they're laughing too hard to choke out more.
As Aziraphale wipes the tears of laughter from his eyes, Heather slaps a hand on his shoulder and looks at him, her mouth twitching in the remains of a grin. "But seriously, 'Zira, I'm gonna tell you exactly what one of my friends told me, when my parents said I should stop dressing like this and fix my hair and stop listening to 'that awful noise', as they called my absolute favorite music: You're fine just like you are."
"Yeah, man, don't worry about it. People can be raging asshats, y'know? You just gotta...keep being you."
The tears in his eyes now aren't from laughter, but from the overwhelming sense of gratitude he has for these people, his friends. "Oh, I don't...thank you," he croaks out, clearing his throat in embarrassment and looking anywhere but at him.
"Hey, you know what we should do for dinner? Let's call Dave and go to the drive-thru. I could eat like a million fries right now. Fuck that bitch," Heather declared, standing up and tugging her skirt into place.
"You know what, you're right." Aziraphale said, the gloom lifting from his heart. "...Fuck her."
Brian and Heather gasped and freaked out (Heather practically screeching in delight) at hearing Aziraphale swear for the first time that he can remember. He's not going to make a habit of it...but just this once, it felt good.
As good as the cheeseburger, fries, and milkshake that they treat him to at the drive-thru taste.
The next night, he found a payphone booth near the student center and dialed the number on the slip of paper with shaking hands.
"Hello, Crowley residence," a woman's voice said. "If this is a business matter, you can reach Lucien at his office tomorrow."
"Oh, I, er, no, it isn't," he garbled out, caught off-guard. "I'm trying to reach Crowley—er, Anthony Crowley, his s-son?"
"Oh, let me see if he's here. Excuse me," she replied, setting down the phone with a thunk before he can answer. She must be Crowley's mother, he thinks, before there's a click on the line.
"Wuzzit, who's this?" Crowley said, voice raspy.
"It's, er, me, Aziraphale, hello," he replied, twining the metal curls of the payphone cord around his fingers. "Is this a bad time?"
"No, no, just working on something in the studio downstairs. Ma, you can hang up the phone now," he said, his voice suddenly colder. Aziraphale hadn't realized she was back on the line, but a light click confirms Crowley's suspicion. "Geez, that woman. Right pain in the neck. So, what can I do for you? You can't be finished with the book already, even a big brain like you."
"Not quite, but only because my classwork is absolute insanity right now. It's coming in quite handy for one of my assignments, though. Thank you again for letting me borrow it."
"'Course, angel, any time." Crowley coughed, the sound of a chair squeaking down the line. "I'm not worried you're going to run off with it or anything, if that's why you called. I know where to find you."
"Oh, yes, that's right, well...you see, I was w-wondering…" He fell silent, gripping the phone cord in a tight hold, and fighting off the panic pressing his chest like the heaviest stone. I can't I can't do this I really can't, he thought, trying to breathe. He heard Crowley say something but he can't hear anything over the rushing sound in his ears...and then, a tiny thought cut through the fog of panic: But...what if I do it anyway?
"Wouldyouwanttogotothebotanicalgardenwithme?" Aziraphale blurted out over whatever Crowley was saying.
The line was utterly silent, except for the sound of breathing, for far too many seconds, and then Crowley let out an amused snort. "I'm not going to lie, I didn't understand anything you just said."
A nervous giggle bubbled up from Aziraphale's chest, and he can't help but let out a laugh. "I'm sorry, that was completely incomprehensible, wasn't it? Let me try again. There's this show at the botanical gardens next weekend, with the art museum, and they're going to have a corpse plant blooming. I thought, well, since you like plants, I got tickets, and do you want to go?"
There was a rustling noise on Crowley's end, like the phone speaker being covered up, and after a few more moments he wasn't sure if Crowley had hung up on him or something had happened with the connection—but then:
"Are you asking me out?"
"No! O-of course not, don't be silly," he stammered, the terror back in his chest and an icy fear in his belly. "I just w-wanted to do something nice, to say thank you for letting me borrow Ovid, that's all!"
"Oh...sorry, I just…'course, I'd love to," Crowley said with a cough. "I wasn't…'s not...what time izzit, then? I can pick you up, if you like?"
"It's at, er, let me check...five, next Saturday, if that's all right?"
"Sounds like a plan, then. Not every day a guy gets asked to go see a flower that smells like rotting meat, after all," he replied with a teasing tone. "I can pay you back, for my ticket?"
"No, it's my treat, really. I'll...see you Saturday, then."
"See you then, angel. G'night."
After he put up the phone, Aziraphale stood frozen in the booth, trying to process what had just happened.
Outside, a couple walking past were startled by the exuberant shout of triumph that suddenly sounded from the phone booth nearby.
