After his classes on Tuesday, Aziraphale went to the library to make photocopies of the remaining primary source texts for his theology essay. The hum and flash of the Xerox machine lulled him with its repetition and his mind wandered.

Brian had, of course, questioned him about his evening when he'd gotten back, but Aziraphale had remained mum—even when Heather joined the interrogation and began suggesting girls she'd seen him interact with in any capacity over the months. After, barely able to speak through her laughter, she suggested the rather grumpy mailroom director (who was at least old enough to be his mother), he'd finally sighed and admitted it was Crowley he'd invited to the garden to repay him for loaning him a book. He wasn't quite sure why he hadn't wanted to tell them he was spending time with Crowley in the first place. He tried to tell himself it was because of his conversation with Brian the other day, but that wasn't really it.

"Whoa, Crowley?" Brian asked, eyebrows shooting up to practically disappear under his hairline. "Is that why you were asking about him last week?"

"Yes, I spoke with him at the party, and he loaned me a book I decided to use for my theology paper," Aziraphale explained. "I, er, thought I'd repay the favor." (Not a date, his mind helpfully supplied, and Aziraphale told it to shush.)

"Look at you, hanging out with the local badass!" Heather interjected, slinging an arm around Aziraphale's shoulder and rustling his hair. "Well, the other local badass. I'm obviously the local badass."

"Hey man, about what I told you...I hope I didn't cause any problems. I'm sure he's a nice dude. It's good to see you making some new friends, y'know?" Brian said, embarrassment plain in his normally placid expression.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Aziraphale replied, the heat warming his face belying his nonchalant tone. "I've run into him a few times, that's all."

After that, the conversation had turned to talk of finals—Heather's exhibit that would be a large portion of her total credit for her Introduction to Multimedia course, Brian's essay that was giving him trouble, and Aziraphale's upcoming fencing tournament.

The Xerox beeped a reminder, startling Aziraphale out of his reverie. He gathered his copies and bag and made his way towards the library exit, stopping at the front desk to thank Anathema again, profusely. He promised to tell her more about the gardens but excused himself to make sure he had time to grab dinner before Crowley picked him up. Before she could reply, he beat a hasty retreat. (If there was one downside to having friends, it was the growing number of people who were suddenly quite interested in his personal life. It was...a bit unsettling, if he was being honest. Unsettling, but also endearing.)

After a quick meal of fish and chips, Aziraphale packed the rest of his supplies in his bag and watered Oscar Wilde before heading down to sit on the steps of the building.

Outside, he burrowed his face into his scarf, warming his face with his breath as he waited for Crowley in the chilly twilight. After a few minutes, he got up to jostle some warmth back into his legs, cramming his hands into his coat pockets and doing a hopping, wobbling dance to heat up. A few cars passed, but none of them were Crowley, so he ignored them and kept moving.

And then, when he bobbled back forward, Crowley's car was there...and Crowley was watching him from inside, biting his lip to keep from laughing.

Feigning ignorance that the deep blush he felt on his cheeks could be from anything but the cold, Aziraphale grabbed his bag and sat carefully in the passenger seat, a study in aloofness.

Crowley chewed his lip silently for another moment, then choked out, "Got a bug in your britches?" before dissolving into laughter.

"Hmph," Aziraphale replied, brushing imaginary dust from his coat sleeve. "It's cold out there, thank you." Crowley just wiped away tears of mirth from under his sunglasses.

On the drive, Crowley told him about the show that The Doomsday Option was rehearsing for: a Battle of the Bands charity fundraiser at one of the largest venues in the city. The band had never played there before, but apparently Steve knew one of the A/V technicians. Aziraphale listened intently, his gaze resting on Crowley until he grew too self-aware and looked back out of the windshield. But inevitably, his eyes slid back over, usually to find Crowley looking at him instead of the road, and Aziraphale would flap a hand forward in admonishment to pay attention to driving.


Aziraphale drummed his ballpoint pen on his notebook, filled with crisp handwritten notes highlighted in a rainbow of colors and organized with matching sticky tabs that stuck out at the edges of the pages. He'd made good progress with the photocopies from earlier, organizing most of them into the different sections of his essay. The one he was busy reviewing was a wealth of useful information on comparing the concept of sacrifice and good works between the Greek mythos and the Bible, and he'd filled nearly four pages of his notebook with quotes.

When the grandfather clock at the end of the library toned out the half hour, Aziraphale stood for a good, back-cracking stretch. Crowley had given him directions to the basement studio, and he could use a break, so he closed his notebook and padded down the hall, trying to remember if it was left or right at the end.

He must have chosen the wrong door, because he rounded a corner to discover that he'd found his way to the kitchen. And sitting at the counter, glass of red wine in hand, was a woman.

"Oh! I beg your pardon, I was looking for the studio," he babbled out when the woman's green-eyed gaze landed on him.

"Who are you?" she asked bluntly, her sharp tone belying the looseness of her wrist as it swirled the wine in her glass, gold charm bracelets tinkling against each other. Her soft white sweater and pleated pants looked tremendously expensive, and her rich red hair was expertly styled.

"Aziraphale, it's a pleasure to meet you. You're Crow- Anthony's mother?" he asked, though he already knew the answer just from the familiar shade of her hair.

"Oh, you're the one who called the other night. Well," Helena Crowley said, holding out a thin, manicured hand for him to grasp in greeting, "you're not the kind of friend he usually has over."

"My roommate is a friend of Chuck's," Aziraphale stuttered, not sure what she was saying.

"Oh, that Chuck. Thick as thieves when they were younger, those two. And now this band…" She rolled her eyes as she took a sip of wine. "You aren't in a band, are you? Or," she sniffed, "some kind of groupie?"

"N-no, Mrs. Crowley. I'm studying theology at the college."

"Really?" Her eyebrows raised as she studied him more closely. "Well. That's certainly new."

Before he could reply, she glanced down at the gold watch on her wrist. "I have to run, my car will be here in half an hour." She stood and pointed towards a door across the room. "Go through there to the end of the hall, then take the door on the left. Go all the way downstairs and through the door at the very end of the hall, and you'll find the studio."

"Thank you, Mrs. Crowley," he replied, but she just waved a hand and murmured "call me Helena" as she left.

With a renewed set of instructions, he made it to the studio without too much effort. He found himself inside a glass-walled sound booth, surrounded by control boards covered in buttons and dials. Crowley, Chuck, and the rest of the band were in the next room, its walls draped with sound-proof covering and its floor covered with heavy rugs under snaking black cords. Unnoticed, he watched as they discussed something, gesturing at the drums and peering at ragged notebooks.

His gaze was drawn to Crowley, sporting a baggy black tank top and a bun that kept his hair from his face, except a few wavy strands that had escaped—and, of course, his sunglasses. A bead of moisture ran down the side of his face ever-so-slowly as Aziraphale watched, until he wiped his forehead with the back of an arm.

Aziraphale bit his lip and felt his trousers start to become uncomfortably tight again. He shuffled, trying to adjust, but the movement caught Crowley's eye and the other man looked up. Aziraphale waved awkwardly and sent up a silent prayer that the booth's equipment was tall enough to hide the state of, well, his equipment at the moment.

When he felt safe moving, he made his way into the recording space. "Hey there, you fellas remember Aziraphale?" Crowley said by way of introduction as the band gathered their equipment. The others nodded and waved, and they all chatted amicably as they made their way back upstairs to where Chuck and the others had parked. (Aziraphale offered to help them carry some equipment and ended up lugging an amp up two floors, earning him his first-ever fist bump.) As the cars rolled out, Crowley blew dramatic air kisses at them until they disappeared down the hill.

He led Aziraphale back inside, with a request to meet back in the kitchen after he'd taken a quick shower and Aziraphale had gathered up his supplies from the library. Crowley disappeared up the stairs in the main hall, leaving Aziraphale to wander back to collect his books and notes.

It wasn't until he was almost finished that his brain helpfully supplied an image of Crowley naked, covered in soapy lather amid a steam-filled shower. Both aroused and shamefully embarrassed, he shook the thought from his head and concentrated on finding his way back to the kitchen without getting lost. He didn't know how Crowley and his family successfully navigated the place; perhaps he could get Crowley to draw him a map, the next time he visited. If (or when...) there was a next time.

He'd just sat on one of the stools at the counter when Crowley came in, damp hair slicked back and clinging to his nape. He was wearing a quite fitted grey long-sleeve t-shirt with the sleeves pushed up to bunch at his elbows.

"Gah, that's much better," Crowley said as he combed a hand through his hair and padded barefoot over to a cupboard. "If it's okay, I'll just make one big, giant bowl of popcorn for us to share. I can eat my weight in the stuff."

"Yes, that's fine," Aziraphale replied. "Can I help with anything?"

Making a noise of triumph when his rummaging uncovered the popcorn, Crowley pointed to the refrigerator. "Grab us some drinks, yeah? Whatever 's fine for me."

It wasn't until the kernels were pinging loudly against the sides of the enormous stew pot on the stove that Aziraphale mentioned his earlier encounter.

"So, um, I met your mother earlier…" he said. "She seems pleasant. You two look quite a bit alike."

"Shit," Crowley replied with a grimace. "Ah, the lovely Helena Crowley. Wealthy socialite with no interests beyond spending money and nourishing her, well, semi-functional alcoholism. She didn't give you the third degree, did she? Might actually make it seem like she cared about who her son's spending time with."

"Crowley," Aziraphale admonished, "she's your mother, be kind."

"Oh, I am," he replied as he scooped out popped kernels into one of the biggest mixing bowls Aziraphale had ever seen, shaking the pot to encourage the rest to finish up. "If she was such a good mother, she might actually take my side every—er, sorry." He halted, looking away with a frown.

"No, it's all right," Aziraphale replied. "Really. I'm in training to listen to strangers' troubles. It's the least I can do for a friend."

"Look, it's just, clearly my father and I don't get along, and she doesn't like to get in the middle of it, which usually means I get left high and dry in the maternal support department," Crowley said with a sigh. "But I must sound so up my own arse to you, with your mom, well…"

"Oh. I didn't even think...it's all right, really. I don't mind."

He hadn't told Crowley everything, just that he had been three years old when his mother, Mariah, had died after complications giving birth to his sister Ruth. He remembered her laugh, deeper and more gravelly than expected, and the smell of lilacs from her perfume, but the memory of her face was lost to time. When he looked at the few photos his father had of her, he didn't recognize the smiling woman in them. Not in that instinctive, deep-rooted way that said mother and safety and home. But when he said prayers, he always said hello to her, and hoped her soul was at peace.

"Still...ah, well, no one's ever accused moi of being the most tactful person in the room. Believe that honor goes to you currently. C'mon, let's go pick out a movie. You're going to love the theater."

"Of course there's a theater," Aziraphale murmured to himself, but Crowley caught his comment and laughed, balancing the giant bowl of popcorn as they made their way back downstairs.

The room was den-sized and cavernous, a large projector screen at the end faced by an enormous couch at the front and two rows of plush, theater-style seats. Equally impressive was the wall of row upon row of video cassettes in colorful paper cases. After setting down their snacks on the couch, they made their way over to peruse their options. Aziraphale recognized none of the titles, other than a recorded version of The Nutcracker.

"Soooo, I'm going to make some suggestions, since I've seen most of these at least once and no doubt you're overwhelmed by the options," Crowley said, dragging a finger over the VHS cases with a thoughtful hum. "Lessee, nothing too gory, nothing with too many tits…" After a few more moments of perusal, he grabbed three movies and showed them to Aziraphale.

"All right, we have Blade Runner, a personal favorite. Very artistic but a bit gloomy. Die Hard, a fabulous action flick but perhaps, ehhhh, a bit more appropriate for Christmas, depending on who you ask. And third: Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, a near-perfect comedic buddy flick about time travel in a phone booth and history and being in a band. Soft spot in my shriveled little heart for ol' Bill and Ted too."

Much to Crowley's delight, Aziraphale opted for Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure, and soon they were watching the wayward slackers' journey to find historical figures for their presentation or risk dire consequences. Aziraphale munched popcorn happily, not even minding when Crowley interrupted to explain certain references or laugh at his favorite parts.

There, in the cocoon of the dark room with Crowley, he forgot about his impending deadlines and the anxiety of budding friendship and the long-ignored weight of his father's imperative to help combat sin in this new place. Instead, he ate popcorn and risked glances at Crowley where he sprawled across the other end of the couch like he'd never sat in furniture before, and he was content.