As they walked, Crowley pointed out different plants to Aziraphale, giving their Latin names and their native climates. As they studied the Laelia orchids that had caught Aziraphale's eye with their unnaturally bright hue, Crowley explained that over 30,000 species of orchids could be found almost all around the world, except for Antarctica and some deserts. Nearby were rubber trees (Ficus elastica) whose leaves dripped from their recent watering from misters overhead.

Brassy chirps sounded from above, where sparrows and other small birds had snuck their way in to nest at the treetops near the heat and light of the ceiling, and Crowley scowled up at them. "Nasty things. Only good bird's a duck."

"What about eagles? They're quite majestic."

"Oh, sure," Crowley replied. "Eagles, falcons, they're fine. Not like they're going to swoop down and shit on you for fun while you're walking along the street."

"Wait, have you…" Aziraphale trailed off, trying to hide his mirth and biting his lip at the mental image of Crowley shaking his fist at a flock of city sparrows.

Flailing a bit, Crowley accidentally thwacked a plant and crossed his arms moodily instead. "It was one time! I was supposed to meet my ma for lunch and one of the winged rats they call pigeons decided it was an excellent time to befoul my jacket."

A small bubble of laughter escaped Aziraphale's lips, and then it was too late: he cracked up, laughing in big guffaws until his sides hurt and his eyes were watering. Crowley frowned at him, trying to stay grumpy, but his mouth twitched up at the corner just slightly at the other's amusement over his predicament.

"I'm s-sorry, it's just...whew, sorry," Aziraphale croaked out when he'd managed to pull himself together. "I wasn't laughing at you...all right, I was. You're the only person I know who hates birds."

"'S not just birds. I also hate the word 'mauve', for example. No, you're not allowed to ask," Crowley said, cutting Aziraphale off as he opened his mouth. "What about you?"

"Oh, I don't know...peanut butter, I guess?"

"Wait—" Crowley halts in the middle of the gravel path, holding up a hand. "You hate peanut butter? Are you human?"

"Says the man who hates birds. And mauve."

"Well, peanut butter never dropped a bomb all over my favorite coat!"

"Hmph," Aziraphale grumbled. "I just don't like it. It's too sticky and it makes my mouth dry."

When they made their way to the koi pond, Crowley rummaged around his coat pockets and pulled out several quarters so they could each get a handful of fish food from the dispenser. They sat on the stone edge of the pond where the fish writhed in a blur of orange and white, vying for the dry brown pellets from them and the handful of other people watching the fish.

"Greedy little things, aren't they?" Aziraphale said with a laugh as he sprinkled a dash of pellets into the water and got splashed for his trouble as the koi gobbled them up. "They remind me of Ruth's goldfish at home. That thing eats like it's never been fed before. Although it's mostly Luke and I who feed it. She gets distracted and forgets."

"D'you like it, having siblings?" Crowley asked him, lobbing a few pellets to the far side of the pond to watch the fish race over to devour them.

"Oh my, yes. Michael and Judith are much older, and I've never been very close with either of them. I mostly see them and their families at holidays. But Luke is my best friend, and Ruth is wonderful, even though as I mentioned, she's quite the troublemaker. She's in confession every other day, it seems. Father makes her do chores as penance, though, so at least her room gets tidied up now and again. What about you, do you ever wish you had brothers and sisters?"

"Nah," Crowley replied with a shrug, dumping the last crumbs of fish food into the pond and wiping his hands clean on his trousers. "I mean, when I was younger, sure. It was just me and Maude, our housekeeper, for the longest time. Ma and dear old dad weren't home much back then, either. They wanted to send me to boarding school halfway 'cross the country and I pitched a fit to stay at home. I had friends at school, and can you see me, all buttoned up in a jacket and tie and whatnot?"

"I don't know, I think you'd look quite respectable in a suit," Aziraphale said, preoccupied with evenly distributing his remaining fish food pellets and missing the faint blush that spread across Crowley's cheeks at his remark.

"Hah, I'd get kicked out in a week, tops. Maybe that's why my parents decided to stop at one kid. 'There can only be one!' and all that." At Aziraphale's blank look, he sighed patiently. "It's from a movie called Highlander. We really need to work on your pop culture exposure, angel. It's a travesty."

Aziraphale was about to reply when an announcement crackled from speakers hidden nearby. "Ladies and gentlemen, the corpse plant is expected to begin blooming in one hour. Please enjoy the gardens and museum for the next sixty minutes, then make your way to the atrium at the rear of the main garden to attend this special event."

"Time for the museum, then?" Aziraphale asked, and they made their way outside, where thick clouds had obscured the remainder of the sunset. Thankfully, the path to the art museum was well-lit with small spotlights. Dotted near the path were abstract sculptures framed by arrangements of plants in an intricate melding of natural and human-shaped lines. Neither said much as they strolled in a comfortable silence that felt like a balm to Aziraphale's frazzled nerves. The night was beautiful and Crowley was beside him, and when a group passed them on the path and Crowley scooched over to give them space, his shoulder pressed against Aziraphale's. He was immediately aware of the contact, and his shoulder tingled with warmth under the layers of clothing where Crowley had touched him.

In contrast to the lush, organic gardens, the art museum was all empty white space, clean right angles, and bright lights. They didn't have nearly enough time to see everything in only an hour, and compromised by agreeing to spend half of their time in the European gallery (Aziraphale's request) and half in the modern art one. The comfortable silence remained as they perused the Dutch merchant paintings and time-worn furnishings and curios from Europe's wealthy families from centuries ago.

"You know," Aziraphale confessed in a quiet whisper as they studied one painting of a wealthy family from the late 1500s, "The reason I like these portraits so much is that the subjects always look so put out to have their likeness painted. Not to mention the animals, poor things." He pointed to the family dog, painted at its master's feet. Its face looked like the artist had tried to paint the snout and jaw of a canine, then given up and added human-like features instead. "I don't think this man had ever seen a real dog in his life."

Crowley choked on a sudden burst of laughter that sounded like a sneeze, causing an older couple nearby to frown and harumph at the loud noise. Aziraphale shushed him, grinning.

The modern art collection was far less amusing but still interesting. Aziraphale didn't know much about modern art beyond Pollock and Warhol. Here, there was variety: shades and shapes used in ways the Dutch portrait artists would never have dared to attempt. Many of the paintings depicted nude women, or at least certain parts of them; when he averted his eyes to study the plaque of one such Klimt artwork, he noticed the donors listed: Lucien & Helene Crowley.

The sight reminded him of the article Anathema had shown him, and he sighed, eyes finding Crowley where he was looking at a sculpture made of waxed red yarn across the room. Aziraphale stared, studying the lines of Crowley's jaw, noticing the strands of copper hair that had escaped the bun to frame his face, the slope of his shoulders. He forced himself to look away, lest he get caught, but then moments later, he found his eyes on Crowley again.

His luck ran out, however, when Crowley's eyes (or rather, sunglasses) met his. Before he could look away, though, Crowley did, as though he had been the one found out staring. Aziraphale was confused, but turned away to compose himself, clasping his hands behind his back and peering at the Klimt as though he'd never looked away.

A few minutes later, the museum announced that the corpse plant was almost in full bloom, and they wandered back to the entrance...only to find that the skies had opened into a downpour.

"Here, give me the umbrella, I'm taller," Crowley said, his voice sounding loud to Aziraphale after the quiet of the gallery. "Hold onto my sleeve and we'll make a run for it. Ready?"

Aziraphale nodded, Crowley popped open the umbrella, and they burst through the door, splashing down the path in a brisk, frantic sprint for the garden entrance. Out of breath, Aziraphale clutched Crowley's jacket tightly and kept pace with the other man's lanky stride, and in a few moments they had made it to the dry safety of the gardens.

The crowded press of bodies near the entrance to the annex holding the corpse flower seemed impenetrable, but Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's hand and pulled him through and around people until they had made it to the far side of the room, just along the rope protecting the plant. Distracted by the grip of Crowley's hand in his own, Aziraphale didn't notice the smell at first.

The massive plant in front of him had to be at least 10 feet high. The center, tall and green, was reminiscent of a large, unshucked ear of corn, surrounded by a collar of one giant, purple-red petal. But as striking as the corpse plant looked, its stench was practically indescribable, a putrid combination of Limburger cheese, rotten fish, and feces, with a sickly sweetness that made Aziraphale's stomach churn.

"Urgh," he coughed out, eyes watering.

But Crowley didn't seem to notice the smell as much. His mouth hung open in awe. "It's gorgeous," he said quietly, staring rapt at the malodorous flower. "Amorphophallus titanum. Blooms for just one night. I…thank you, Aziraphale."

Not "angel" this time, but "Aziraphale". His name. A warmth curled through him that chased the nausea away, and he beamed back at Crowley, who gave him a small, genuine smile before turning back to study the plant.

When the smell became unbearable for them both, they pushed back through the crowd to the main gardens, breathing deep to cleanse the death-like stench from their noses.

"That was amazing, but I never want to smell that ever again," Crowley said, gulping in the clean, filtered air. "I can practically taste it. Blergh." He smacked his lips and stuck out his tongue.

"Me too, it's absolutely disgusting. Maybe they have a water fountain or something?" Luckily, they did, and both of them gulped down mouthfuls of biting-cold water that seemed to do the trick.

"Well, the night is young, angel. You up for dinner after that?" Crowley dug around in his pocket for the valet ticket as they made their way outside, huddled under Aziraphale's umbrella again.

"I think I'll be able to eat by the time we get anywhere. What, er, did you have in mind?"

"Hmm," Crowley hummed after the valet pulled up with the Porsche. He gave it a quick inspection before they got in. "What are you in the mood for? There's a few good places near here, I think."

"Oh, I'll eat pretty much anything," Aziraphale said, suddenly nervous again. The night had gone well so far, and he didn't want it to end just yet.

"Except peanut butter, right?" Crowley replied with a quick smile, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he thought. "You a fan of sushi?"

"I've...never had it," Aziraphale admitted, looking down at his hands in his lap before glancing back up at the man beside him. "But I think I'd like to try it."

Again, Crowley didn't gasp or act surprised at this revelation, to Aziraphale's relief. Instead, he nodded, declared, "Sushi it is!" and started the car.

On the breakneck drive, Aziraphale wanted to ask how in the world Crowley could see anything from behind his sunglasses, but it seemed rude somehow to point them out. Perhaps, he thought as he clung to his seatbelt in terror, there was something wrong with his eyes that he didn't like to talk about. Or perhaps, like his own cross necklace, they were a talisman, a cherished accessory that he didn't like to part with.

They made it to the sushi restaurant without incident. Inside, they sat at the counter opposite the refrigerated cuts of various fish. The waitress, a tiny elderly woman, handed them cups of earthy green tea that chased away the chill of the rainy night, then left them to peruse the menu.

"D'you know what you want?" Crowley asked after a few minutes.

"Ah, I, um…" Aziraphale replied, overwhelmed by the long list of rolls and unsure of the difference between nigiri and sashimi. Sensing his discomfort, Crowley moved his stool closer to peer at Aziraphale's menu. He explained the ingredients and helped Aziraphale choose two rolls to try, a simple California roll and a more adventurous option containing spicy tuna, eel, and shrimp tempura.

After they'd placed their orders, they chatted about Ovid. When Aziraphale mentioned his next upcoming fencing bout, Crowley was fascinated and peppered him with questions about the swords, postures, and rules until their dinner arrived.

"All right, angel. That green stuff is wasabi, bit like horseradish, kind of spicy. The pink stuff is ginger, you want to eat a bit of that if you switch between rolls. You used chopsticks before?"

When he shook his head no, Crowley cracked a pair apart and took his hand, curling his fingers around each stick and helping him mimic the grabbing motion. Once he'd watched Aziraphale click the chopsticks together a few times in practice, he demonstrated on his own sushi, deftly grabbing a piece, dipping it in soy sauce, and stuffing it into his mouth, chewing with a happy sigh. "Shee, it's eashy," he garbled through his mouthful of fish and rice, cheeks bulging.

"If you say so," Aziraphale replied, looking down at his own plate. After a few tries that destroyed the first piece of sushi, he was able to lean forward and sort of shovel a piece of the spicy roll into his mouth.

"Oh my, that is...heavenly," he said, eyes wide with surprise as he swallowed. "I had no idea raw fish could be this delicious!"

Crowley laughed and crammed more sushi into his own mouth, and Aziraphale followed suit with gusto.


As they pulled up to the dorm, what was left of Aziraphale's nerves morphed into an odd sort of melancholy. The wonderful night was over, and he didn't know when he'd see Crowley again, other than to return his book.

"Hey," Crowley said suddenly, cutting through his thoughts. "D'you want to come over sometime this week, to my place? Nothing special, but we could start your pop culture education with a movie. I could swing by, pick you up?" He looked nervous, and for some strange reason that set Aziraphale at ease.

"That sounds fun, but this week is finals prep, and it's going to be hell. I wish I could. Unless you wouldn't mind if I brought my things over to study first?"

"Y'know what, what're you up to on Tuesday 'round six? The band's coming over that night, so I could come get you and you could finish your homework while we rehearse."

"That would...work perfectly, actually. I'm out of class early that day. See you Tuesday then?"

"Yep. I'll give you a call when I'm headed your way."

As Aziraphale turned to open his door, a tug on his sleeve made him turn back. Crowley had leaned across the seat to grab his jacket.

"Hey, angel, thanks. I had a good night."

The smile Aziraphale gave him was shy but radiant. "Me too. Get home safe, okay? Maybe only ten miles over the speed limit?"

Crowley laughed and let go of his sleeve. "No promises, angel. 'Til Tuesday, then."

"Good night, Crowley."

"G'night, angel."