Anthony J. Crowley (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sauntereddown) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
diatu2019-11-10 12:29 pm
sauntereddown) wrote in diatu2019-11-10 12:29 pm
To be fair, not the worst day he's ever had
Who: Crowley and any unsuspecting bystanders
What: Arrival post, and subsequent settling in
Where: Somewhere on the Walk/later in the Great Hall
When: Sometime in early November
Warnings: Initially grumpy, frazzled occult being. Absolutely no knowledge of actual cars.
Temporarily out of gas
Crowley is going to struggle to find a metaphor for this later. The best he can come up with is if your talking unicorn suddenly changed into a blank-eyed goat. But the shabby version of a goat everyone knows, from some film you never got around to seeing. That's his general feeling about the car he's sitting in right now.
And also he's pretty sure he's got an idea of how the universe works, certainly of how the world works because he was there when they built the blessed thing. But now the feel's all off, so he's like a cat with mittens on.
And also, people are staring, when they're not leaning out of horse-drawn wagons and yelling for him to move. And not just sort of assuming they see something else and working their way around him. So there's that.
He snaps his fingers, and oh, that's what it feels like if they cut the miracle power. He always wondered. "Shit." Maybe he can still lean into it. He rolls the window down and snaps again, louder, at some unsuspecting bystander. "Hey, yeah. Yes, you - I'm going to need some directions."
Hey boy, where did you go?
After some more swearing and a crash course or two, Crowley's now a new arrival in the Great Hall. He's wearing sunglasses indoors, and he's nursing a mug of something strong-tasting and hopefully alcoholic. (No one knew what he was talking about when he asked if they had Isle of Skye, so he decided on a glass of whatever would "take the edge off a long day.")
He's notably not eating, though he is taking notes in between pulls from the mug. Anyone who sneaks a peek will see a mix of English words and a squiggly language they likely won't be able to read. Crowley is not an organized scholar, but in between his attempts to throw together a class schedule, there are some spur-of-the-moment questions and notes.
Notable bits include 'Different planet? Is space the same?', and a list titled 'Clever Enough to Exorcise Me Here' with every name crossed off.
What: Arrival post, and subsequent settling in
Where: Somewhere on the Walk/later in the Great Hall
When: Sometime in early November
Warnings: Initially grumpy, frazzled occult being. Absolutely no knowledge of actual cars.
Temporarily out of gas
Crowley is going to struggle to find a metaphor for this later. The best he can come up with is if your talking unicorn suddenly changed into a blank-eyed goat. But the shabby version of a goat everyone knows, from some film you never got around to seeing. That's his general feeling about the car he's sitting in right now.
And also he's pretty sure he's got an idea of how the universe works, certainly of how the world works because he was there when they built the blessed thing. But now the feel's all off, so he's like a cat with mittens on.
And also, people are staring, when they're not leaning out of horse-drawn wagons and yelling for him to move. And not just sort of assuming they see something else and working their way around him. So there's that.
He snaps his fingers, and oh, that's what it feels like if they cut the miracle power. He always wondered. "Shit." Maybe he can still lean into it. He rolls the window down and snaps again, louder, at some unsuspecting bystander. "Hey, yeah. Yes, you - I'm going to need some directions."
Hey boy, where did you go?
After some more swearing and a crash course or two, Crowley's now a new arrival in the Great Hall. He's wearing sunglasses indoors, and he's nursing a mug of something strong-tasting and hopefully alcoholic. (No one knew what he was talking about when he asked if they had Isle of Skye, so he decided on a glass of whatever would "take the edge off a long day.")
He's notably not eating, though he is taking notes in between pulls from the mug. Anyone who sneaks a peek will see a mix of English words and a squiggly language they likely won't be able to read. Crowley is not an organized scholar, but in between his attempts to throw together a class schedule, there are some spur-of-the-moment questions and notes.
Notable bits include 'Different planet? Is space the same?', and a list titled 'Clever Enough to Exorcise Me Here' with every name crossed off.
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.
no subject
He doesn't say it out loud, thank something definitely, absolutely not Her for small favors. But he does say it, internally, for the first time in six thousand years. Under the sunglasses his eyes are probably screaming it. The only other time something has warranted the occasion, he was too soused and still expected to die within hours.
He's not going to die, and wherever they are, it's the right place.
"Hey." Casual, and far too soft to be as breezy as he's going for. He sets the mug down, a little shakily. "There you are."
no subject
He made small talk with Crowley for centuries and here he is now, unsure how even to say hello.
no subject
Though of course, they've both got a knack for the unspoken. And yanked here by whatever's done this, Aziraphale probably felt just as at sea as he did.
"Yeah, last few hours. Caused a traffic jam, so I'm off to a fine start, I think. Though, funny story about that, not funny 'haha', more-"
Wait.
"Did I keep you waiting for long?"
no subject
He twists the ring around his pinkie finger.
"A traffic jam, though? Goodness, you're causing mischief already." His expression brightened with a warm smile. How wonderful to have Crowley running around, making a menace of himself for Aziraphale to thwart. "Does that mean you have your car here?" He almost wants to take a spin around the campus in it; he even misses that: just bottle them up in the capsule of their own comfortable little world and pretend it is just the two of them like always.
no subject
"Oh, it was an absolute mess. Loads of shouting and questions, people going home irritated." More himself than anyone around him, considering they were inconvenienced. And used to this, and at the moment are considerably more magical than him. But completely unearned bragging is settling him into a genuine grin of his own. "It's more direct than I like it, but that's how it's going to be here, I suppose. S'it hard to get used to?"
His super casual, not at all probing question is undercut by Aziraphale's more innocent one. Crowley winces theatrically. "I...have a car here." He's spent more time worrying about the Bentley than he has worried about Aziraphale, mainly to distract himself from worrying about Aziraphale. So he's already walked himself through undemonic thoughts like "it's not cheating if it's by necessity" and "she is my car, she survived a wall of fire, getting magicked away did not leave her crashed into the wall of a shop."
no subject
"You do get used to it, I suppose. The other students have been nice enough, and I've let them think I'm human, for the most part. The lack of miracles is a bit inconvenient, but for the most part, magic tends to make up for some of it."
Not too telling, he hopes. Just vague enough.
"Oh, but just A car? Not The Bentley? But..." That won't do. He frowns, a small pinch of his brow as he reconsiders his current, now obsolete, research. And slowly, his eyes light up. She is a bit demonic, isn't she? "...I wonder if one might summon a car..."
no subject
That look of a dawning idea is a familiar one, and it's enough to pull Crowley back to the present. He hunts through recent memory (including a very long acceptance letter and a few helpful pamphlets) for how that kind of power is meant to work here.
"Summon - that's the messy one that they get shirty about, right? The one that blows things up if you do it wrong?" Crowley pauses to consider this. "I wouldn't want her to show up in pieces, or with Hastur at the wheel or something. But I've never been more proud you'd bring it up." Proud and more than a little touched.
no subject
"My dear, I think a few types of magic may well blow up if done wrong. But summoning is what I do--what I try to do," he amends before boasting, straightening his tie, smoothing down his uniform, "I am not in the House Ka for nothing. We are the Sundering House. Of course higher ups get ...shirty about students learning to Sunder. After all, that is the power that brought us here. You could bring down a whole host of evil on this world if you're not careful. One doesn't enter into it lightly, but I have done a great deal of research on the matter if you are, indeed, ever interested."
He fusses with the pages of some of Crowley's notes absently, tidying them. "And I doubt we'd bring in Hastur. For one, I wouldn't make that kind of mistake. I am never so sloppy. And summoning in a demon is rather more difficult... I should think. "
no subject
He had squared with his desire to do for Aziraphale, to give to him and protect him, a long time ago. But the tensions had heightened so much, as Armageddon grew closer, and the angel's identity as an angel was so much more present that...well. He hadn't expected this. The Bentley was important, yes, but Aziraphale offering ranked right up there with the possibility of getting her back. Maybe even higher.
He takes in the red and black robes for the first time. (And the bow tie. He's not sure where Aziraphale got the bow tie, but it's ridiculous.) The fondness is reaching critical mass. It's the kind where violins start playing in the background.
"Suppose I should be grateful Ka's where they've put me too, since they've gone and stolen my color scheme," Crowley says airily, like he's not just said something very interesting. "I'm not really the robes type. Reminds me too much of monks. Think they'd let me turn it into a posh jacket, or something?"
no subject
I was careful, he almost snips back. But Crowley need not know the reckless extent Aziraphale went to try to bring him here. That is in the past, thankfully. He's here now.
Their little end of the table is radiating with a rosy feedback loop of fondness that Heaven would have been able to sense from all the way above in its Almighty perch, had Heaven existed here. He's known Crowley for over 6000 years and, aside from that lovely moment at the Ritz, he doesn't think he's ever quite embraced this impossibly growing aura that warms his core like a hearth.
This is unbridled friendship. This is what it is like to not have to look over one's shoulder and just openly and unabashedly appreciate the person you like most in the world. And to be liked equally and as openly in return. Every hour, every second spent buried in Sundering texts, practicing circles and languages and spells has been to reclaim the freedom to sit across from his best friend.
"Crowley, it's a uniform. You can't just change it. There are rules," he says, though there's a twinkle in his eye. It has never mattered if the administration would let Crowley--they both knew he was going to rebel anyway. "Besides. We could match."
no subject
He's going to have to make it clear later that the lengths Aziraphale has gone to, the dangerous things he's tangled with to try and bring Crowley here, are...well, it's not as if Crowley wouldn't have done the same thing, but even so.
And yet however long they've actually been separated, whether it's Aziraphale's efforts or something more ineffable that let them see each other again, it doesn't matter. Not really. They're here, sitting across from each other, casually bantering about dress codes. And they get to do it again tomorrow. And the next day. Crowley's not sure what to do with that, or the feelings it brings up in him, except to enjoy it all.
Fortunately, that suits him just fine.