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It was utterly absurd to be as enamoured with an inanimate object to the extent Aziraphale was, but to his credit, it was a really good armchair.
Not merely because its springy cushions were upholstered in the softest, most obliging fuzz, or because the seat was generously wide, or because the high back offered optimal spinal support - though all of those qualities certainly played their part. No, the true magic of the chair lay in its placement. It sat adjacent to a tall, sunlit window and within easy reach of the non-fiction section, tucked neatly inside the Silent Study area of the library. Aziraphale was not studying, per se, but he deeply appreciated the absence of whispered conversations and the obnoxious slurping of iced drinks that plagued the rest of the building. Here, the silence was respectful rather than strained, broken only by the gentle rustle of turning pages and the distant hum of the air conditioning. It was a place that invited focus without demanding it; he could lose himself entirely, alternating between poetry and Steven Roger Fischer’s A History of Language, a recent and much-beloved favourite, without fear of distraction.
And so, every Tuesday and Thursday without fail, he spent his afternoons seated in that very spot, reading contentedly as the sun dipped toward the horizon, his concentration blissfully uninterrupted. Perhaps he had come to take this small ritual for granted - a theory that proved itself one breezy Thursday afternoon, when he arrived at the library only to find his chair already occupied.
The man inhabiting it was not so much sitting as he was sprawling. One long leg hooked over the armrest, the other draped carelessly across the back, he balanced a book with reckless confidence between his fingers while a notepad rested against a slim thigh. There was an unmistakable air of arrogance about him, conveyed not only by his territorial posture, but by the fact that he wore sunglasses indoors, in a room lit dimly enough as it was. Denim, leather, and clearly store-bought red hair completed the picture, and Aziraphale immediately bristled, his carefully maintained routine thrown entirely off-kilter by this middle-aged hooligan who had so rudely taken his place without-
Aziraphale stopped himself, frowning. The chairs were free for anyone to use; it was not his, regardless of what his brain stubbornly insisted. With considerable reluctance, he cast one last, longing look at his favourite spot and resigned himself to one of the rickety wooden chairs at the long communal table instead.
It was only for one afternoon. He could survive it for one afternoon.
It wasn’t just one afternoon, actually. On Tuesday, the man was there again.
Black clothing and fire-red hair, impossible to miss now that Aziraphale had been forced to notice him once already. He occupied the armchair in precisely the same infuriating manner: sprawled with careless entitlement, limbs draped wherever they pleased, as though the chair had been designed exclusively for him. The picture of nonchalance remained intact, though this time he had added a pen to the ensemble, chewing thoughtfully on its end while staring down at his notepad.
Aziraphale slowed despite himself. He told himself it was only to confirm the dreadful truth - that yes, the chair was once again occupied - but his feet lingered a moment too long. He ought to have looked away immediately, ought to have turned back or diverted his path, but instead his gaze snagged on details he hadn’t catalogued the first time, like the sharp line of the man’s jaw, the lazy curve of his posture… And that, unfortunately, was when he realised he was staring.
The man looked up, and even through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, Aziraphale felt the weight of his gaze land squarely on him, precise and unmistakable. There was a beat before the man lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug and shook his head, eyebrows knitting together in a gesture that very clearly translated to ‘what, exactly, are you looking at?’ Heat rose instantly to Aziraphale’s cheeks, mortification blooming hot and fast. He pursed his lips, offended and flustered in equal measure, and immediately pretended he had somewhere else to be. With all the dignity he could muster under the circumstances - which was, regrettably, not much - he scurried away down the nearest aisle, heart thumping far louder than the Silent Study area would have approved of.
Aziraphale decided that the only sensible course of action was to arrive extra early the following Thursday, thereby securing his chair once and for all. This plan worked perfectly.
He settled into the armchair with a pleased little huff, wiggling just enough to mould himself back into its familiar embrace, smugness curling warmly in his chest at the success of his deviousness. The chair welcomed him as though no time had passed at all, cushions sighing obligingly beneath his weight. Order had been restored, justice had prevailed. Reaching for a nearby copy of Neil McKenna’s The Secret Life of Oscar Wilde, he opened it with the reverence it deserved and promptly lost himself in the text, the satisfaction of victory lending an extra sweetness to every line.
A little while later, the man arrived. Aziraphale somehow felt him before he saw him, an awareness that made him glance up just in time for their eyes to meet. He made a valiant effort not to look too smug, truly, he did. But he supposed some traitorous hint of bastardry must have slipped through his carefully composed expression: the man’s mouth twisted immediately, his nose wrinkling in affront. For a brief, shining moment, Aziraphale thought he might say something. Instead, the man pulled a petulant face and stalked over to the communal table, dropping into a chair with all the sulky indignation of someone who had been very firmly told off and was determined to make it everyone else’s problem.
Aziraphale returned to his book, victory thrumming pleasantly through him. The next hour passed in blissful contentment, pride swelling in his chest as he read until, unfortunately, nature called. With great reluctance, he marked his place, glanced once more at the man - who appeared to be studying very intently at the table - and placed the book face-down on the chair in what he believed to be an unmistakable claim. Satisfied, he hurried off to the loo.
Five minutes later, he returned, and his heart sank.
The book now sat neatly atop the communal table, placed with infuriating care, its spine aligned just so. And there, sprawled comfortably back in the armchair as though he had never left it at all, was the man. He looked up, lips curling into a smug, infuriating smirk. Then, adding insult to injury, he lifted one hand and gave a little wave, wiggling long, slender fingers in a deeply mocking gesture, before calmly returning his attention to his own book.
Aziraphale stood frozen, scandalised at the sheer audacity.
Some days, Aziraphale arrived early enough to drape his coat neatly over the back of the chair, staking his claim with quiet dignity. On other days, a black rucksack - covered in an assortment of badges proclaiming causes, bands, and slogans Aziraphale refused to dignify with closer inspection - had already been dumped unceremoniously across the cushions. Each time, one of them would remove the other’s belongings and relocate them elsewhere. At first, the items were placed politely nearby: the coat folded over a neighbouring chair, the rucksack set carefully beneath the table. It wasn’t long before that courtesy left the building.
Soon, Aziraphale began hanging the rucksack on the already occupied hooks, tucking it beneath other people’s belongings. In retaliation, his coat was either draped over a chair in another section of the library altogether, or, on one particularly egregious occasion, scandalously dumped on the floor. Books were stacked on top of possessions - never damaging, but undeniably pointed. Notepads migrated. Pens vanished and reappeared in new locations.
All of it was conducted in absolute silence, with polite smiles offered to passers-by and the rigid observance of library etiquette. No words were exchanged, no accusations voiced. And yet, the message was perfectly clear.
This was war.
A few weeks of this petty rivalry passed, each encounter nudging the stakes higher, until it had escalated to the point of notes being left on the seat cushion itself. When Aziraphale wrote them, they were polite albeit firm reminders of shared space and mutual consideration, phrased with impeccable courtesy. The stranger’s contributions were far less refined, often consisting of a string of expletives, liberal underlining, and the occasional crude doodle. Then, one Thursday, the game shifted entirely. Aziraphale had arrived early, secured his chair, and settled into it with his coat draped neatly over the backrest. The book in his hands blurred into the background as he soaked in the small sense of victory. And then the man walked in.
He paused, scoffed audibly in Aziraphale’s direction, and just stood there, staring, taking his time as if he had nowhere else to be. Aziraphale pretended not to notice, though it was increasingly difficult to focus on the words of Lewis Ganson when he had to remain alert, anticipating whatever strike might come next.
What followed, however, left him genuinely unprepared. The man rolled his head slowly, cracking his neck with deliberate nonchalance, then approached the communal table. In one smooth motion, he grabbed a wooden chair and dragged it softly across the carpet until it rested flush against the armchair. He cocked his head, tilting it in a way that suggested careful calculation, and then plopped himself down, far too close for Aziraphale’s liking, an arm brushing perilously near his own. Aziraphale swallowed, unsure whether to read, to protest silently, or to retreat entirely. The man, for his part, ignored all conventional decorum, scribbling rapidly on his notepad before holding it up: Fine. You win.
Aziraphale blinked. Relief flickered, quickly followed by something far less identifiable - a peculiar, unsettled awareness that made his grip tighten on the book’s spine. He nodded stiffly, as though the matter were resolved, as though this outcome were entirely satisfactory. The chair was still his, yet somehow, it wasn’t.
There then followed another couple of maddening weeks in which Aziraphale’s patience was tested to its absolute limits. One afternoon, the man spent most of the afternoon tapping his pen in a slow, deliberate rhythm against his notepad, just fast enough to gnaw at Aziraphale’s concentration without being overtly disruptive. Another day, a faint, persistent kick against the armchair’s leg kept Aziraphale on edge, forcing him to shift uneasily in his seat.
The intrusions were always polite enough to avoid reprimand but irritating in the extreme. Once, he had greeted Aziraphale with a sharp, almost playful tug on the chair’s backrest before seating himself on the wooden chair beside it, offering no words but all the mischief of a challenge. On other days, he arrived with a takeout coffee in hand, sipping audibly just enough for Aziraphale to hear without ever being loud enough to attract attention from any librarian or nearby reader.
Each new tactic tested Aziraphale’s patience in increasingly precise ways. Books would shift slightly when he looked away, notepad edges would nudge against the armrest, knees would bounce close enough to jiggle his seat. Every gesture was carefully calibrated: not rude, not punishable, but unmistakably designed to make him feel the presence of the other, to remind him that the chair, while technically his, was no longer entirely his sanctuary. He’d won the battle, but not the war.
And feel it, he did. An irritating, persistent consciousness of movement, warmth, proximity. He told himself it was simply the principle of the thing. The invasion of routine. The loss of solitude. Certainly not the way his attention betrayed him, tracking those small motions before he could stop himself.
Every week, Aziraphale endured it, adjusting minutely, resisting the urge to react, telling himself over and over that reason and politeness would prevail. Until, inevitably, he could endure no more.
One Tuesday, Aziraphale approached the Silent Study with cautious optimism. He had arrived at his original time, no early starts, assuming that his precious armchair awaited, empty and pristine. Recent days had suggested a pattern, after all. As it turned out, the man had been slowly lulling him into a false sense of security, carefully orchestrating a day when Aziraphale might assume victory was his and finally let his guard down.
There he was, the man in all black with those ridiculous sunglasses and impossible hair, slouched in the armchair as though it were his personal throne. He grinned up at Aziraphale with the sort of manic satisfaction reserved for lunatics and gave him a two-fingered salute. Frustration bubbled up inside Aziraphale; he had devoted weeks to this ridiculous, exhausting charade, investing time, patience, and no small portion of his sanity, only for all of it to be undone by a single, audacious stunt. A fake-out retreat, carefully timed, and suddenly his sanctuary of comfort and quiet was stolen from under him. No. It could not end this way. He refused to let this stranger, this nuisance of a man, dictate the terms of the game. He refused to be declared the loser of whatever absurd ritual they were performing. His pride would not allow it - not when the chair, his chair, was at stake.
And so, without pausing to consider the practicality - or the consequences - Aziraphale stalked forward, eyes locked on that extra-wide cushion, mind spinning with equal parts fury and determination.
He sat.
Or, more accurately, he attempted to sit.
The result was… imperfect. Half of him landed on the cushion, the other half inevitably over the man’s knee. There was a sharp intake of breath, the faintest shuffle, and the creak of the armchair protesting under their combined weight. The heat of another body registered immediately, intrusive and startling, and he stiffened on instinct, horrified at the intimacy of the act. Aziraphale flailed, hands lifting slightly as if he could somehow will physics to balance him. The room, as always, was so silent that the tension could be cut with a knife. The man did not flinch, did not comment. He merely raised one perfectly arched eyebrow, slow and deliberate, giving Aziraphale a measured once-over that felt far too thorough for comfort, before calmly returning his attention to the notebook balanced on his other knee.
Aziraphale’s mind scrambled; he had expected offense, perhaps even horror, an abrupt leap from the chair. Not staying put, as though the intrusion were perfectly normal, as though sharing such cramped space were an ordinary thing. He tried to shift forward, hoping to reclaim the cushion, only to find the man subtly leaning back, knees pressed just enough to make every small movement precarious. He inched sideways, and the man mirrored him almost imperceptibly. Each adjustment felt like a negotiation, as though this specific way of sitting would be okay so long as they could figure out a way to slot their bodies together. At one point, he attempted to tuck his feet neatly under the chair and immediately, the man’s leg shifted, narrowly brushing his, forcing a tiny, frantic readjustment. Aziraphale exhaled, holding his breath between movements, as though a stray sigh might shatter the fragile truce they were silently establishing.
Eventually, a precarious equilibrium was reached. Aziraphale perched mostly on the cushion, shoulders tense, spine rigid, while the man leaned just slightly into the remaining space, notebook in hand, poised as if nothing had happened. And though the armchair no longer felt entirely like Aziraphale’s, he allowed himself a small, begrudging satisfaction: he had sat, he had asserted himself, and the man had not moved him entirely.
To anyone glancing up from their studies, the sight would have been faintly amusing: two middle-aged men sharing a chair as though it were a loveseat, with none of the love and all of the conceit, irritation, and the occasional shared glare.
The days that followed settled into an unexpectedly comfortable rhythm. Aziraphale perched on one side of the armchair, the man occupying the other, and gradually the strangeness of their shared seat faded into routine. Aziraphale told himself repeatedly that he persisted only out of mild stubbornness. Surely, at some point, his continued presence would become irritating, or awkward, or simply inconvenient enough that the man would finally insist on leaving the chair. He did not linger on the quieter, more insistent thought that suggested he stayed for an entirely different reason.
Unfortunately, each time he forced himself into that cramped space, the man simply adjusted to allow him. Barely a flicker of annoyance.
There were still occasional jostles, such as a knee bump here, a finger brushing there, but neither reacted. It was no longer a battle; somehow, this ridiculous arrangement had become a compromise that felt almost… natural. Comfort crept in quietly.
Aziraphale began to notice small, quiet details: the way the man shifted slightly to make room when he stretched, the occasional flicker of amusement in his expression when Aziraphale muttered a particularly dramatic line of poetry under his breath, the way he leaned just enough so that their shoulders occasionally touched. He began to sense, with a mixture of surprise and something warmer, that the man wasn’t merely tolerating his presence. Perhaps he even enjoyed it.
Perhaps he did, too. The thought arrived uninvited, and Aziraphale set it aside immediately, refusing to examine it too closely. There were many reasons a routine might become pleasant. Familiarity. Predictability. The simple fact that the chair was, once again, being used as it ought to be - comfortably.
One afternoon, Aziraphale approached the armchair, heart unconsciously lifting in expectation, only to find the seat empty. He hesitated, an odd pause he couldn’t quite justify, before sinking into it and opening his book. The cushions shifted beneath him, accommodating as ever, but the chair felt larger than it should have. The words on the page blurred into nothing, refusing to take shape no matter how many times he reread the same paragraph. The lack of a presence he had grown used to registering without thought. The armchair, without its other occupant, felt strangely hollow, as though something essential had been removed.
He looked around as though expecting him to appear from somewhere unexpected, tapping a pen against his notebook, or giving a nudge to the backrest. When no one came, a small, unexpected ache settled in his chest. Aziraphale adjusted his posture, smoothed his coat, and told himself firmly that this was ridiculous.
Over the following days, Aziraphale began noticing that the man seemed distracted, and he wondered if this was something to do with his no-show from before. The man whispered under his breath, cursing softly at some problem he couldn’t solve. The quiet confidence that had once accompanied him in the library was gone, replaced by restless energy; shifting in the armchair, drumming fingers, muttered frustrations. Aziraphale, on impulse, pulled out his phone and typed a short message, holding it up so the man could see it: Are you okay?
The man froze, pen poised mid-air, and for a long moment said nothing. Then, almost deliberately, he scribbled furiously on his notepad, tearing the page free and sliding it across the cushion. Aziraphale picked it up and read: I’ll survive. Why do you care?
Aziraphale tapped back quickly, phone held up for him to see: Because you’re usually not muttering at your own notes. Something’s wrong.
The man’s pen hovered for a long, tense second before he scribbled again: I’m fine. Stop fussing.
Aziraphale let out a faint sigh, holding his phone a little closer: You don’t have to do it alone.
This time the reply was slower coming, pen scratching quietly across the paper: I can manage.
And then: But thanks.
The conversation left an unspoken invitation lingering between them – they’d technically known each other for a couple of months now, and yet this was their first actual conversation. Aziraphale adjusted slightly on the cushion, noticing how the man’s hair fell over his forehead as he leaned over Kant's Critique of Pure Reason. He raised an eyebrow, lifting his phone to write: Philosophy? Is that why?
The man’s pen hesitated, scratching uncertainly before a page slid toward Aziraphale: Maybe. Sort of.
Aziraphale studied the page, then tilted his head toward the book again, gently prompting: Are you studying it?
This time, the response came more reluctantly, but clearly: Yes. Well, I’m a mature student at university. Astronomy is my major, but I was forced into a minor in philosophy because I signed up late. I’m not very good at it. It’s difficult.
Aziraphale’s lips pressed together thoughtfully: I can help, if you’d like. I used to be a tutor for my nephew.
The man’s pen paused, hovering over the notepad as though weighing the offer against a lifetime of stubborn pride. Then, slowly, a page slid across the cushion toward him: Maybe. Thanks.
A small, satisfied smile flickered across Aziraphale’s face. He tapped back carefully: I’m Aziraphale.
The man looked up, eyes meeting his, and finally wrote: I’m Crowley.
The next day, Aziraphale arrived at the library with a careful sense of anticipation. As Crowley arrived, he gestured to the chair as if to say ‘here, you can sit’, which Crowley did, before patting the cushion beside him, unmistakably an invitation. Aziraphale slid into the armchair beside Crowley, occupying the other half as though it were perfectly natural. Aziraphale adjusted his coat over the back of the chair, pulled out his own phone. A quiet smile tugged at his lips as he typed a short message: Shall we begin?
Crowley’s phone buzzed - they’d swapped numbers the previous day in order to save on paper. He glanced at it, raised one eyebrow in mock scepticism, then typed back: If we must.
And so, they began. Aziraphale guided him through the basic philosophical concepts first, such as the distinction between analytic and synthetic judgements, carefully explaining ideas while Crowley muttered under his breath, occasionally rolling his eyes or groaning at particularly obtuse passages. The words flowed between them in short, efficient bursts of text, punctuated by hand gestures and the occasional sigh. Crowley, for all his bravado, was surprisingly engaged. He leaned over to point at a passage in the book, nudging Aziraphale slightly in the process. Aziraphale shifted closer, accommodating the touch, and felt a faint, almost imperceptible thrill at the proximity. Every so often, Crowley’s fingers brushed his own as they read, and Aziraphale found himself unconsciously aware of the contact, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. Their conversations became teasing.
You’re enjoying bossing me around too much.
As I said, I used to tutor. I do miss it, though my teenage nephew was better behaved than you.
Crowley smirked at that one, though his thumbs didn’t stop moving, typing furiously as he worked through a particularly tricky argument. Aziraphale explained patiently, breaking the text into smaller pieces, giving examples, quietly noting the subtle shifts in Crowley’s attention - how he leaned in a little closer when intrigued, how a crease in his brow betrayed concentration, how the occasional small smile slipped past his usual composure.
You’ve got this. Think of it like astronomy. Every idea is a star, sometimes you just need to map it differently.
A corner of Crowley’s mouth tugged upwards.
Hours seemed to pass in this peculiar rhythm, the library around them fading into insignificance. The world had narrowed to the space of a shared armchair, to the quiet collaboration of two people learning and teaching, nudging and correcting, one text at a time. At one point, Crowley’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at it before typing a single word: Thanks.
Aziraphale’s heart warmed in a way he couldn’t quite articulate. There were no grand declarations, no spoken affirmations, just two people sitting shoulder to shoulder, leaning slightly into the space they now shared, communicating silently yet completely, and somehow, imperceptibly, the armchair had become the most comfortable place in the world. By the time they packed up, books stacked and phones returned to pockets, there was an unspoken understanding: the war had ended, the rivalry dissolved, and what remained was something much more satisfying - a quiet partnership, a shared space, and a careful trust built between them, one text at a time.
The study sessions continued on in this manner, and Aziraphale began to learn more and more about Crowley both through conversation and their mannerisms. How he twirled a pen absentmindedly when thinking, the way he drummed a slow, steady rhythm on the armrest when frustrated, the faint scrunch of his nose whenever the text confounded him. And then there were the confessions, delivered with a surprising mixture of dry humour and vulnerability; how he had dropped out of school as a teenager, seduced by the example of the ‘bad kids,’ and how life with them, in his written words, had “kicked him in the balls.” He had decided, despite the odds and his age, to return to further education, to truly make something of himself again. There was something about that combination of self-awareness and sheer stubborn determination that made affection flood Aziraphale’s chest.
Of course, it wasn’t just that admission that seemed to pull them closer. There were only so many times their knees could press together accidentally, and so many moments when their fingers brushed over the same passage on a page, before the touches began to linger, sparking awareness neither could quite ignore. Crowley’s sunglasses gradually became optional, revealing amber eyes that bore into Aziraphale’s baby blues with such intent and earnestness that he had to remind himself to breathe. One afternoon, as Aziraphale had carefully explained a particularly thorny philosophical argument, Crowley leaned back just enough to rest his arm along the top of the chair behind him. The proximity made Aziraphale flush, and without thinking, he reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from Crowley’s face. Crowley’s response was subtle, but unmistakable: a soft hum, low and almost reverent, that seemed to vibrate through the armchair itself.
Even the silence of the library, once a comfort, now seemed heavy with possibility, each pause in conversation stretching just long enough to make every glance, every accidental touch, feel deliberate. The armchair, cramped and absurd, had become more than a seat; it had become a space in which the boundaries of study, companionship, and something far more delicate and dangerous had blurred together. The wordless tension between them grew, punctuated by the occasional playful text.
You’re taking this too seriously.
I am trying to teach you, not flirt.
Sure, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.
Finally, one afternoon, after a particularly gruelling section on Substratum Theory, Crowley stretched back and let out a long, exaggerated sigh, then typed a message to Aziraphale: I think I need a drink.
Is that so? Aziraphale replied, part tease, part caution, not wanting to get his hopes up that all the fighting-turned-banter-turned-flirtation had evolved this far.
He needn’t have worried – Crowley rolled his eyes and sent back: Come on, don’t make it difficult. Just come for a drink with me.
Alright then… I could be tempted.
Crowley’s smirk widened. Books were stacked, notes tucked away and the armchair sat empty, its cushions slightly creased, its backrest still warm. For a long moment, Aziraphale lingered near the armchair, glancing at it fondly. Absurdly wide, impossibly comfortable, and the catalyst of everything: the silent wars, the shared space, the flirtations, the confessions, the tender, wordless companionship. Now, it sat triumphantly, having done its work, the quiet witness to the slow, improbable beginnings of something neither of them could yet name.
Aziraphale smiled at the inanimate object he had once been unnaturally attached to, and let it go. Crowley’s hand brushed against his as they walked toward the exit, their fingers lacing together, and suddenly the thought of a drink felt like the most natural, inevitable next step.
The world outside would be brighter, louder, but somehow lighter too, as if leaving the library didn’t mean leaving the small, intimate universe they had created for themselves.