The dormitories weren't far from Madame Tracy's business - or, perhaps, businesses would be more appropriate, since she was entrepreneurial enough to run more than one - but Aziraphale couldn't help feeling that it was far too lovely a day for him to spend it inside. Instead, he found a bench - old-fashioned, with shiny wood despite weathering the elements and scrolled armrests that were remarkably comfortable - and settled down, pulling the book from his bag and resting it on his lap.

The cover was gorgeous. Unlike the shiny, glossy textbooks he'd seen the other students carrying - the ones resting, tantalising, on the other students' desks during that first class period - Anathema's was sturdier and more antiquated. The cover was a deep green, slightly worn with use but well-preserved nonetheless, and it was covered in geometric gilding. The title was written with the same gold, the lettering gorgeous but hardly of recent craftsmanship, and Aziraphale couldn't deny that his fingers were tingling as they pressed against the cover.

It was positively stunning.

He still couldn't help a slight flare of guilt at how he got it - he would have to find a way to thank Anathema, and a way to both thank and apologise to Crowley - but he fought that back as best he could. If he was going to prove he was serious, he'd have to memorise the thing, cover to cover.

– – –

The problem with trying to memorise the book, Aziraphale decided, was that there was just so much. Every page was absolutely covered in words, and even dividing them into two columns did little to help with streamlining the process of reading, or with the staggering act of trying to learn it all. Aziraphale could certainly appreciate the mechanics of the writing - the author, Agnes Nutter, was great, even if she had a tendency towards slightly archaic sentence structure - but the information was hyper-specific and harder to retain.

Thankfully, the Latin words - of which there were so many that the pages looked more italicised than not - were generally self-explanatory, at least when taken in combination with his knowledge of roots and prefixes and suffixes. The rest, though… It would take a miracle.

– – –

"Aziraphale?" The word - name - sounded distinctly unhappy. It also sounded remarkably familiar.

He folded his book closed anyway and looked up. Gabriel was, as usual, dressed with the sartorial flair of a men's dress catalogue, and equally well put-together. He didn't look as vapidly attractive as those models did, though; intelligence was clearly visible behind purple irises, even if every ounce of it was being funnelled into an expression of vague dislike. His mother would probably have been proud.

The smile came easily nonetheless, quiet and subdued but still somewhat genuine. "Gabriel."

"You're… still here, then." The expression on Gabriel's face didn't flicker, but his words sounded half appraising and half confused. "I thought you'd be heading home by now."

The second smile was much less genuine. "Ah." A shake of the head. "No. I'm not."

Gabriel pursed his lips, annoyance tingeing the magazine-glossy smile. "You're staying then?"

"Well, yes. Of course." The temptation to wring his hands rose ever higher, but Aziraphale kept one hand firmly on the book and the other firmly in his lap. The pads of his finger stroked gently against the green leather. "I attend university here. I can't leave yet."

"Right, but we both know you're not cut out for this." An expression flickered across Gabriel's face then, like the thought he might have been just a bit too harsh. "Look. Ezra-"

The strength of will it took to interrupt was remarkable. "It's Aziraphale."

"Y- what?"

"Aziraphale," he said again. "My name."

He had never seen Gabriel flabbergasted, but he couldn't help thinking that the expression on the man's face as he processed the words might be the closest he'd come to doing so.

It didn't last long, glorious though it might have been. "Right. Anyway, as I was saying. We both know this isn't going to last. I know you like your…" He gestured, fingers twirling as he indicated the book in Aziraphale's lap. "Books." The disturbed disinterest in his voice was almost painful. "But this is different. Law is different. You're just… not cut out for this," he said again. His voice hardened. "You're soft."

Aziraphale wasn't sure he actually responded. He'd intended to say a soft, quiet right, barely loud enough to be heard, but his voice also gave out in the process. It might not even have been that loud.

"And look, about Michael…"

"I don't care about that," Aziraphale said, lying.

Gabriel definitely looked taken aback by that, though Aziraphale derived no joy from that sight. "Oh. Okay, then. Good. Glad we're on the same page."

"We are." They weren't. Or, well… they weren't mostly on the same page. They did, however, agree on one thing: "And I look forward to working with you."

A blink, marring Gabriel's usually perfect façade. "You what?" Recognition dawned. "You're going for Morningstar's internship."

Aziraphale nodded. "Of course." He laughed, and told himself that it sounded stronger than the weak, half-hearted little thing he heard. "Isn't everyone?"

"Right. Exactly?" The question was quite definitively rhetorical. And also, slightly passive-aggressive. "Everyone wants that internship." He waited a moment before continuing, looking vaguely like he couldn't believe Aziraphale hadn't put together his point yet. "I mean, you do know you're not going to get it, right?"

A shrug, and Aziraphale prayed it wasn't filled with the quiet defeat he was feeling. "Is it… so unbelievable?"

Gabriel's laugh was, for once, not calculated; rather, it was a wild thing, wrenched out in a bursting gale of sound. And then he realised that Aziraphale was actually asking and quieted, the mirth still lurking at the corners of his expression. "Yes," he said flatly. "Yes, Ezra."

"Aziraphale."

A flicker of something in Gabriel's expression. "Right. Whatever." He turned. "I've tried. Goodbye, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale watched until the tall, grey stripe of overcoat vanished into the crowd before losing the battle against breaking down.