Chapter Text
“Awesome of you to go back to school, sir.”
“What.” Crowley freezes. He slips his outdated notebook right back into his bag in the silver sea of laptops this classroom has become.
At least the student next to him, who uttered that sentence of doom, now has the decency to stutter. “At… at your age.”
Crowley slowly looks the offending subject up and down – ironed shirt, expensive shoes, bloody Etonesque. The kid withers a little under the scrutiny.
“Shut up,” Crowley says, and demonic miracles his laptop battery to always give out at crucial points during the lecture.
He rests his hands on the desk, unsure what to do with them now, without either a laptop nor a notebook to fiddle with. But why would he write anything down anyway? He’s not planning on sticking around until the exams. This is all strictly demon business. Temptation-adjacent.
“I like your notebook,” says the student on the other side of him, who apparently managed to catch a glimpse of the thing.
Crowley stole it off Aziraphale’s desk this morning. It’s leather-bound, old and yet unused. Aziraphale buys loads of notebooks without ever writing in them. Ridiculous. At least now it’s going to have a good… well, medium use.
“My name’s Eldrydd, they/them.” Eldrydd points to the pronoun badge on their backpack. “You?”
“He/him, currently,” Crowley says. He’s met with an understanding nod. “Errr, Anthony.”
“I’m James,” the posh student says without having been invited into the conversation. They probably teach that at Eton.
Crowley ignores him. Birth names are utter bollocks. That’s clearly a Gavin.
The professor, who seemingly left the room shortly after setting up his laptop, has arranged the dark wooden tables in a rectangle like some sort of psychopath. That interferes with Crowley’s evil demonic plan to simply stuff himself away in the back of the classroom. Perhaps nap during the boring bits.
But because he also arrived demonically late, he’s even been forced to sit quite close to the front. Simply annoying, that.
There’s a white screen upon which are projected the words ‘Classic Literature:’. At least he’s in the right room.
A remarkably tall man walks in and closes the door behind him. His ginger hair looks like he’s been on a five mile bike ride.
The man moves the cursor on the laptop. Must be the professor, Crowley reckons, but then his attention is drawn to the screen. There, a new word has been revealed, effectively changing the title slide to: ‘Classic Literature: Fantasy’.
“Oh no,” Crowley mutters under his breath. He can’t believe this. Can anything in his life go right, please?
“What’s wrong?” Eldrydd whispers, and Crowley vaguely gestures towards the screen.
“Thought it was just, y’know, about classic literature. Reading Hemingway drunk for the full experience, learning which of the Brönte sisters was which, that sort of stuff.”
“Oh,” James leans over. “You had to click open the whole title while enrolling on the student portal. It did look like just Classic Literature at first glance. But most people of course click –”
“Shut up, Gavin.”
“It’s James.”
“Can’t expect me to learn everyone’s names,” Crowley snarls, and turns back. “Eldrydd, do you think I could still, I don’t know, switch courses at this point? Jump out the window? Set the building on fire?”
They stare at him with narrowed eyes, apparently unsure if he’s joking or not.
“Hello, class,” the professor claps his hands. He has put most of his hair in some sort of haircut resembling shape. Crowley absentmindedly combs his fingers through his own hair. Takes time and skill to learn to tame curls. Or a miracle, really.
The man points at the name on another projected slide. ‘Professor W. Nachtergale.’
“Some of you already know me from the modules I teach for undergraduates, but I see some new faces in the room. Hallo, I’m professor Nachtergale. Before you ask, it’s a Dutch name. I grew up in Amsterdam and moved here when I was 21, long before Brexit. I know sometimes it’s customary to call professors by their first name in these smaller seminars, but I prefer professor or mister Nachtergale, please.”
Crowley smirks. He’s a non-man of the world. He’s been to places. “It’s because the W. stands for Willy, doesn’t it?”
The professor hones in on him, and smiles mildly. “I see you’ve done your googling. It’s a perfectly normal Dutch name, Mr…”
“Just Anthony.”
“Anthony. Would you agree that the right name, the right words, the precision of them, is of importance? If not, you are in the wrong module.”
Oh, Crowley is definitely in the wrong module. But he might as well sit this one out now. He puts his notebook gently on the table and glances around. At least, now he notices, he’s not the only mature student in the room. Though he’s by far the oldest – by give or take 6,000 years.
“As a reminder, this isn’t a beginner’s module,” the professor addresses the whole room again. “You all have bachelor degrees under your belt and are ready to take it to the next level. And I will expect, no, I am excited to hear your informed opinions on the texts we will be reading.”
Crowley groans. Maybe he demonic miracled a little too close to the sun when he enrolled in this.
“Do any of you know why I named this course ‘Classic Literature: Fantasy’?”, professor Nachtergale asks.
Crowley suppresses a scoff. To trick unsuspecting readers into taking his module, clearly.
Not that Crowley has done much reading in his lifetime, that’s more Aziraphale’s area. But he knows a thing or two about classic literature. He’s seen the BBC adaptations of Great Expectations and Tipping the Velvet. And the Disney adaptation of Robin Hood, which did have a rather odd amount of animals.
“Because,” Eldrydd says, overcoming some sort of unnecessary shyness. “Those books tend to be considered tosh? When they’re actually proper writing?”
They phrase it like some sort of question. And yes, Crowley questions it alright.
“Indeed, Eldrydd – good to see you in one of my classes again, by the way. Fantasy is an underrated genre. Seen as flimsy and useless.”
That’s something Crowley can agree on: this course is pretty useless. And he hasn’t done the required reading anyway.
He didn’t even open the email they all got about it, with the list of books. He’s a demon. He was busy, full schedule of glueing coins to the sidewalk and such. Not that he needs to report to Hell anymore. But everyone needs a hobby.
Professor Nachtergale continues, moving on to a slide compiled of several book covers: The Fellowship of the Ring, Chronicles of Narnia, the Earthsea Trilogy, American Gods, … The images are moving around fast in a cheesy animation.
“Critics, authors and readers throughout the ages have traditionally reacted with upturned noses at the fantasy genre. It wasn’t until Tolkien that the attitudes shifted. In my opinion, this genre stands its ground among the likes of J.D. Salinger, Oscar Wilde, Toni Morrison or Jane Austen.”
Crowley blinks. The diamond robber?
He opens his notebook. Should he write this down? Everywhere around him, students are typing. Probably just messages to their friends, though. Web whatsapp was one of his demonic inventions.
He growls under his breath. This blasted pen doesn’t work. Zero writing appears on the pages. Typical, this. Can’t Aziraphale just throw things out when they’re broken?
He miracles himself a new pen.
“Now,” the professor says, pressing a key on the laptop. “Let’s move on to the first book of the semester, which you’ve all been reading in preparation for this seminar, I’m sure.” He smiles to himself, like a seasoned teacher. “Good Omens…”
The cover appears on the screen, but Crowley’s too busy writing to glance at it.
“...or its full title: Good Omens - The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch.”
Crowley’s pen somehow manages to do an olympic diver style backflip off the table.
Agnes Nutter?!
“What?”
“You don’t know the book?” James whispers while handing the pen back. The guy frowns. “You’re basically a Crowley cosplayer at this point, mate.”
“Ngk.”
Crowly’s face feels like it’s stuck in the shape a cartoon character’s face gets after he gets whacked by a pan.
“Didn’t know we were supposed to read a book already,” he hisses indignantly.
“It’s a literature course,” James supplies. Oh great. Must have been top of his class at public school.
Crowley glares at him. What’s wrong with students these days anyway? It’s only the first day. The professor will talk about the coursebook for half an hour then close early, right? That’s surely how it works? Crowley hasn’t been to school in ages. Literally.
“Could someone summarise this book for me, please?”, the teacher asks the class.
Crowley meanwhile has scooped Eldrydd’s copy off their desk. It looks completely tattered, close to falling apart, there’s.. Is that water damage?
He flips through it, wondering if he’s having a brain bleed catching glimpses of the names ‘Aziraphale’ and ‘Crowley’ in there – is it even possible for a demon to have a stroke?
“It’s about an angel and a demon trying to stop the end times after the birth of the Antichrist,” a freckle-faced girl summarises. “Written by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett and published in 1990.”
Crowley catches the word ‘Arrangement’ in this bloody book, underlined in careful pencil, and just about gets a heart attack.
He wonders how much demonic power would be needed to miracle the whole world illiterate. Or, well, not the humans per se, but definitely the angels and demons – though some would argue most of those are basically illiterate already.
He’s shaking his head at the book. This seminar is just ridiculous. The whole – the whole idea of it. Crowley has been to astronomy lectures occasionally over the ages, just to see how much humans had yet to discover. But a lesson about books? About their own creations? It’s almost blasphemy – alright fine, he’s won over to the idea again.
But this? This – are there hidden cameras in here? He checks out the corners of the classroom. Surely he’s being, what was the name of that reality tv show he helped create years ago? Punk’d?
“What are its main themes, in your opinion?” the teacher asks.
Themes? This is his life, damn it all to Heaven.
“Good versus evil,” a kid says.
Crowley rolls his eyes. Low hanging fucking fruit, that. And wrong.
“Destiny versus free will”, another pipes up.
Lacks imagination.
“Human nature,” James says.
“It’s not even about humans!”
Crowley finds, horrified, that he has said this out loud.
He clarifies, not hindered in the slightest by not having read it: “It’s about angels and demons, and errrr… bravery. Very bravely fighting back in the face of danger.”
“Sure,” James says, in a soothing tone, “but it’s about how through staying on Earth so long, Aziraphale and Crowley, in very small steps, each become a little more human.”
Crowley can’t believe he’s being demonsplained by a human. And the professor is nodding. Crowley slams the book closed.
“What?”
It’s hubris, is what this is. These humans who’ve only been alive for the blink of an eye, think they know everything there is to know about two ageless beings, and not only that, think Crowley and Aziraphale are anything even remotely like – like humans?
“Some would say Aziraphale and Crowley have a lot of human traits,” the teacher interferes before Crowley attacks James like a rabid dog. “For example, Crowley is described as an optimist.”
Crowley’s mouth falls open. “An optimist? I – he’s a demon. Fallen angel.” He gestures vaguely in the air. “Unforgivable. Dark. Bit of a goth? Scary?”
Eldrydd takes their book back, and apparently locates the offending passage with suspicious ease.
“This is after Aziraphale discorporates and before Crowley decides to go to Tadfield anyway,” they explain, and start reading directly from the book:
Because, underneath it all, Crowley was an optimist. If there was one rock hard certainty that had sustained him through the bad times – he thought briefly of the fourteenth century – then it was utter surety that he would come out on top; that the universe would look after him.
Consonants collect for an impromptu meeting in Crowley’s throat. How did this ‘Neil Gaiman’ and ‘Terry Pratchett’, if those are even their real names, know about his feelings about the fourteenth century? How did they even know all those – those details? Was this ghostwritten by the real Agnes Nutter, ouija-board-style?
He frowns down at himself. There must be something he’s missing. This – a human course about his life – simply cannot be a coincidence.
And calling Crowley an optimist? Definitely written by someone truly evil. An angel?
“Thank you for that, Eldrydd,” professor Nachtergale says. “That part also demonstrates one of the key elements of the book. Academically speaking, Good Omens is at an even less popular intersection of genres, because it’s at the crossroads of fantasy and humour, which is also traditionally looked down upon. Even more so than fantasy, in this day and age. People shamefully underestimate how hard it is to write something funny.”
“Funny?!” The word escapes from Crowley’s lips like a wild animal.
Not only are their deepest darkest secrets – the Arrangement, his belief in the power of the Universe – written down in a book for all of humanity and some of demonity, whatever’s the word, to read; also they’re all making fun of them?
“It’s so funny, Anthony,” Eldrydd says with a glint in their eye. They clearly, for some reason, love this book. Maybe they need a brain scan. It must be quite rotten in there. “I think the paintball scene is the most obvious example.”
They flip to another page. “They get shot and immediately very dramatically fall against a statue, and in a bush.”
Crowley looks appalled. They should try living through that! It’s no laughing matter!
Eldrydd reads out loud:
“Ooh, that stung,” moaned the fallen angel. “Got me right under the ribs.”
“Yes, but do you normally bleed blue?” said Crowley.
Eldrydd giggles softly.
“It’s not funny!” Crowley insists. He scowls.
“The whole premise is hilarious, really,” Eldrydd says. “Quiet quitting heroes, they are. Not wanting to work too hard for their respective sides. And Aziraphale and Crowley sort of whoopsydaisy themselves into saving the world. They actually had very little to do with stopping the Armageddon, when it all came down to it.”
“Interesting, Eldrydd,” the professor says, and Crowley disagrees strongly. Not interesting at all, this. Isn’t there some Hobbit-y book to be discussed instead?
“Let’s talk about which other characters were actually responsible for saving the world,” professor Nachtergale prompts.
Well, every curriculum has its boring bits, Crowley supposes. His thoughts started drifting off.
The facts, as far as he understands them, are these. There is a book about Crowley and Aziraphale — and some unimportant side characters – exposing the Arrangement and the true(ish) events of Armageddon. If this book gets into the wrong hands, they both could get in very serious trouble.
But it doesn’t seem to be on anyone’s radar – it’s even foolishly categorised as ‘fantasy’ by humans. Crowley snorts. As if they’re werewolves and vampires! The Twilightification – another film he was involved in – of their lives.
So, as disturbing as this situation is (he simply has no desire to be lectured about, errr, himself), there’s no need to panic just yet. Most books end up in a discount pile within a few weeks after release. There’s no reason this one should become, well, truly become, a classic. How many humans read fantasy anyway?
“... and that’s why I think the way Crowley treats his plants symbolises his feelings about being cast out of Heaven by God,” a girl is just finishing her sentence when Crowley tunes back into the class.
His whole notebook drops to the floor this time.
What?
“Do you think the excessive drinking is also a way to cope with those feelings?”, one of the other students asks.
Crowley scrambles for his notebook, cursing under his breath about the fresh dog-ears and dirt stains. He glares at the notebook.
“Oh, come on, there’s no – no excessive drinking,” Crowley says. “Aren’t you supposed to be the, errr, the future elite of England? The state of education these days…”
Crowley slams the bloody notebook closed. “And talking to plants is just good sense, makes ‘em all nice and green. They have to be properly motivated.”
The whole room stares at him like blinking mice in a bush.
“It’s just not about – whatever. Divine rejection or whatever you educated lot think. It’s just a guy, a, a demon watering plants.”
“But you can’t possibly think it’s a coincidence that it’s plants,” James says. Of course it’s James. It’s always that Gavin faced guy thinking he’s the smartest in the room. “He was the Serpent of Eden. Of course he has a complicated relationship with trees and plants.”
One more word out of his mouth and Crowley’s ready to boa constrictor the life out of the pick-me student. See how he likes that.
All Crowley’s got is a very severe glare, though. That’ll have to do for now.
“And it’s, it’s really all about, uhhh, rising above your supposed nature,” James continues after an approving nod from professor Nachtergale. “Like in the book, Adam rebels against his dad, against Satan. But he says he’s not rebelling, he’s merely pointing out some facts; which, I think, probably mirrors Crowley’s reasons for falling. The whole time this fallen angel, more than anyone else, is aware of the absurdity of Heaven’s rules, and Hell, and how they’re not really two sides but more like two essential divisions of the same company.”
Crowley stares at him, completely stunned into silence.
“But aren’t Aziraphale and Crowley clearly presented as from two opposite sides?”, the freckle-faced girl asks.
“Well, on the surface, yes,” James says. “They struggle with the expectations of both Heaven and Hell, and then of course there’s also their mistrust, I mean…”
Crowley’s hand shapes into a fist. Mistrust?
“... for example, Aziraphale doesn’t even tell Crowley about finding the Antichrist at first. He puts Heaven above… Hey, wait, is my laptop on fire?”
James rises from his chair in a mild panic.
And amidst the chaos of putting out a small and really if you think about it, harmless fire, Crowley lets his words sink in. Mistrust? They’re – Aziraphale and him, they trust each other. There isn’t anyone in the whole world he trusts more.
Does Aziraphale not trust him? Is that it? Is that in the book?
“Right, I think it’s best if we end the lesson here,” professor Nachtergale says, looking a bit paler than usual. Crowley nods. Indeed. Enough of all this nonsense.
The professor manages a half-smile at the room.
“Next seminar, we’re going to dive into the gay subtext.”