Chapter Text
As it turned out, the Business Department building was conveniently at the center of the campus. The old, imposing façade of the building towered over the neighboring dorms, tall spires nearly touching the sky. It was impossible to miss to the human eye, but Crowley could feel it from miles off; it radiated so much sin Crowley was nearly swamped with it.
Tax fraud, embezzlement, nasty scandals with secretaries; this building had it all.
It was almost funny that he was here for a Christmas gift-exchange, of all things. He made a mental note to do some tempting here at some point – not that the humans even needed his help, at this point.
He sauntered in through one of the ornate wooden doors, and made his way to what he assumed was the help desk. A woman in her mid-fifties looked up at him through thin wire lenses disapprovingly. She looked more bookish than even Aziraphale (not that he would ever say that out loud; Aziraphale was proud of his title as “Most Unbearably Bookish Staff Member”).
“I’m looking for the gift exchange… drawing… thing,” Crowley stated eloquently. The woman scowled, looking through her papers.
“So, it’s you that’s been holding up the planning,” the woman accused, scowling harder as she handed him a thin piece of paper. “everyone else has got theirs already. The staff’s been worried somebody would be without a gift.”
Crowley nodded in thanks before turning to leave, slightly smug smile on his face. Causing trouble without even trying! – damn, he was good. Well, bad. Whatever.
He was out the door before he got the paper unfolded, holding it up in the thin daylight. In plain writing, it read; “Mr. Aziraphale, Librarian.” Followed by smaller print, “Degree in Library Sciences, Enjoys Old Books and Good Food. Self-Proclaimed Connoisseur of Wine.”
Crowley stopped dead in his tracks. A business student cursed at him, stepping around Crowley before shoulder-checking him as he walked past. Crowley didn’t care, too busy rereading the short description.
He was fucked. In his mind, he cursed the universe for trying so dreadfully hard to force Aziraphale into his life – not that the proximity wasn’t appreciated, but did it have to be such a try-hard? Wasn’t condemning Crowley as a demon enough? Wasn’t stationing him on Earth enough? Wasn’t assigning him as a bloody teacher enough? He cursed God – and Hastur – for this whole mess.
Crowley was a comet and Aziraphale is the star that he was coaxed to dance around. He was minding his own business and bam! – he was caught in the gravity of this human who keeps appearing where he least expects it. Like God herself knocked him off his path like a billiard ball, right into the arms of Aziraphale.
There was no choice but to go shopping. With a huff, he finally moved from his place rooted on the concrete to make his way to the Bentley. Shopping. Not just shopping, Christmas Shopping. Celebrating the birth of the son of God. Sure, he knew the guy – cool dude, played the lute before it was cool – but the spirit of the holiday just wasn’t for him.
Well, the commercialism of the holiday was his idea… he supposed that this whole situation was his own fault, in some convoluted way. And office Christmas parties… all the bad parts of Christmas were all him.
He reconciled himself on the drive to an unbearably festive shopping mall, that perhaps he wasn’t celebrating Christmas and getting a meaningful gift for someone he cares about: he was furthering materialism’s grip on society by providing unsuspecting mortals with societally-required gifts. Yes, that’s it. Very evil.
Truly the work of a demonic mastermind.
Then he began to ponder the best way to further consumerism in his fellow party-goer. Red wine or white? Food was a no-go, with being perishable and all that. Books, then? He owned so many books, how would Crowley know what to get him?
Sure, he’d looked through the entire library – multiple times, he might add – but Aziraphale might’ve gotten new books over the past month. Who is to say that the copy of The Grapes of Wrath that was noticeably lacking before hadn’t already miraculously appeared on his shelves?
Crowley felt like putting his head through the wall. Why did this have to be so difficult? A song prominently featuring sleigh bells played from speakers somewhere overhead, seemingly mocking Crowley’s distress. Goddamn seasonal cheer.
Aziraphale’s style was too specific for Crowley to purchase something for him, so clothes were out the window. There was nothing on this Earth Crowley could give Aziraphale that he didn’t already own –
Then suddenly it hit him. There were books salvaged from Alexandria that humans had never even heard of.
But Crowley had saved them. Of course, they were precious to the demon; the last remnants of a place he had loved – but surely, he could part with one copy. Especially since he had copied them onto more stable material years ago.
He would still have the stories. Just the bound paper itself would be gone.
He considered this a right brilliant idea.
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Facing his bookshelf, he thumbed through one of his least favorite stories saved from Alexandria. It was in miraculously good condition, though still worn with thousands of years of wear and tear. Aziraphale would live this.
With care, he wrapped the novel with linen before placing it into a cardboard box lined with wrapping paper. The design was a white, minimalistic snowflake pattern – nothing too colorful or Christ-related. It was perfect, labeled with a dainty, “To: Mr. Aziraphale.”
He was debating about including a “From: ____” signature when his phone rang, nearly shocking him out of his skin (which was possible, considering his snake heritage). He picked it up from his desk, answering with, “Professor A. Crowley, who’s calling?”
“It’s Aziraphale dear, I was wondering what time you’ll be picking me up for the party on Saturday?”
That was two days away.
“Oh, I don’t know. Around six o’clock, maybe?” Crowley answered in a questioning tone. “They want us there by six, there’s no need to be early.”
A pause over the line.
“That sounds perfectly alright, dear. Fashionably late.”
“Being there ten minutes after the allotted time isn’t late, Angel,” Crowley laughed, mind completely unaware of the pet name. “I’ll see you then. I went shopping for the exchange-gift today, the person will love it.”
Aziraphale made a noncommittal “Hmph,” over the phone, mind reeling from the usage of the word “angel.”
Crowley didn’t notice, and bid goodbye none the wiser.