Chapter Text
Aziraphale felt as if it had been weeks since he last stepped foot in the beautiful campus library, when in reality it had only been a couple of days. Throughout his entire time at the university, the blond hadn’t gone a single day, aside from visits home, without dropping in at least briefly to take in the polished shelves, the arched ceiling, the towering windows. More than his own lodgings, the library felt like home.
Which is why any intrusions were especially irritating.
“Aziraphale!” The booming voice echoed through the quiet space, making multiple pairs of shoulders jump, but none more so than those belonging to the student being called for. With horror, Aziraphale looked up to see Professor Gabriel marching his way over, smile unnaturally white and disconcertingly wide. Aziraphale was usually very careful about finding a spot amongst the stacks where he would be able to see who entered the library long before they would have the chance to spot him. Alas, his separation evidently had dulled his sense.
“Professor,” he responded in a much quieter voice, tossing apologetic looks every which way as the hulk of a man approached. “I’m rather busy at the moment. Is this important?”
“Wouldn’t have come in here to find you if it wasn’t.” All apologetic glances were harshly returned with pointed glares.
Books and papers were already being fit carefully in the worn leather satchel. “Why don’t we find a more private place to speak, then.” Better they head out now before the other students discovered a quiet enough way to commit murder.
Gabriel was already marching back towards the door. For an educator, he had very little regard for the space. The only books he would ever need to consult were the law volumes carefully displayed behind his desk in his office. Anything else was just fluff.
They made their way to the law building, Gabriel’s stride long and quick, leaving Aziraphale huffing after him, still trying to close his over-packed bag. By the time the oak door of the office was closed behind him, Aziraphale was trying desperately to get his breathing under control. He didn’t want to invite-
“You alright there, champ?”
Aziraphale breathed carefully through his nose. “Perfectly.”
“You know, you should really consider spending more time on your feet and less time sitting around studying and, well…” He gestured towards the student’s rounded middle. “You can stand to lose the gut, Aziraphale.” There was a beat, then he gave his student what he must have thought was a teasing smile. “Get it? Stand to lose? That’s funny.”
“Yes, very clever. I’ll keep that in mind.” Aziraphale desperately wanted to take a seat in the straight-backed wooden chair facing the nearly empty oak desk, but Gabriel had yet to take his own slightly higher-backed yet no-less-wooden seat. Hopefully this would be a quick talk.
“So, I’ve heard you’ve been hired on as the new royal tutor for the Prince.”
Aziraphale paused. All of his lecturers, including Gabriel, already knew this, having been informed of the reason for his absence the day before. (With any other student, this would have been unnecessary, but Aziraphale hadn’t missed a single lecture throughout his entire academic career. Administration didn’t want anyone assuming he had died.) So it wasn’t surprising that Gabriel had this information. What was more surprising, and possibly concerning, was his desire to discuss this fact.
Aziraphale decided to proceed with caution. “Yes, yesterday was my first day.”
This response earned a small nod and what was perhaps supposed to be a comforting smile? (It was always difficult deciphering the intention of Gabriel’s smiles through the thin layer of slime that accompanied each one.) “You know, Aziraphale, you’ve been presented with a very unique opportunity here.”
This did not help settle any confusion. Aziraphale’s first thought was the royal library, but the idea of Gabriel being interested in such a thing was laughable.
Gabriel continued, turning to browse his law volumes. “Our Kingdom knows very little about our future King, don’t you think? If it weren’t for his rare and brief public appearances, we wouldn’t even know what he looked like.” Aziraphale couldn’t tell if the professor was perusing his books for dramatic effect or if he was actually looking for something. “We’ve never even heard him speak. In fact,” His finger paused, (ah, actually looking for something), then began tugging a particularly thick tome from the shelf. Aziraphale winced. The poor thing’s binding would never survive if that was how Gabriel removed it from its spot. “no one outside of the palace is allowed to interact with the boy. No one… except his tutor.” Gabriel turned back to face Aziraphale and slammed the book on his desk with a loud bang . “That’s you.”
Aziraphale did his best not to flinch. “Yes. And I take that responsibility very seriously.”
Gabriel smiled at him, and Aziraphale couldn’t even tell what this one was meant to be. It was pure slime. “You’ve had a day to meet him. What do you think?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss-”
“Is he ready? Will he be a good ruler? Will he even be a competent one?”
“That’s not for me to decide.”
“Come on, Aziraphale! You’re a smart cookie! Wouldn’t have gotten the position otherwise.” Was there a trace of bitterness in his tone? “Surely you have a good idea of if he’s capable or not?”
Aziraphale did not like where this conversation was going. “That’s not something I can discern from a single lesson, and he has quite some time to improve.”
Gabriel’s eyes flashed and his smile turned sharp. Aziraphale tried not to shiver too obviously. “So he needs to improve. Not quite kingly material, is he?”
The blond found himself growing very weary of this conversation. “What are you trying to say, Gabriel?” The responding glare felt like a blade to the throat. “Professor,” he corrected quickly.
“My point is, little Aziraphale, that now is the perfect time to get in.”
“In? In where?”
Gabriel tapped a thick finger against his temple. “Into the Prince’s head.”
Aziraphale froze, all fidgeting halted, eyes wide and unblinking. Gabriel, exhibiting an amount of patience Aziraphale previously thought him incapable of, waited for this statement to sink in. They both stood there, one still, one waiting, a desk and a book filling the gap between them. Aziraphale’s eyes began to water, so he blinked. His throat began to stick, so he swallowed. His head began to hurt, so he breathed. “What are you suggesting?”
“Oh, Aziraphale. I’m not suggesting anything. I’m simply pointing something out.” He rounded his desk to stand next to his bemused pupil, clapping a large hand on his soft shoulder. Aziraphale’s feet throbbed. “This Kingdom has been rulerless for over a decade.”
“That’s not true. Queen Beelzebub-”
“Is a woman. Nothing more than a placeholder. Hardly capable of leading a Kingdom as grand as this one. It is called a King dom, afterall.”
Aziraphale wanted to argue. He wanted to point out all of the things that had changed in the last decade. He wanted to talk about the improvements the Queen had made in such a short amount of time. He wanted to remind his Professor of how involved she had been even before her husband’s death. He wanted to refute, but his tongue was stuck in his throat. “This is the Kingdom the Prince will be inheriting. The Prince who, from the looks of it, wouldn’t even be capable of assuming rule over a competently lead Kingdom.”
“Are you saying you want me to influence him? Turn him into nothing more than a figurehead?”
Gabriel scrunched his nose, giving Aziraphale’s shoulder a painful squeeze. “Influence has such… complicated connotations. Think of it more as… guidance. A helping hand.”
Aziraphale tried to swallow but his tongue was still in the way. He took a deep breath, then tried again, this time with slightly more success. His voice came out raspy. “And you want me to be the one to guide him?”
The following chuckle slipped down the blond’s collar like snow, rolling down his spine like a threat. “Aziraphale, Azirapahle,” and the man had never heard so much condescension pumped into his name, “who do you think would be more fit to know what’s best for his people?” Gabriel blessedly released the now bruised shoulder, stepping slowly back to his side of the desk, at last taking a seat in his wooden throne. Aziraphale did not follow suit. “A child who has no self control,” another glance at his soft waist, “and hasn’t even completed his education yet, or a man who knows this land’s laws inside and out, who knows how this world works?” A broad palm came down to rest on the nearly forgotten book. It reminded Aziraphale strangely of a man taking oath.
By some miracle, Aziraphale was able to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Why not the man who has a right to the throne?”
Gabriel looked at him as if he were the most naive poor little lamb that the professor had ever laid eyes on. Like a shepherd looking at the member of his flock that didn’t know to run from the wolf. “That ‘man’,” his fingers curled into quotes, sarcasm dripping from his nails and lips, “has never stepped foot out of the palace walls. Has never spoken to our people or seen our lands. He sends every tutor away after less than a month so he can spend more time sucking on his silver spoon and chasing after the maids. He doesn’t even have the decency to show his face, always hiding behind those childish glasses. He wouldn’t know the first thing about ruling.”
Gabriel’s version of the Prince swaggered over to stand next to Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale’s version who loved the stars, who asked about plants, who answered questions. Aziraphale’s version who’s glasses hid sensitive yet beautifully expressive honey eyes. Aziraphale’s version who snuck out of the palace to see his Kingdom, his people, even if he had to hide to do it. Aziraphale’s version, who called him angel.
He didn’t want Gabriel anywhere near his version.
“What do you need from me, then?”
The show of cooperation clearly pleased the man. He shrugged. “Simple. People seem to like you. You’re easy and soft. Unassuming.” Every description felt like a paper cut. “Get him to trust you. You can do that much, can’t you?”
Knowing there was nothing else he could do, Aziraphale gave a terse nod, spun on his heel, and fled the office.
Something was different today. Crowley was having difficulty figuring out what it was, but there was no denying that there had been a shift. Aziraphale’s voice was still warm, his smile still kind, his hands restless when not being used to point at charts and lists just as they had been two days before. Yet whenever Crowley tried to talk to him as a person rather than just as his tutor, the blond became… hesitant wasn’t the right word. Maybe hesitant’s relative? Or their aggressive neighbor? He couldn’t pinpoint the mood, and every time he thought he almost had it, his tutor would gently steer the subject back to their studies and the name of the change would slip away again. It was infuriating.
Meanwhile, Aziraphale was doing his utmost not to panic.
Throughout the entire lesson, he couldn’t shake the sensation of Gabriel’s grip on his shoulder. How was he expected to do his job satisfactorily if he was trying to juggle a second agenda? And how was this fair to Crowley? If he did want help, shouldn’t he be allowed to choose where that help came from? Shouldn’t his trust be given to those who earned it through pure means?
The thing was, though, Aziraphale did want Crowley to trust him. Desperately. He wanted the Prince to feel comfortable coming to him for consultation or comfort or company. He wanted to be there, for whatever Crowley may need. Was that dishonest? Was he just opening the door for Crowley to be manipulated? Was this a desire born from his tendency to obey?
These two voices crashed and tumbled together, pushing and pulling, causing waves to splash up against the inside of his skull. But underneath the waves ran an undercurrent, quiet and deep, but persistent, asking another question: Does Gabriel have a point?
Aziraphale kept his eyes pointed in Crowley’s direction, allowing for the illusion of attentiveness, but his thoughts wandered back to the arguments his professor had made the day before. Although he disagreed with his disapproval of the Queen’s ruling, Aziraphale couldn’t deny that having her in that position had caused unrest in some parts of the Kingdom. Unrest was not an environment anyone wanted to step into. Crowley was young, and not particularly world-weary, no matter how many forays he made out into the surrounding capitol. Aziraphale thought of the rumors he’d heard, tales of armies of tutors filtering through the palace at unprecedented rates all because the Prince was so difficult. But the man in front of him wasn’t difficult. Everything Aziraphale had seen of the Prince showed him to be thoughtful and caring. Playful, but not cruel. Clever in getting what he wanted.
What he wanted…
The entire ocean hushed. The waves stilled until the surface was mirror smooth, leaving room for an entirely new, entirely unexpected thought.
“Crowley.”
Those tutors wouldn’t have left unless the Prince had wanted them to. So why would he want to chase away his teaching? Not just once, but consistently for over a decade?
The prince looked up from where he was scratching through some arithmetic. “Yeah?”
It wasn’t laziness, Aziraphale could already see that. Crowley wanted to learn.
“I have a question for you.”
The thought of him truly finding every single tutor unsatisfactory over the course of his entire adolescence was unlikely at best. But this was more than a dislike for authority.
“Just a second, I’m still working on these ones.”
This was more than a show of cleverness.
“It’s not an arithmetic question.”
This was more even than a statement against an unbalanced education.
“Oh. Curious about me, are you?”
This was a cry for help.
“Do you want to be King?”
Crowley said nothing for a long moment. His jaw had gone slack and the pencil he’d been writing with was sliding out of his loose grip, drawing a haphazard trail across crooked equations. Aziraphale waited patiently.
On the other side of the table, Crowley was experiencing what he was sure it must feel like to have his brain yanked out and flopped roughly back into place. A necessary action, seeing as his ears were clearly malfunctioning. Some harried assistant was trying to figure out how to make the grey lump fit again, unsure of what connected where. An image of Anathema’s new guard friend frantically digging through a brain manual and pushing things around with a long forefinger seemed to be the only thing Crowley could come up with. Eventually, slowly, Brain Assistant Newt had some success. Functions started returning. There was breathing, then blinking. Hands followed, finding the ability to put down the pencil. Swallowing had a couple false starts before powering back up. Finally, the voice reconnected. It was given a small test to check usefulness and resulted only in a small cough. Some more swallowing, more blinking. Fingers were wiggling, nose was sniffing. Yes, things seemed roughly in order. Go ahead and try that speaking thing again.
“What?” Test two showed some roughness, but results were otherwise positive.
“I asked if you wanted to be King.”
Oh. That is what he said.
“Right.” No, Brain Assistant Newt, we are not going through that again. “Right.”
“I’m sorry, I suppose that’s not something you just ask the-”
“No, no.” He had seen right, that first time on the street when he had looked over and seen a halo. He’d been right to call him angel. A true angel, hiding in plain sight. “It’s fine, it’s just… no one’s ever asked me that before.”
“Well that’s a pity, although I can’t say I’m surprised.” And there was that shift again, heavier now than it had been all day. Hesitance and… guilt? That couldn’t be right. Angels couldn’t do anything to feel guilty about. “It’s only that, I can’t seem to come up with a reason why you would work so hard to make yourself unprepared to take the throne, unless you didn’t want to take it in the first place.”
And that was it, wasn’t it? Some small part of him was still holding out hope that if he was enough of a nuisance, enough of a disappointment, they would refuse him what was supposedly his. If he couldn’t deny his crown, he could at least make it so it wasn’t offered to him.
But he’d promised Anathema. He’d promise that he’d try this time. He couldn’t disappoint her.
And, despite all his practice, despite the plan years in the making, despite his desperate desire to dodge the weight of an entire Kingdom… he didn’t want to disappoint Aziraphale either.
“It doesn’t matter, does it?”
That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say. “Of course it matters! Whyever should you think that your wants don’t matter?”
Aziraphale’s indignation was never something Crowley wanted to be faced with, let alone have directed at him. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to ignore the very fetching shade of pink of his tutor’s cheeks in favor of defending himself. “They never have, Aziraphale. I’m lucky I even get to dress myself, and that took years of convincing.”
It felt like something was stuck in Aziraphale’s throat. He watched as the Prince ran his hands through his hair, pulling it back from his face before releasing it again. He had the air about him of someone who was trying to explain to a child that the world didn’t work Like That. Aziraphale tried not to let it break his heart.
“It doesn’t matter that I don’t want to rule. It doesn’t matter that I don’t want to marry Anathema. It doesn’t matter that I don’t want to be treated like a prisoner.”
If he was so against taking this role, maybe he would welcome someone else taking over. Maybe some ‘guidance’ could help loosen the tension in his brow, convince his pinched lips to smirk in the way they so often did. Maybe this could actually be the right thing to do.
Crowley’s chuckle interrupted Aziraphale’s musings. It wasn’t the kind of chuckle that the blond had already started growing accustomed to, the one that reminded him vaguely of the stories his father used to tell him about the fae. No. This one sounded like dead grass being trod underfoot; dry, flat, still. He didn’t flinch, but it was a close thing.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” asked the Prince, and Aziraphale had the distinct impression that he said ‘ironic’ when what he wanted to say was ‘sad’. “Supposed to be the most powerful person in the Kingdom. Have all this control over its people and its lands and everything. And the one thing I’ll never have control over, is my own life.”
He looked up and oh, how Aziraphale wished he would take off his glasses, let him see those shockingly bright eyes again, let him watch the emotions flicker through them. “And nothing will change when I take over. I’ll still be told where to go, what to say, how many fucking heirs to help produce.” This last statement was followed by a sneer, lips pulled back in disgust and indignation, eyes turned away again to glare at someone far away. Aziraphale flinched at the curse, but now was not the time for corrections in etiquette. “I won’t even get to choose who my advisors are. They’ll be found and assigned for me, because apparently deciding who will assist me on making major, possibly life altering decisions is below my position.”
Advisors. Aziraphale had completely forgotten about advisors. If Gabriel was so set on being a voice for the King, couldn’t he advise?
“How would one go about becoming an advisor, if that was something they wanted to do?”
If Crowley found this an odd question, he didn’t let it show. “Well, it’s tough to become an advisor on purpose. We do that deliberately. You know, so it’s harder for power-hungry people to worm their way in just for the chance to get near the throne. Which I still find incredibly hypocritical, but whatever. Advisors essentially are brought in for their expertise, so it kinda depends on what expertise the King needs at the time.”
“What kind of expertise would the King need?” How often would he need legal help? he wanted to ask. Would he ever need my help? he was too afraid to wonder.
“Like I said, it depends. A few years ago, for example, when we had the crop shortage? They brought in the most successful farmers from different regions around the kingdom, the head of the capitol’s soup kitchen, and I think there was an economist or something. They helped the Queen figure out how to make the low yield last long enough until the weather picked back up.”
Aziraphale blinked. He remembered the shortage. He’d spent a great deal of those two years wandering the nearby woods, looking for blackberries and checking snares for rabbits. A few months in, new food had started showing up in the markets. Crackers and dried fruits and pickled vegetables that he hadn't recognized. Limits had been put on how much food anyone could buy in one trip. A few months after that, papers had started coming with the food deliveries, recipes and tips on how to stretch certain ingredients, what to make with food just this side of spoiled. New storage methods had started cropping up around town. Everything was done to waste as little food as possible. It wasn’t until the last six months that they were forced to ration. Even in his small southern village, Aziraphale had heard rumors that the palace was rationing as well, eating no more than anyone else in the Kingdom. It was only one example of their Queen’s competence.
"So, they just pick whoever happens to be the best in their field at the time?"
The question was followed by a string of sounds that were most certainly not words as Crowley tilted his head from side to side. "Not really sure about the process. Like I said, not my job. You could probably ask Anathema, she's supposed to be a bit more involved in all that. And I mean, at least I know she won't fuck me over." His brows crinkled, but the scowl paired with it was a much more welcome version. "Well, I don't think she would. She can be kind of a shit sometimes but at least she takes this stuff seriously."
"It's good that you have her." It was more than Aziraphale could ever hope to have.
A strange look passed over Crowley's features, like he wanted to say something but knew better. He returned to his default smirk. "Yeah, she's great."
A gentle quiet settled back over the two. Crowley continued to scratch away at his equations and Aziraphale sat and contemplated. He knew that he was in the minority when it came to having freedom to choose his career, that his father was one of few who listened to his child, who wanted the best for him. But to grow up in an environment where even expressing those wants felt impossible, he couldn’t imagine.
Oh, wait.
“Crowley, what do you want?”
The Prince’s head snapped up to look at his tutor, all wide eyes and open expression, curls framing his round cheeks. To kiss you , his mind supplied. To crawl over this desk and kiss you senseless and sit in your lap and put my hands on you and feel your hands on me and maybe show you to my quarters and see what your curls look like against my dark sheets. He really, really hoped the blond couldn’t see the blush he could feel burning down his neck. After successfully keeping himself from swallowing his tongue, he allowed his mouth to make words. “What do I want?”
“Yes. You’ve done a great deal of expressing what it is that you don’t want, but I didn’t hear you say what you do want.” Aziraphale didn’t know why he was asking. He didn’t know what he hoped the Prince would say. What could a Prince possibly want that he would be able to give?
“Oh. I guess I didn’t say.” He had been taught not to, a long time ago. The only one who ever asked was Anathema, and it was usually more in context of lunch plans. Anathema, and strange men in dark rooms who thought his name was Anthony. “Kind of a loaded question, don’t you think?”
“I think you’re avoiding answering it.”
Maybe because I’m trying to think of an answer that doesn’t include you. “It’s not a question I’m used to being asked.”
The blue eyes softened, followed by a tentative smile. “Then I will endeavor to amend that fact as best I can.”
And wouldn’t that be something, to have this angel ask after his desires not once, but regularly. Regularly enough for him to get used to it. Maybe regularly enough for him to become brave enough to answer truthfully. “And I will endeavor to, one day, have an answer.”
Crowley turned back to his work. He had been just about done and used his pencil to scribble the last string of numbers on the page. “I’m finished with this, by the way.”
Aziraphale took the paper handed to him and glanced it over. His eyebrows slowly rose, threatening to disappear into his cloud of curls. “Crowley… this is quite advanced.” His head swiveled between the paper and the book propped open on his lap. “I told you that you could start with some simple formulas.”
“Yeah, well,” the Prince scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish, “this is pretty simple for me.”
His tutor finally tore his eyes from the numbers and blinked up at his student. “I’m afraid I’m not going to be much help in this regard. This is the one subject I’ve always had trouble with.” He glanced back down at Crowley’s chicken scratch handwriting, a characteristic that Aziraphale was sure was both purposeful and spiteful, before returning his attention to the Prince. “Who taught you this?”
The neck-scratching was joined by some cheek-reddening, and the blond couldn’t help but think that it was rather adorable. “Um, me? I guess? I found some books in the library when I was twelve or so and kind of, just, started learning it that way. Didn’t keep any one else around long enough to really take a crack at it, so I figured I would do it myself.”
“Why? I mean, why arithmetic?”
The Prince shrugged, and if he could have hidden in his shirt, he would have. “Dunno, I like numbers. They don’t lie about what they are, you know? Don’t have to read between the lines to know what you’re getting at. It’s just… it is what it is, I guess. Always liked that kind of freedom.”
Aziraphale wondered how free he felt when he snuck out of the palace, when he wore a disguise and used a different name. He wondered if he felt more like himself as Prince Crowley, or as Anthony. He wondered what he would see if the person sitting across from him didn’t have to pretend to be either.
The arithmetic book was gently closed and placed up on the desk. “I wish you had been around when I was taking my course. I probably would have suffered a great deal fewer long nights if I had had your help.” The tutor tried not to think too hard about any other reasons he might have wanted the Prince around back then.
Crowley, on the other hand, was using every ounce of self control he could muster to keep himself from explaining that, if they had known each other back then, and Crowley had had his way, there would have been a great deal of long nights, hopefully free of any arithmetic or anything else studious. Because then Aziraphale would look up at him, cheeks flushed and eyes scandalized, and Crowley would surely explode.
Instead, he said, “Right. So, philosophy?”