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Crowley is the first to arrive at the cafe. It's not loud about it, but it is quietly queer-affirming, with art from local queer artists on the walls, and a reading corner full of books by queer authors going back to Oscar Wilde. He gets himself a coffee, opening a tab, and takes a table against the wall, where he's obvious from the doorway, and the lighting emphasises every age-line he has. He's deliberately riding the line between male and female presentations, in straight-cut trousers over his knee-brace, a black blouse with ruffles down the front, and his hair pulled up in a loose bun.
He glances up as a pair of older teenagers, no more than a year or two shy of being students come in. One of them stares at him and whispers, "Holy f-" before remembering and turning scarlet.
Crowley raises an eyebrow above his dark glasses and says with dry amusement, "No, that's my angel."
They both blush harder, and as they cross to his table, he recognises the non-swearer as Izzie. He nods a greeting and doesn't stand. "Crowley, he/him today," he introduces himself.
"Izzie, she/her."
The other hesitates. "Can you call me B? and she/her?"
"Sure, B." Crowley waves a hand at the counter. "You young ladies go get what you want - I'm paying - and then we'll talk."
B blinks hard, her eyes suspiciously bright, and she's back with a hot chocolate piled high with marshmallows while Izzie is still browsing the cakes. There's a look in her eyes that Crowley remembers from the day he "lost" Aziraphale. End of the world. Nothing left worth living for. Might as well just...let things end.
She slides into the chair opposite him. "I just - sometimes I want it all to stop. I'm so tired of dealing with..." She rolls her hand like it could take in the world. "Izzie doesn't get it. But you do, don't you?"
Crowley nods. "Hello, darkness, my old friend, would you like a cup of tea?"
She stares at him for a long moment while he holds that mask of light solemnity. Then she cracks up into honest, if slightly bitter, laughter. "What is it about tea that everyone thinks it'll fix anything?"
He lets his mouth curl upward in response. "Well," he says, still keeping his voice light, "making it buys you time, and gives you something to concentrate on that isn't..." He rolls his hand in the same gesture. His wrist crackles. "Plus, it's ordinary enough to slip under the radar. In fact if you announce during exam week, 'I'm making a hot drink, want anything?' you'll be downright popular."
She glances up at him, then away again. "What keeps you here," she whispers, "for so long?"
Crowley leans in, arms folded tight against his chest to contain the way his heart aches for her. "I wonder sometimes." His mouth twists. "We're not essays," he says gently. "No bonus marks for turning yourself in early. I just - kept putting it off. If you buy yourself enough time, sometimes a reason to live comes back to you. And there's things I'd miss. Little things, like decent coffee, or my husband's smile." He shrugs. "Life's like a mountain. Some folk get to take the path up, others have to haul themselves from tiny handhold to tiny handhold. But harder doesn't mean you can't make it." He wasn't about to delve into surviving on spite. Or on being 'queer as in fuck you, if you want me dead kill me yourself, I'm not doing your work for you, you damned bigots!'
Izzie slips into the seat beside B. "What were you discussing that's so funny?"
"The merits of a cup of tea." Crowley lifts his almost empty cup to his mouth. "Though personally, I'm more into coffee, and my angel prefers cocoa on a rough day. He's off helping our godchild taste-test wedding cakes today. Now, what else do you want to talk about?"