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Aziriphale regretfully contemplated his choices in life, as the children’s art projects unleashed the bane of many teacher’s existence.
Glitter.
He hesitatingly placed a large jar of glitter on each desk reminding the children not to touch it until they were instructed to do so. He handled the jars with the care you handled unstable dynamite. The feral scrum of the children stilled as they focused on this rarely given treasure.
At least the handsome janitor would come in and Aziraphale could offer him some extra help if the glitter got everywhere (which it usually did).
"Ok, then, everyone," He began calmly, "If you've put your glue on the---" and that was it. Thirty small hands grabbed their individual glitter pots and Aziraphale knew he'd have sparkles where he'd not had sparkles since Pride 2006.
15 of the longest minutes of his life later, Azirphale wiped the snot from a mulishly crying girl with glitter in her tight braids and murder in her heart. “Warlock,” he said with great disappointment,” Pepper did not deserve you throwing glitter in her face like that,”
“But now she’s all sparkly.” He said, innocently.
“Sparkle you,” Pepper growled with the indignation of a seven year old who already knew how to hold a grudge.
The classroom door swung open just as Aziraphale was contemplating whether glitter could be classified as a biohazard. Michael surveyed the room once, sighed, and said, "You gave each child their own glitter pot? Single glitter station. One parent volunteer. Tiny shaker bottles. Honestly, Fell."
"I was trying to encourage independence and free----" Michael made a sharp zippit motion with their hand. "I'll have Mr Crowley some straight here at 2.35 precisely." They swooped out with one last long suffering look.
There was a sudden cry of “Ew, gross!” Aziripahle turned and saw Adam, blond curls and bloody mouth triumphantly grinning with a missing tooth.
Aziraphale closed his eyes slowly. Home time felt very far away.
“Let’s put that in a bag to bring home.” He said, grabbing a small plastic ziplock bag for the tooth. Adam grinned and then sneezed in the faint haze of glitter still floating in the room. Splatters of something Aziraphale didn’t really want to think about spewed on the desk and Aziraphale’s pale shirt and probably his bow tie.
Aziraphale let out a long breath feeling quite overwhelmed by the situation, before a large bucket size amount of glitter rained down on top of him and Adam.
xxx
Aziraphale needed a large glass of wine. Yes, it was only half past two, but as he waved off the last child to their waiting grown ups, he noticed he had to work at unclenching his jaw.
And he still had to help the janitor with the clear up.
At precisely 2.36 (because yes he was that petty and Michael was unpleasant in the best of times), Crowley arrived with his cleaning kit and industrial vacuum. He’d been warned. Glitter.
Crowley stopped in the doorway, eyes wide from the glitter explosion. “Did a bomb go off?” He asked, looking at the glitter sticking to the ceiling.
Aziripahle was slouched by his desk, bow tie askew and a forlorn look in his eyes.
Crowley's expression softened at once. "Blimey," he said quietly. "They got you too, didn't they?"
"I was trying to teach them independence." Aziraphale mumbled, brushing some sparkles from his trouser leg. The movement dislodged a shower of glitter from his curls.
Crowley moved further in the room, a wheel in his cart catching in something sticky. “Well, I’ve seen worse,” Crowley said. “In the Great War, Nazis dropped a glitter bomb on a church in SoHo,” he said with a straight face.
Aziraphale’s mouth twitched in spite of himself. "Wrong war, dear."
"Ah! Of course. Glitter wasn't deployed till the 40s. 1934, actually.” Crowley felt his lips twitch.
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. "You made that up."
"Completely." There was a twinkle in the janitor's eye. “Henry Ruschmann was a made up person. David Bowie invented him to hide the millions of glitter manufacturing income from the government,” Crowley replied as he started sweeping up.
This man is rather odd, Aziraphale thought, as he shook out a black bin bag to start collecting the detritus from the floor. But rather lovely to look at.
“You don’t need to help me, you sitting there looking pretty is enough.” Crowley joked.
Aziraphale blushed, looking up from a memo informing the staff that Mr Brown was on sabbatical to South America and wouldn’t be back until next year.
"Well I'd feel terrible watching you tidy my mess and not help," he looked away again, shuffling papers. Crowley was happily wiping surfaces and seemed entirely unaware of the impact his casually flirty joke had had.
When Aziraphale next looked over, Crowley was bent over a desk, bottom directly in eyeline, stretched out as he reached to collect something from underneath.
Oh, good lord, he thought. He walked over to a cabinet and pulled out a tiny hand broom and a dust pan. He then knelt down to the tiled floor and started to brush up the glitter. Hoping it would be a useful distraction from the pretty man.
As he leaned forward to sweep under a brightly colored bookshelf, he heard a loud bang. He looked over his shoulder to see a fiercely blushing Crowley looking at the cleaning fluid he’d just dropped on the floor.
“Oh my, are you alright?” Aziraphale asked, with concern.
“F-fine,” Crowley stammered. “Sorry, slipped…” Aziraphale smiled a bit uncertainly and laboriously got off his knees. Something popped and he winced.
Knees haven't been the same since Pride 2006 either, he thought to himself.
They worked in silence for a while, Aziraphale collecting school supplies that needed to be put away, while Crowley worked on the sparkly, sticky messes. Then Crowley cleared his throat. "So, uh.... we've never really spoken much. How's your first year been at St Beryl's?"
“Pretty nice, the children are quite sweet and well behaved…when they want to at least. And the staff members are nice…in their own ways.” Aziraphale said.
Crowley snorted. “Well behaved? You don’t have to clean up afterward. I’ve had to create pre-made cleaning kits for various “incidents”. Glitter clean up is the least used but most resource intensive.”
Aziriphale looked stricken. “I did say when they want to. Today is unfortunately not that kind of day for them.” Aziraphale said, placing some markers that had been chucked across the room into a small bucket.
Crowley wrangled the long chord of the vacuum and studied the glitter on the ceiling. He contemplated the small surface area of the child’s desk, the distance to the ceiling and weight of the appliance. “Think I’m gonna need some help here,” the janitor said. “Spot me?”
"Of course," Aziraphale said, stepping forward. "Though I feel I should point out that 'vacuuming the ceiling' was never mentioned in my teacher training."
“Gotta be flexible, angel,” Crowley winked as he positioned himself.
A blush bloomed on Aziraphale’s face by the possible innuendo and the sudden nickname, as he helped lift the vacuum to the ceiling. Crowley perched gracefully on top of the desk and managed to get the head of the vacuum to roll along the suspended-tile ceiling.
Aziraphale held onto the desk, held onto the base unit of the vacuum, and absolutely did not look at the pert behind that was now almost in his eyeline, or the strip of skin that appeared between Crowley's shirt and waist of his jeans as he reached over his head.
He certainly did not notice the faint scattering of red hair trailing…someplace he wasn’t looking.
"Bloody hell," Crowley huffed from somewhere above him. "Not had this much glitter in my hair since Pride 2006."
“Me either.” Aziraphale chuckled.
Crowley's head snapped round to look down at Aziraphale in astonishment. Perhaps he hadn't considered the bow-tie wearing, cuddly looking primary teacher would be a Pride attendee. Unfortunately, the sudden shift in his weight, combined with his precarious position on top of a slightly wobbly school desk, only meant one thing.
Gravity was a bitch.
Aziraphale stretched out his arms, catching Crowley leaving the vacuum to crash onto the floor. “Please be careful.”
Crowley felt his air pushed out when the strong arms caught him effortlessly. He sucked in a deep breath and the faint scent of tea, paper and magic marker mixed with something rich and very male.
"Yep. Careful. That's me. Yep." Aziraphale gave a small smile and set Crowley down on slightly wobbly legs.
“Now, let’s continue with more care.” Aziraphale said, bending down to pick up the vacuum. He paused. Angel. Pride 2006. Oh, good lord, he was there for that! Aziraphale realized with shock. Knees, he cut that thought off quickly.
“So what did you mean by me too, with my pride comment? Were you there?” Crowley asked, as Aziraphale stood up straight to set the vacuum right.
Knees, Aziraphale thought, and half remembered something. Someone. “Perhaps,” he said coyly and handed Crowley the vacuum.
“Oh…” Crowley said, surprised by the new information, before squinting his eyes suspiciously at him. “Did we meet?” He asked.
Aziraphale squinted. The half memory—of hair an unnatural red color and fetching white streaks teased to the peak, and sunglasses.
A vague image of a muscular back with a beautiful black snake tattoo, covering almost the entire back, popped up in his mind. Was the man wearing pride-themed angel wings also? Aziraphale tried to remember.
"Possibly, I was at London Pride that year," he murmured, then a sudden surge of boldness ran through him as he added, "and I, ah, had a rather good time that started at Comptons of Soho..."
Crowley was watching him intently. “A lot of the float performers were there that year. I remember one, everyone all in white and gold..” he offered almost shyly.
"Um..." Aziraphale felt his face go hot. "Yes that uh.... that may have been me."
Crowley let his body relax and gave a crooked grin, eyes laughing. “I knew I recognized that bum,” he said teasingly.
"Oh dear lord" Aziraphale put his hand to his mouth. "You wouldn't happen to have a rather large snake tattoo on your back, would you?"
Crowley pulled at his stretchy shirt, just enough to show a surprisingly well defined shoulder and a peek of a dark tattooed scales curving toward the back of his neck.
"So it WAS you!" Aziraphale's shock turned to laughter. "You tried to give me your number but fell off the float."
“You caught me then, too,” Crowley replied. “Sexiest damn thing I ever saw.”
"Oh, well..." Aziraphale tugged at his glittery waistcoat. "I did try and find you afterwards in the pub but it was so crowded..."
"I thought I'd never see you again. Small world." Crowley chuckled. "Well, since you saved me, I suppose I owe you a drink? Dinner?" Then he suddenly frowned. "Oh, I mean if you're.... it's been 20 years hasn't it, you could be married by now. Sorry, uh--"
Aziraphale lifted his well-manicured hand. "Well, do you see anything?"
No ring. Crowley blinked, gears turned in his mind, then he blushed. "No... boyfriend or anything?" he muttered. It was hard to believe someone this perfect was still single after all these years.
"Ah, no," Aziraphale gave a regretful look. "I've dated, of course. But no one's ever quite.... stuck." He shook off the thought. "I don't suppose.. you're free later, are you? Once we've cleaned this disaster zone I will be needing a very large glass of wine."
Crowley whipped out his phone, and as he started typing furiously he said, "Uhunh. Yep. Free as a bird that's me this afternoon." He eyed Aziraphale sideways and then added with a half smile, "And this evening."
"Splendid." Aziraphale wiggled his arms in excitement, then looked embarrassed that he actually did it. The man cleared his throat and awkwardly focused on tidying up the children's messy table. "Erm, do you have a place in mind?"
“I do indeed, angel,” Crowley replied. With that promise before them, the Glitter apocalypse was quickly dealt with.
In between glancing at each other and smiling a lot they didn't say much for a while. Crowley left for a moment to put away his cleaning equipment while Aziraphale hung around in the teacher's lounge and couldn't stop himself looking with horrified fascination at a post card made out of a photo of Mr. Brown wearing some kind of sombrero in what seemed to be a shop full of colourfully patterned rugs. He shivered.
xxx
Outside a gentle late afternoon wind fingered Aziraphale pale curls and puff of glitter floated around him like a halo. A very contagious halo as it stuck to Crowley walking close.
As they came to the end of the street Aziraphale gave Crowley a questioning look. Crowley smiled at him and the ghost of his hand pressed very softly against Aziraphale's back, pointing him towards the street on the right. Aziraphale felt a very different kind of shiver run through him this time.
“I feel like we might be finding glitter on ourselves for a while.” Crowley said, with a smile.
Aziraphale laughed sheepishly. “It got a bit out of hand, I admit,” he said as they approached a pub.
He opened the door for Crowley. "After you."
Crowley sauntered in with Aziraphale in tow, “In the mood for anything in particular?” Crowley asked.
“Alcohol,” Aziraphale said promptly. Crowley laughed. “Coming right up, angel.”
They settled at the table with two classes of wine, a packet of crisps, and a conversation that started at Pride 2006 and meandered over 20 years.
And they did find glitter in more places than Pride 2006, and Aziraphale’s knees—well they got the job done.