Chapter Text
Aziraphale was alone on the university street, walking one of the more obscure pathways between the ancient towers the school was known for. A chill seeped through his heavy trench coat, the oatmeal colored material shifting across his legs as he sped up his pace. The air was harsh, and the clouds promised to shiver out the first flakes of snow before the night was through. Street lamps hung from the drab stone walls of the library, illuminating the otherwise pitch-dark surroundings.
His breath misted in front of him, his skin begging for warmth as he removed his hands from his pockets, turning an old, brass key in his palms. He turned the lock swiftly, practically jumping through the doorway when he got it open.
It was far too cold for any reasonable person to be out and about. Aziraphale had a mission to accomplish: retrieve his copy of Emily Dickinson's Poems. He had intended to bring it home, but his mind failed him. He swore he'd forget his own head, had it not been attached to his shoulders.
He turned on an old desk lamp, illuminating the central room in a warm glow. There was no need to turn on all the lights: he knew the layout of this place like the back of his hand. Aged covers marked the walls of the large space, two stories high and shining with ornate designs and dyes from foreign lands. The air was still, silence broken only by the echo of Aziraphale's footsteps.
He approached the left wing of the building, the tall ceilings allowing the second floor to share the same air as the first. The room was divided by bookshelves snaking across the lower floor, creating a maze of classic literature and foreign texts. The second floor looked over the entire space, curved in a halo that followed the walls. A great chandelier hung in the middle of the space, though it remained dark as he opened the door to his private office.
The book laid right where he had left it, perched upon his desk next to an unwashed tea glass. Aziraphale huffed, picking up the worn novel.
He froze. There was a thump behind him, followed by a sharp intake of breath. Aziraphale turned slowly, shuffling quietly to look out from behind the heavy wooden door, hiding himself behind it. He narrowed his eyes, looking into the near-dark room. He couldn't see anything.
"Hello?" He called, voice wavering. He gazed suspiciously around the space, looking for any sign of movement. "Is anyone there?"
Another thump answered him, followed by a quiet, hissed curse. Aziraphale startled, jumping slightly from where he stood. He wasn’t quite as alone as he had hoped.
"Are you alright?" Aziraphale questioned, eyes following to the source of the noise. His hands shook where they rested on the door. "I know you're in here, whoever you are."
"I know I shouldn't be in here," a voice answered in an almost sullen tone. Aziraphale thought for a moment, mind racing. The fact that the voice answered instead of immediately murdering him was a good sign, but the fact that someone was in here at all was troubling.
"That does not answer my question," he decided on saying, putting on a voice more confident than his own. "Obviously you should not be in here. But I'm glad we are on the same page, regardless."
The voice chuckled in the darkness. "I'm all right, but these books might not be," the voice paused, "maybe you should turn on a light, there's no use talking in darkness."
Aziraphale was taken aback. While the order was reasonable enough, an unwelcome guest had no business ordering him around. A retort threatened to leave his tongue, but politeness won out. He sighed, walking to turn on the chandelier.
He flinched at the sudden light that illuminated the room, eyes adjusting as he looked upon the intruder standing on the second-floor overhang, leaning against the black wire fencing. He wore a black trench coat (which looked more like a suit jacket than a winter jacket) that hung loose off his shoulders and dark sunglasses, he looked strikingly different than what he had expected.
Instead of a bored student looking for rule-breaking trouble, a red-haired man well past schooling age stared back at him, a teacher's badge clipped to the lapel of his jacket. He looked down at Aziraphale, flashing an awkward but polite smile.
"I'm truly sorry about this, but I've knocked some books over," the man said after a moment, knocking Aziraphale out of his haze. He realized that he had been staring at the man blankly since turning the light on. In his defense, there was a lot to take in.
"Oh, that's perfectly all right," Aziraphale said quickly, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. "You must know, however, that even teachers are not allowed here after hours."
The man paused, considering his reply. "Yes," he said simply.
Aziraphale looked at the man expectantly.
"I was aware, but..." the man paused. "I needed to pick up a book for class tomorrow, it genuinely couldn't wait."
Aziraphale sighed, shaking his head again. That sounded like an excuse, but it was reasonable enough. "It's alright, but don't do it again."
The other man continued. "And... it was cold out, and the library was surprisingly warm," he said. "You must have heard of the teacher's quarter's terrible heating."
He had heard about that, he admitted to himself. But he was a rule following man, and teachers of all people should respect them. "I'll let it slide. But just this once!"
The man looked relieved, bending over to retrieve the fallen books. Aziraphale watched him move with easy confidence, placing the books back in their rightful place: The Roman Classics section.
A history teacher, then. Or a classic literature, but he dismissed that thought; Aziraphale prided himself on knowing every English teacher on campus, and this man was not one of them. He would’ve remembered a face like that.
The more he thought about it, he realized he had never seen the man before. Aziraphale, while introverted, had interacted with most people on campus. Especially those that frequented his library. The man returned the books with such precision, such confidence, Aziraphale thought that the man must have been here before.
“What is your name?” Aziraphale asked.
“Crowley,” he answered, returning the final book to the shelf. “Well, Anthony Crowley, but no one calls be by my first name.”
“Professor Crowley,” Aziraphale tried out the name, and decided he liked it. It rolled off the tongue nicely. “History teacher, I assume?”
“Ancient history,” Crowley started down the stairs. Aziraphale realized he was staring again, but the longer he looked, the more familiar the man felt. The air about him felt like someone he had known, but he couldn’t place specifics.
Behind his sunglasses, Crowley had a peculiar look in his eyes. Aziraphale couldn’t see it, but Crowley looked at him too.