Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Crowley pushed back from his desk with a scoff, the wheels of his battered old desk chair screeching under his weight like wailing spirits. It was just like Gabriel to refuse to use his preferred name even after all these years.

I’m looking forward to seeing you. Yeah right. Crowley hadn’t talked to the man in thirty years and was glad of it.

Gabriel had been the leader of his group of holier-than-thou ‘moral warriors’, but they had been bullies in a disguise of clingfilm. For some reason, they’d mostly left Crowley alone. Crowley had still been in a bit of a punk phase towards the end of secondary school, and they’d probably thought him to be beyond saving.

Crowley’s childhood best friend, Aziraphale, on the other hand, had taken the brunt of the group’s attention.

Gabriel’s and Aziraphale’s parents went to the same church. Gabriel clearly thought he could steer Aziraphale onto the right path with a heavy dose of preaching and daily, passive-aggressive comments. What that ‘right path’ looked like, Crowley still hadn’t the faintest. Aziraphale was an exemplary student. He got pretty much full marks for every exam—ok, maybe except for PE—did theatre after school and even volunteered after class to help the caretakers keep the school clean.

Crowley had always had an inkling that he was the reason Gabriel used to torment his best friend. It wasn’t a very good look on the churchgoers when a member of their golden, inner circle hung around with a punk like him.

It was one of the many reasons Crowley had liked Aziraphale so much, for Aziraphale had never cared about any of that stuff. He’d always been completely himself, with his vintage clothes and stuffy old books, and by extension had allowed space for Crowley to also be exactly that: himself—eyeshadow, black nails, backcombed ginger hair and all.

Crowley’s knee-jerk reaction to reading the e-mail was that there was no way in hell he’d go back there. Why would he wilfully torment himself with an evening of surface-level catching-up? And with people he hadn’t thought about in thirty years, no less.

It would be a complete waste of his energy.

He had much better things to do, like sleeping or acquiring new clients for his gardening business. Even though Crowley felt like he’d been back in London for ages, it had only been a humble five years since he’d left Scotland behind, and his loyal clientele with it. He hadn’t wanted to leave his old uni city behind but, you know, making a virtue of necessity and all that good stuff.

You see, Crowley’s mum had died five years ago, leaving him with no other family. They hadn’t been very close, but her death had still hit him hard. It had made him realise that there was no one else he could lean on anymore, that he only had himself.

He’d had a few partners over the years, but the relationships never lasted long. In almost all cases, the crux of Crowley’s doomed relationships was his asexuality. It was the one thing he would not compromise on, and his partners hadn’t seemed to like that very much.

Eventually, Crowley had simply stopped trying. Clearly, it wasn’t meant to be. He was destined to be alone. He’d even had to leave his friends in Edinburgh behind.

So the past five years, Crowley had buried himself in work with the excuse that it was a necessary evil to rebuild his gardening business here in London.

And the work had paid off. He’d gathered enough clients to live comfortably enough, and it gave him people to talk to, which was an added bonus.

He would never admit it out loud, but London got kind of lonely.

Still, you’d have to pay him a million pounds before he’d ever consider going to his secondary school reunion. The mere thought gave him the shivers. Voluntarily going to a place where he was forced to chitchat with Gabriel and his lot? He’d be completely mad.

Crowley got up from his chair and ambled to the kitchen to pour himself a cup of tea. The heat of the ceramic was soothing against his calloused hands and his mind went quiet for just a moment as he inhaled the familiar smell of his mum’s favourite drink.

“Completely mad,” Crowley muttered to himself as he sank into his sofa. “Off my rocker.” He slurped his tea before scoffing loudly. “I’d have a serious screw loose, going back to those twats.”

Except…

There had to be the most infinitesimal of chances that Aziraphale would attend as well.

Then Crowley wouldn’t be so mad, would he? He hadn’t spoken to Aziraphale in thirty years. Life had happened, time had passed. This could be their chance to reconnect, couldn’t it?

But if Crowley was already feeling reluctant, he imagined his childhood best friend was more likely to walk to the ends of the earth than come to their school reunion and be confronted with the people who’d made his time in school even harder than it already was.

Although…Aziraphale did always have an unpredictable streak. One time, Crowley had been frantically painting his nails during the lunch break. He’d forgotten to do it at home the night before and found it absolutely unacceptable to walk the halls with unpainted nails. He had an image to uphold, after all.

Aziraphale had watched him closely, and when he’d finished, asked, “Could you do mine?”

Needless to say, Crowley had stared at him for a good minute before he’d processed the request. He’d mumbled a quick, “Yeah, yeah, ‘course, yeah, cool.” And then Aziraphale’s hand had been in his. Warm, and soft, and like it had always been meant to be there. Crowley refused to make any eye contact for the rest of their break, his heart beating erratically as he put all his focus on getting his trembling hands to paint Aziraphale’s well-manicured nails with his black nail varnish, a colour people still considered ‘edgy’ at the time.

That’s when things had changed for Crowley. Really changed. That’s when he’d finally stopped living in denial. It had been their last year of secondary school, and Crowley had finally admitted to himself that he had feelings for his best friend.

And if he was being totally honest with himself, those feelings had never really left. They’d moved to the background, sure. But the mere thought of finally seeing Aziraphale at the reunion made Crowley’s heart skip excitedly.

There was just one thing…What if Aziraphale didn’t want to see him? Crowley had moved across the country after graduation, while Aziraphale had stayed behind. Back then, that kind of distance was synonymous with ending your friendships. Rationally, he knew the two of them could have stayed in touch. But Crowley had been afraid. Afraid of his feelings, afraid of being rejected, afraid of losing the one thing he treasured most.

Which was the most irrational thought of all, for he had lost Aziraphale.

Aziraphale might as well hate his guts for leaving him behind with no one but Gabriel and his stuck-up family.

Maybe Aziraphale had changed. Maybe, without Crowley around to steer him onto the chaotic-good path, Aziraphale had officially fallen in with Gabriel’s self-righteous, pompous cult of arseholes.

Luckily for Crowley, he’d always been somewhat of an optimist. It was true, Aziraphale could very well have changed during the past thirty years. But he just as well couldn’t have. He could just as well still be the fussy, bright, clever, funny person Crowley had loved all those years ago.

There was only one way to find out.

Fuck, it was cold.

Crowley locked his Bentley behind him—his beloved car was the result of years and years of saving up his hard-earned money—and wrapped his sleek, black blazer tighter around him.

The building that had been home to his most formative years was waiting for him, its red bricks and rows of tall windows towering over him like it was a modern castle and Crowley was the exiled prince that had never belonged in the first place.

Except instead of gargoyles it had misleading white-and-gold banners draped down its front depicting smiling kids to lure unsuspecting new students to their open day. And instead of gorgeous palace gardens, a charming courtyard or a characterful moat, it had a drab asphalt car park. It was home to the modern equivalent of golden carriages though. Sparkling new Mercedes-Benzes, Jaguars, Porsches and whatever else types of outrageously expensive cars you can think of were scattered around the mostly empty car park. Crowley supposed he wasn’t any better himself with his vintage Bentley, though he doubted any of those lot had had to work half as hard as he had to be able to afford their cars. He also doubted any of them loved their cars like he loved his Bentley. He couldn’t imagine any of those privileged wankers had ever given their cars a good rinse with the good old bucket and sponge. Seriously, how else were you ever going to bond with your car? By driving it to and from your Pilates classes?

(Crowley himself had, of course, also been a privileged wanker. But that had been the difference between him and the rest of them. He’d been raised with self-awareness, gratitude, and a sobering dose of humility.)

All in all, it was a pretentious building for a school with a pretentious name and even more pretentious students.

And yet, despite the November chill in the air, sweat was beading down the nape of his neck. Crowley tugged at the collar of his turtleneck, but it did little to relieve the sudden stress sweats that were making his skin all clammy. What the hell. Why was he feeling so nervous all of a sudden? He had no reason to be. He couldn’t care less about the people in that building.

Crowley soon came to the conclusion that there was another reason for his body to behave like a teenager about to go to his first school dance.

What if the guy he fancied was there?

Crowley felt absolutely ridiculous. Surely, he was too old for this shit?

But as he left his Bentley behind him, straightening his back and ignoring the cold wind that whistled through the trees and whipped at his clothes, Crowley had to accept that, apparently, you were never too old. There was a chance he was going to see Aziraphale when he walked through those doors, and there was a good chance his old best friend would chew him out for abandoning him in London.

The frigid weather didn’t forbode anything good. The sky was almost black, and the windows of the school were dark, their edges frozen over with ice creeping upwards like cobwebs. Only a few windows on the ground floor sent golden light into the dark night. That’s where Crowley was going. The gymnasium.

Crowley ambled through the familiar halls and ignored all the memories that came rushing back at the sight of them. He made his way straight to the gym, wrapped his hands around the double door handles, took a deep, steadying breath, and pushed them open.

He hadn’t given any thought to what Gabriel might have done to decorate the gym for their reunion, but as the doors swung open to reveal the gym, he realised it was exactly what he would’ve expected.

First of all, there was no mood lighting. No warm strings of fairy lights or, god help him, even a disco ball. No, the gymnasium where Crowley spent seven years being miraculously talented at gymnastics and unmiracaulously untalented at about every other kind of sport was illuminated exactly the same as it had been thirty years ago; with bright, obnoxiously buzzing fluorescent lights. Crowley wished he’d brought his sunglasses. This way, he was going to get a headache twice as fast as that one time he had to restructure an entire garden in 30°C heat without any kind of protection. He’d had to recover from sunstroke for an entire week.

Second of all, there was no DJ. Not just that, there wasn’t any music at all. Though Crowley wasn’t sure whether that was such a bad thing. Knowing Gabriel, they could’ve been stuck listening to hymns all night. However, without the music, the chattering voices of Crowley’s old classmates resounded through the gymnasium with a harsh clarity that hit Crowley’s ears like glass shattering against a marble floor.

There was no dance floor, nor was there a single chair. The only furniture were the low, wooden benches at the sides of the gym and the sea of round fold-up tables scattered across the blue, vinyl floor.

It also became abundantly clear that no one had thought to air out the place before tonight. Crowley felt fairly certain that it was the faint smell of teenage sweat mixed with oodles of testosterone that made his nose wrinkle involuntarily with every inhale.

Crowley’s gaze swept across the gymnasium. There was no point denying that his first thought was to look for Aziraphale.

But taking a quick inventory of the people in the room showed not a single man with a head of soft, blonde curls. Unless Aziraphale had drastically changed his appearance—he may have had an unpredictable streak in the past, but even that seemed like a step too far for Crowley’s set-in-his-ways childhood friend—he wasn’t there.

Crowley sauntered to the nearest table that didn’t have any people around it and was forced to quickly swallow his disappointment, for Gabriel had already spotted him.

The man Crowley had loathed more than anyone else during his teens came striding towards him with an incandescent smile, arms stretched before him like he was either going to strangle or hug Crowley. He wasn’t sure which would be worse.

“Anthony!” Gabriel called out before he slapped him against his bicep. “Thanks for coming!”

“It’s Crowley,” Crowley growled. A heavy waft of cologne infiltrated his nose, and he had to suppress the urge to wave it away like it was a swarm of wasps. God, he regretted coming tonight. He was living his actual nightmare.

“What was that?” Gabriel asked offhandedly, already launching into a rehearsed welcoming speech. “It’s good to see you! Thirty years, huh? You look great! Love the…” Gabriel faltered, his eyes doing a quick sweep of Crowley.

Crowley did his best to hide his grin, curious to see what compliment Gabriel would come up with that sounded at least a little genuine. It shouldn’t be too difficult, compared to thirty years ago. He no longer backcombed his hair—he’d had a big chop last year, trying to get back a sense of control. It hadn’t worked—he wasn’t wearing any eyeliner today and was even wearing a high-quality turtleneck that was a little above his normal budget.

Gabriel’s gaze seemed to get stuck on Crowley’s nails for a few seconds. Then they quickly snapped back up to his face. The fake smile was plastered back on in seconds and, after a fake clearing of his throat, Gabriel said, “…outfit.”

For some reason, Crowley felt triumphant. Gabriel failing to come up with anything beyond the most generic compliment ever somehow felt like a win. Like Crowley still confused him so much—what a little bit of black nail polish couldn’t accomplish—that Gabriel’s only thought had been: ‘He’s wearing clothes. Just say he’s wearing nice clothes.’

Which Crowley was, in his humble opinion, so fair enough.

Crowley made a show of inspecting his nailbeds before he met Gabriel’s eyes. “Thanks,” he drawled. “I wanted it to match my nails.”

He saw Gabriel’s brain short-circuit once again. To his credit, he recovered remarkably quickly. Crowley saw the light come back into his eyes as Gabriel seemed to remember the list of mandatory social questions one was supposed to ask at a reunion.

“So, what do you do now?”

Crowley couldn’t for the life of him figure out why Gabriel gave a flying fuck but answered all the same. It wasn’t like he felt like socialising with anyone else at the moment. Sure, his other classmates might’ve been a little less awful than Gabriel, but at least he could annoy Gabriel a little. With Gabriel, Crowley knew exactly how to get under his skin. He wasn’t going to give up his one chance at having a little fun this evening.

“I’m a gardener,” Crowley said.

“Didn’t you get a master’s degree at Edinburgh?”

“Yes, I did,” Crowley replied coolly. “Biological sciences.”

Gabriel scrunched his nose with disdain. “So you threw away your entire education to go play in the dirt?”

Crowley didn’t feel like explaining how much more his education had taught him than just theoretical information, how he’d learned to work together with others, think critically, meet deadlines, etc.

It was unlikely Gabriel would hear a single word of what he was saying anyway. So Crowley simply said, “Yes.” And added, in his head, ‘Prick.’

Gabriel nodded and took a sip from his wine, slurping it like he was at a vineyard drinking one of the better Châteauneuf-du-Papes instead of what was clearly boxed wine from Asda or something.

“Have any kids?” he asked then, looking into his glass as he swirled around the red drink.

Crowley started, taken aback by the question. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that he or his classmates could very well be parents by now. The thought made him shudder. At least half of them should definitely not be reproducing.

“Err, no.”

This caught Gabriel’s attention. He abandoned treating his wine like it was the holy blood of Christ and looked back at Crowley. “Why not?”

Crowley ground his teeth. There was no way he was going to give Gabriel the honest answer, which was that: one, he wasn’t planning on having sex ever in his life, two, even if he was, it’d never be with someone biology decided was necessary for reproduction, and three, he’d never want to be responsible for a whole damn child. Keeping himself alive and well was challenging enough. In any case, he settled on what he thought was just as valid an answer.

“Because.”

Gabriel’s smile twitched.

“Do you?” Crowley asked because social etiquette dictated him to.

“Oh, yes, of course! Four of them, all as accomplished as their father, haha!”

“And their mother?” Crowley asked sharply, one eyebrow raised.

Gabriel’s cheery demeanour faltered. “Oh, err, she isn’t...she and I aren’t...well—”

“Left you, did she?” Crowley couldn’t help but smirk.

Gabriel straightened his tie, regaining his composure with practised ease. “We had different views on what a family dynamic is supposed to look like.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Crowley grinned.

There was a natural lull in their conversation. Gabriel didn’t appear at all bothered by it and resumed sucking his wine through his teeth.

Crowley barely even noticed the silence. This entire time, he had been having two conversations. One with the lavender-clad bellend in front of him, and one with himself. He’d been trying to devise a clever way to ask Gabriel whether Aziraphale would be attending today without seeming too desperate or like it was the only thing he’d been able to think about ever since he’d received the invitation. It was to no one’s surprise—least of all his own—when he failed miserably and blurted out, “Is Aziraphale coming?”

Crowley could kick himself for his poor impulse control but kept a straight face and pretended it was a completely normal, totally not random change of subject.

“I don’t know,” Gabriel replied indifferently. “I haven’t spoken to him since he left the church, but—”

“Aziraphale left the church?!” Crowley interjected, his eyes growing wide.

Gabriel, clearly annoyed at the interruption and doing a piss poor job of hiding it, rolled his eyes. “Yes. Now, as I was saying, I did speak to his mother on Sunday—lovely old lady, though she’s starting to get a bit senile. She thought she’d heard him mention the reunion, and that he hoped he might run into Cody.”

A sharp twang of jealousy hit Crowley in the chest, but it faded almost as quickly as it had come. He frowned at Gabriel. “Cody? We didn’t go to school with anyone called Cody.”

Gabriel laughed heartily—Crowley had to suppress a wince at the sound. “Like I said, she’s getting a bit senile. Knows the hymns better than anyone at church though, bless her.”

“Right,” Crowley said slowly. He had about as much interest in Aziraphale’s stuck-up family as he had in talking to Gabriel for much longer. Teasing the man hadn’t turned out to fill him with the same kind of satisfaction as when they were kids, and Crowley found himself feeling more and more like he’d voluntarily signed up for an evening of torture.

Gabriel was once again staring at him in silence, and Crowley was about to excuse himself so he could further torture himself with some ‘mingling’ when he heard a tentative but oh-so-familiar voice behind him.

It tickled at the back of his neck like the whispers of a ghost, making his hair stand up straight and his breath catch in his throat. His heart rate spiked.

“…Crowley?”