Aziraphale has given up all pretense of sleeping or keeping normal human hours since his deal with Tyzias. Last month taught him he almost can summon a demon, and the failure taught him he will have to study harder if he wants anything more than the tantalizing fruit of that mere possibility hanging just out of reach.
So he's between information gathering in the Library of Ash and Fire when he breezes into the Great Hall looking for a spot of something to nibble on. The red hair catches his eye first, peripherally and over the top of a dozen other heads and between movement in the Hall. His heart flutters excitedly and then he stamps down on the feeling. No, it can't be. Surely that hair belongs to just another Sundered student--they do have a penchant for rather wild natural looks.
But he stops despite himself, despite steeling himself for disappointment, and tries to catch that figure again. They just look so painfully Crowley, even from here, from behind, caught in snippets through a small crowd. The appropriate level of slouch (and oh, having dined with him and sat on benches with him, and visited the opera and plays and film with him... Aziraphale had a subconscious catalog of all the ways that Crowley could sit). The necessary ratio of coiffed/effortless hair styling. The way he raises that cup and--
Oh. That nose. Those glasses. That profile. It IS Crowley. It simply HAS to be. Aziraphale flutters out of the doorway to gather himself up for this meeting, fidgeting his hands and straightening his ridiculous school uniform and his fluffy hair and hoping he doesn't smell like he has been sitting in that hellish library. Contemplating his words... This world HAD to be playing tricks on him, after denying him the chance to properly pull Crowley in on his own. Maybe this is only temporary, like so many of their things, but Aziraphale will be damned if he doesn't at least go find out.
He hasn't decided yet if he wants to pretend my-oh-my this is such an unexpected visit, or to teasingly scold Crowley for being late. He slides into the seat opposite Crowley at the table, arranging himself as if this was planned, as if they are back home and have made an arrangement to meet, as if he hasn't been buzzing with nerves for the last minute.
It all falls apart once he sees his Best Friend's face.
"Hello, Crowley," he says, and his smile breaks a little tearfully.
no subject
So he's between information gathering in the Library of Ash and Fire when he breezes into the Great Hall looking for a spot of something to nibble on. The red hair catches his eye first, peripherally and over the top of a dozen other heads and between movement in the Hall. His heart flutters excitedly and then he stamps down on the feeling. No, it can't be. Surely that hair belongs to just another Sundered student--they do have a penchant for rather wild natural looks.
But he stops despite himself, despite steeling himself for disappointment, and tries to catch that figure again. They just look so painfully Crowley, even from here, from behind, caught in snippets through a small crowd. The appropriate level of slouch (and oh, having dined with him and sat on benches with him, and visited the opera and plays and film with him... Aziraphale had a subconscious catalog of all the ways that Crowley could sit). The necessary ratio of coiffed/effortless hair styling. The way he raises that cup and--
Oh. That nose. Those glasses. That profile. It IS Crowley. It simply HAS to be. Aziraphale flutters out of the doorway to gather himself up for this meeting, fidgeting his hands and straightening his ridiculous school uniform and his fluffy hair and hoping he doesn't smell like he has been sitting in that hellish library. Contemplating his words... This world HAD to be playing tricks on him, after denying him the chance to properly pull Crowley in on his own. Maybe this is only temporary, like so many of their things, but Aziraphale will be damned if he doesn't at least go find out.
He hasn't decided yet if he wants to pretend my-oh-my this is such an unexpected visit, or to teasingly scold Crowley for being late. He slides into the seat opposite Crowley at the table, arranging himself as if this was planned, as if they are back home and have made an arrangement to meet, as if he hasn't been buzzing with nerves for the last minute.
It all falls apart once he sees his Best Friend's face.
"Hello, Crowley," he says, and his smile breaks a little tearfully.