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Jan. 1st, 2025 05:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeTitle: A Particular Set of Assumptions
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: Explicit
Tags: Teachers AU, Human AU, Enemies to lovers, He/him pronouns for Crowley, He/him pronouns for Aziraphale, first kiss, Crowley has a cat, Aziraphale has a cat, Anathema & Crowley, POV alternating
Warnings: none
Summary: Crowley’s day couldn’t get any worse. That is until he learns what teacher he’ll be working with for the year-end interdisciplinary project.
Notes: The title is from Tracy Chapman’s song “A Theory”
––
“Fucking Eastgate. Really? Might as well sentence me to die of boredom. He’s gonna leave his little teacups all over the place, and guess who’s bound to clean them up?” Crowley points two extremely put-out thumbs at himself and grumbles.
“I’m sorry, Crowley,” Anathema says, not sounding sorry at all. “Each class is teamed up with one from another subject for the year-end interdisciplinary project, and it has to be a different pairing every year. You know this. No repeats until everyone’s worked together. You were bound to get stuck with him sooner or later. Besides, he’s not that bad.”
“Why do I find that impossible to believe?” Crowley asks. One large gulp of his coffee later and his tongue is burned. Great. First it rained, meaning he couldn’t ride his motorcycle, then he’d had to clean up the dishes from Eastgate’s stupid staff book club as soon as he’d arrived. Now, this.
“Aziraphale is –”
“Oh, it’s Aziraphale now? You’re on a first-name basis with my nemesis? Traitor. Ever since you joined that blasted book club of his, you’ve been on his side.”
“Yeesh, you’re grouchy this morning,” Anathema says. Her witchy skirt swishes as she walks to stand next to him at the sink. “There aren’t sides, Crowley. We’re all on the same team. What if I make sure we clean our dishes after meetings? Would that help?”
“A little,” Crowley mumbles.
“You’d hate him less?”
“Nnn –” Crowley starts. Then he sees the stern look on her face. “Maybe.”
“I’ll take it. Now quit whining and get to class.”
“Fine, fine, but if he gets on my nerves I’ll make it my business to get on yours.”
Anathema has the gall to roll her eyes at him as she leaves. The walk to his classroom is short, and he’s often tardy for his own roll call, but Crowley treats his students like the young adults they are. They know they’re not allowed to screw around or leave early, and he always finds them studying their materials or setting up the lab when he saunters in.
That is, until today. As he rounds the corner, laughter erupts and spills out into the hallway. Someone is going to pay for this. Punishment of their choice, coming right up as soon as he finds out who’s to blame.
“Well, everyone thought it was funny except him,” Eastgate says as Crowley comes through the door.
“Entertaining my class with interesting history facts, Mr Eastgate?” Crowley says, his tone flat as he moves to the front of the room, making it seem like he’s about to stand next to his colleague. Then, at the last moment, he veers toward his desk and flops into his chair, draping one of his legs over the armrest.
“Well, actually –”
“Sounds great. Listen. What are we doing for this combined project? Any thoughts?”
Eastgate crinkles his nose at being interrupted. Good. Serves him right, coming in here and running their class, making Crowley’s students laugh. That’s Crowley’s job. Despite his few hard and fast rules, Crowley always makes his classes fun. He’s the cool teacher.
“My thought was that we could recreate a historical science experiment. The students could actually perform it, then write essays about why it was historically important.”
It’s a good idea. Crowley hates that it’s a good idea, and he hates the fact that he’s only had ten minutes to come up with an idea of his own. He's spent exactly zero of said minutes doing so.
“Eh, ‘s a decent idea,” Crowley offers, propping his feet up on the desk and tilting in his chair. “As long as the kids don’t irradiate themselves or anything.”
“Got any better ideas? One single better idea?” Eastgate leans against the lab table and crosses his arms. Stupid closed-off cocky body language. Just for that, Crowley crosses his arms, too.
“Nah, we can do your thing,” he says after a moment. “Takes the pressure off of me, and what do I always say, class?”
“Work smart, not hard,” his students chime in together. Crowley beams but catches himself before he sticks his tongue out in childish victory. As the talking dies down, his eyes alight on an antique reversible chalkboard. “What is that?”
“It’s the chalkboard from my classroom. Surely you’ve seen one before.”
“Obviously. What I mean is why did you roll an entire chalkboard down here with you? We have a perfectly good smart board.”
“Mr Eastgate has all sorts of cool-looking stuff like that in his room.”
“Thank you, Warlock,” Eastgate says, beaming. “I enjoy collecting interesting things.”
“Collecting? Seems like you’re using it. Don’t like the smart board?” Crowley prods.
“We tried to show him how to use it but –”
“‘S fine. I like chalkboards,” Crowley interjects. “Can’t make obnoxious noises with my fingernails on these new screens.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Eastgate says.
Crowley curls the fingers of one hand like a claw and makes the motions, but he doesn’t move from his spot. He’d only be punishing himself with the sound, not to mention the feel of it on his nails.
“I won’t, but if you need someone to stay after class and pound erasers, let me know,” Crowley says, then clears his throat. “Talk amongst yourselves, folks. Mr E. and I are gonna discuss your projects.”
—
Aziraphale takes the seat across the desk from Crowley; he sits up straight, offering himself as a role model for posture in contrast to the bad influence seated – and he uses that term loosely – opposite him. It’s important to take every opportunity to set a good example.
“I’m not entirely certain how I feel about that moniker, Mr Crowley.”
“Mr E? What’s wrong with it? And it’s jus’ Crowley. You know that, yeah?”
“Well, some of us aren’t on such familiar terms with our students.”
“Hm. Laughing and talking with them, weren’t you? My students, too, not just yours. Seemed cosy. Nothing wrong with that, though, eh?”
Aziraphale twists his shoulders. Something tight in his back demands his attention, but he shan’t be giving it. Not just this minute. Just this minute he’s witnessing a grown man wrestle with what any reasonable adult would consider an ordinary desk chair. And Crowley’s losing. Every twist threatens to topple him, yet he never seems to learn from his mistakes. Although he doesn’t fall either. The image will thrive in Aziraphale’s memory for the foreseeable future. Every bit of willpower is focused on not laughing out loud.
“I have a rapport with them, if that’s what you mean,” Aziraphale says.
“Only took you five minutes.” Crowley leans precariously, one gangly arm draped over the seatback. Then, unable to settle, he pulls one foot up onto the seat and rests his chin on his knee. This causes Crowley to veer backwards, but he catches himself before he falls.
“Oh,” Aziraphale says. Maintaining this veneer of professionalism is making his jaw ache from stifling his laughter. “Are you jealous of my ability to charm your class in your absence? You could have easily prevented that had you merely arrived on time this morning.”
“That would’ve been no fun for you. I’m willing to make certain sacrifices for the greater good.”
“You are? Well, thank you. Perhaps you’d be willing to remain civil for the duration of the joint project, then?” Aziraphale asks, raising his eyebrows.
“Hardly. I intend to give you the business the entire time. No obligation to enjoy it, though. You do you, as the kids say.”
Crowley picks up an expensive-looking pen and begins clicking it incessantly.
“In my experience the children say a lot of things, few of which should be considered sound advice,” Aziraphale says.
“Quite the opposite, in my experience. Kids have a lot of insights if you’re willing to listen to them.” The clicks get faster and Crowley spins his chair around and around. The effect is dizzying. Aziraphale looks out the window at the even sway of the trees in the calm breeze.
“Are you implying, then, Mi – Crowley, that I don’t engage in meaningful conversation with my students?”
“I would never imply such a thing. That’s merely what you’re inferring, Mr E.”
“Quite,” Aziraphale says. “I’m sorry, how can you stand twirling around like that? Would you stop?”
“I’ll stop when I’m ready t –”
“Are you two done flirting now?” Adam asks. He’s standing near the desk, grinning.
“No,” Crowley says.
“No, you’re not done flirting with me?” Aziraphale asks, amused.
“Correct,” Crowley says before turning to Adam. “Have you all split into groups of four with two students from each class?”
“We didn’t know that was the plan,” Adam says. “You’ve both been hiding in the corner. Meanwhile we’ve been left to our own devices. Liable to get ourselves into trouble like that.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Crowley says. At last he stops the infernal movements of his chair.
“Actually, I was thinking we should assign the teams,” Aziraphale contributes. “It tends to level the playing field, as they say. Keeps things shuffled up and prevents hard feelings.”
“Except against us,” Crowley mumbles.
“I’m sorry?”
“Kids don’t like it when you force them to work with others. Better to let them choose. Free will and all that.”
“That explains a lot,” Aziraphale says before he catches himself. Crowley’s lax rules are a bit of an open secret among the teaching staff. Some resent him for it. Aziraphale actually doesn’t, but he’s just heavily implied that he does. “What I mean to say is that some of the more introverted children–”
“We’re not children,” Adam interjects. “I’m fifteen.”
“Mm. As I said. Children,” Aziraphale says.
“OK, old man,” Adam counters. Crowley snorts with laughter.
“Oh, be quiet, Crowley. You’re no younger than I am,” Aziraphale snaps, but he’s smiling ever so slightly. Despite Adam’s words, his tone is playful and not disrespectful. The teacher decides to let it slide, unless Adam says anything else questionable. “All right, everyone. Take your seats. It’s time to assign teams.”
Aziraphale makes a point of looking directly at Crowley, who’s scrolling his phone and is apparently content to let Aziraphale do all the work. It reminds him of group projects he’d participated in just like these, actually. Inevitably he’d get paired up with someone completely unwilling to pull their weight and be forced to grapple with the decision of whether he should do the work for both of them or tell the teacher. Neither option had been particularly appealing. He always went with the former, because Aziraphale, in his youth, had been quite the people pleaser. Well, no more.
“Mister Crowley. Would you deign to come to the front of the class and assist me with group assignments. If you’re not too busy?”
“Nah.”
Nah?
“What would entice you to do a modicum of work this morning? Cake? Espresso? Double A batteries? Land in Montana?”
“I’ll take whatever you’re giving?” Crowley says. There are several giggles at that. Aziraphale sincerely hopes the teens haven’t cottoned on to the double entendre.
—
At the end of the day, Crowley spots Eastgate and hurries over to have a little fun poking the bear. Although maybe Eastgate would be considered more of an otter.
“Went pretty smoothly today, wouldn’t you say?” Crowley asks as he walks irregular circles around his colleague. It’s no small feat in the crowded hallway.
“I’ve no complaints,” Eastgate answers. There’s a pause. It’s not awkward, exactly, but Crowley hopes that he’s not about to be asked for a favor.
“I’d like to ask a favor of you, if you don’t mind.”
Shit.
“Depends what it is,” Crowley hedges. Despite his reputation he’s a bit of a pushover. Come to think of it, actually, that is his reputation, according to Adam.
“Of course it does. I was only hoping we could meet for dinner later? Or coffee, perhaps? To discuss the assignments, of course. Our plans for grading the projects. A scoring system and the like.”
“Scoring system?” Crowley asks. He wonders if he should tell Eastgate that his grading system is mostly based on gut feelings, hunches, and vibes. That would really rile him up. Best not. He’d probably take the joke too seriously. “Sure. That’d be fine, I s’pose.”
“Oh, splendid. The place just round the corner, then?”
“The local teacher’s hangout?” Crowly curls his lip in distaste.
Eastgate furrows his brow and looks back and forth between Crowley and the doors where students flow out in a constant stream.
“Yes?” Aziraphale tries.
“Nah. Ready to go now, if ya want. Or do you need to get some things? Car’s right out front.”
“Yes, I know. Everyone knows. Due to it being parked in my space.”
Crowley stops.
“Your what? There aren’t assigned spots.”
“No, but I normally park there. At least when you ride your motorbike. I assumed everyone knew that? If you’re there, I have to walk from down the street.”
Crowley, until this point, has been blissfully unaware this conflict existed. It’s a bit embarrassing and defeats the purpose of annoying someone. Crowley likes to be aware of his slights, so he can keep score, and he can’t gloat about something he’s done accidentally. Eastgate seems to think some social contract has been violated. In a world where nothing is assigned, how can Crowley take what isn’t his? There’s no reason to feel guilty. And yet.
“Oh. Didn’t realise. I’ve just been taking whatever’s closest.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that.”
“Well,” Crowley continues, ready for this conversation to be over forever so he can crawl into a hole. Instead he’s obligated to spend at least the duration of one dinner or several drinks in the company of a man he has apparently unknowingly slighted on countless occasions. “I know a quaint little pub off the beaten path.”
“Embarrassed to be seen with me, then?” Eastgate says it as though it’s a joke, but there’s a touch of something underneath there, something raw and red.
“Nah. Just can’t stand the small talk with the other teachers. Spend all day here with ‘em, yeah? Ready to see some fresh faces.”
“You must be quite tired of mine then, after today. Perhaps we could discuss this in the morning before class instead, if you’d prefer?”
First of all, there’s no way in hell that Crowley will be able to drag his weary bones out of bed earlier than normal. He knows his limits, and planning to do anything additional in the morning is not doable. Secondly, despite everything said between them today, he has a strange urge to soothe the hurt of the man standing next to him.
“Just get in the car, Eastgate. Best get this over with,” Crowley says. He does manage to smile to let the man know he’s joking. Or flirting? No, definitely the former.
—
The pub is dimly lit and relatively quiet. There’s a woman with blond hair in the corner by the window playing soft folk songs on the guitar.
Aziraphale offers to buy the first round of drinks while Crowley secures a table in the back. This is his haunt, after all. Two glasses of red in hand, Aziraphale searches until he sees Crowley waving him over. They have a drink order in common, at least. Aziraphale’s mother had always taught him to look for things he had in common with other people, to build connections. She could talk to anyone, charm anyone, rest her soul. Her advice has never let him down.
“Is the food good here?”
“Decent. I can point out a few gems, but I recommend avoiding the shepherd’s pie. I don’t know what they put in it, but I’m not sure the animal is of this Earth.”
“Noted. I think I’ll just have whatever you recommend, then.”
Crowley fiddles with his wine glass. Taking turns, his long fingers curl around the stem, coiling like a snake. It’s fascinating. What else might hands like that get up to?
Despite talking about ordering, they drink several rounds and talk instead, getting-acquainted sort of things like how many siblings they each have – five for Crowley and none for Aziraphale. They don’t spend long on family; Aziraphale makes sure of that. Since his parents passed, and even before then, he’s spent a lot of time alone or in the company of only a close friend or two. There’ve been a couple of exes, but mostly he doesn’t need anyone and doesn’t usually seek anyone out. Not that he says any of that. All he says is no siblings, parents gone since college.
Feeling a bit fuzzy around the edges, Aziraphale takes a long sip. There’s no denying that Crowley is good looking. Aziraphale cataloged and filed away his attraction to the tall redhead five years ago, when Crowley started teaching at the school. Since then, Crowley has let his hair grow down to his shoulders. And who wouldn’t be intrigued by someone who arrives on a motorcycle every day, weather permitting?
Someone, perhaps, whose space in the carpark is stolen every time said man is forced to drive his car. Aware of his faults, Aziraphale is willing to admit his propensity to be petty and hold grudges. Woe be upon anyone who takes his food from the staff refrigerator. Labels with his name have adorned his salad dressing since the time Michael borrowed the last of it, leaving Aziraphale only with a sad, dry salad for lunch.
Crowley, up until this point, had been no different. In the past, Aziraphale had considered leaving a passive aggressive note on his windscreen, but the days were always rainy. The ink would have bled, the complaint washed away by the water. Similarly, any irritation left over from their interactions earlier in the day slowly erodes with the gentle patter of jokes and conversation.
Lost in a moment of self-reflection, Aziraphale finally looks up to see a steaming plate of food in front of him. How much time, exactly, had passed in silence? Had Crowley gotten up and placed an entire food order without Aziraphale noticing?
“When did you order this?”
“When you were at the bar getting the last round.” Crowley tips his head at a beautiful woman with dreads who’s clearing tables. “Nina knows my order already, and it was an easy choice, what to get you. Best dish in the house.”
So it hasn’t been an inordinate amount of time they’ve been sitting in relative silence.
The dish is lamb, and it’s absolutely scrumptious. He’s already taken several bites by the time Crowley even takes one, oohing and aahing at every mouthful.
“Ehem,” Crowley says, patting his chest as though he’s afraid he might choke. “Like it then?”
“Oh, my, yes!” he affirms. If he’s honest, Aziraphale hadn’t expected anything from a hole in the wall like this, just as he hadn’t expected much from a flash bastard like Crowley. There were books and then there were covers.
As it turns out, the two teachers have a lot in common, including the fact that both of them have cats at home. How he’d been enticed to start talking about Oscar, Aziraphale isn’t sure, but sometime during their discussion on the issue of indoor versus outdoor cats Aziraphale notices he’s having fun.
“But the innocent birds!” Aziraphale exclaims. “Do you know how many are killed each year by house cats? I don’t remember, exactly, but you should google it.”
“I’m not saying let them all out willy-nilly,” Crowley insists. “Delilah is an indoor cat. ‘S just that I believe in free will and all. If that’s what the cat wants, then it’s what the cat wants. My princess wants to sleep all day, and she requires fresh, organic food. No mice. And every night she has to hear her lullaby before bed.”
“Honestly, I can’t believe a man who drives a motorcycle to school sings to his cat every night.”
“I play her song for her; I don’t sing it. She’s named after Freddie Mercury’s cat, and Freddie wrote ‘Delilah’ for her.” Crowley insists. They’ve both had several glasses. At some point Aziraphale lost count entirely. He sways in his seat.
“It’s very sweet, don’t get me wrong,” Aziraphale reassures, but Crowley makes a sour face. Time for a slight subject change, perhaps. “Here, let me show you photos of Oscar.”
Aziraphale gets up and sits next to Crowley, opening the album on his phone full of photos of his tuxedo cat and handing it over. In order for them both to see the pictures at once with the privacy screen, he has to crowd in close. After several photos and their accompanying stories, Aziraphale’s head ever so slightly rests on Crowley’s shoulder.
They’re laughing at one of Oscar’s best poses – lying flat on his back with his paws stretched above his little head – when Aziraphale realises his hand is on Crowley’s thigh. How long has that been there, and why hasn’t Crowley said anything? If Aziraphale hadn’t noticed, perhaps it’s plausible Crowley hasn’t either.
“May I see some photos of Delilah?” Aziraphale asks. Reluctantly, he lifts his hand from Crowley’s leg.
“You’ll love her,” Crowley says, fumbling to free his phone from the tight back pocket of his black jeans. “Everyone does. She’s a gorgeous calico.”
And she really is gorgeous, just like her owner.
—
Crowley’s classroom is like the belly of a beast. A beast who’s eaten something that doesn’t agree with it. A deep, horrifying grumble erupts from the back corner as Adam Young rises from his chair. He burbles up from the beast's stomach and bursts out.
“It wouldn’t’ve happened that way, and you know it!” Adam shouts.
“No, because back then women couldn’t get anywhere in science without men stealing their work!” Pepper yells. Gripping her desk with one hand, she slams the open palm of the other down hard.
“Exactly! This is a re-enactment. It should be historically accurate! That’s the assignment!”
Crowley leans back in his chair, watching the chaos unfold. The team assignments had all been his colleague’s choice after all, and watching Eastgate’s ideas crash and burn certainly offers some enrichment for Crowley’s enclosure.
“Whoa, whoa, there,” Eastgate says in a low, even-measured tone. It’s meant to calm them, and it works. Tone like that could probably soothe a charging gorilla bent on guarding its nest. They sit down; Crowley can’t hear what the other teacher says next, but he watches as postures relax and heads nod. The muscles in Crowley’s back and arms relax along with them.
It should be anticlimactic, boring, but the unexpected ease with which Eastgate handles it is fascinating. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, working together.
“Erm, Mist – I mean, Just Crowley?” A slippery looking teen, bulky for his age, draws his gaze. The young man, whose name escapes him, is on the verge of tears as he fiddles with a string on the hem of his jumper.
“Yes? How can I help…?”
“Miles. Miles Johnson. I need–” Miles sniffles and Crowley holds a box of tissues in his direction. Miles takes one. “We need more fish. Some of them, you see, well, some of them have gone belly up. Shem and Julius–”
“You’ve named your experiments?” Crowley interrupts. “Well, there’s your first problem. They’re not pets.”
“I didn’t mean to get attached,” Miles says before blowing his nose like a trumpet. Most of the students stop talking and stare at them, their attention drawn by the sound.
“Have you considered a different experiment? Something with fruit flies, maybe? They’re popular in science, and harder to get emotionally invested in.”
“I could ask my group,” Johnson says, brightening a little. “Only, I’m not sure if we’ll have enough time, switching in the middle?”
“I’m not promising anything until I talk to Mr E, but what if we consider an extension of your deadline?”
There’s a ruffling of fabric and shuffling of feet and Eastgate is there, hand resting on Crowley’s shoulder. Have they ever touched before? He thinks he would remember, especially because there’s a heat radiating out from the point of contact.
“I think that would be fine, if you end up needing the extra time, that is,” Eastgate interjects.
“That would be good,” Johnson says. “I’ll ask the gang about the fruit flies. And–”
Both teachers wait patiently, but the lad doesn’t finish his sentence. Eastgate’s hand slides to a spot between Crowley’s shoulder blades. A simple touch between friends, right? The man doesn’t even seem to notice he’s doing it. Crowley’s back and shoulders are tight from slouching all day; it would be nice to lean into the feeling, but he doesn’t.
“Yes?” Eastgate urges gently.
“I was wondering what will happen to the other fish? If we don’t use them for the experiment, I mean? Could I take them home with me? Job and Jemimah and the others?”
“I think we can arrange that,” Eastgate says, and Johnson returns, smiling, to his group. “That was kind of you.”
“Not kind. Adaptable teaching style. Rolling with the punches. Bending the rules.”
Crowley loves bending the rules, a little grey in a black and white world teaches the kids about how things really are. They both stare straight ahead, watching the groups interact.
“Well, I’ve seen Miles throw a lot of punches,” Eastgate says. “And I’ve never seen him emotional like that. For him to open up he must have felt comfortable around you. Safe. Maybe he’s softening, and he won’t be such a bully anymore.”
A sigh. A cold spot where the warm hand was, and Crowley’s alone. It happens so fast.
“Wensleydale, no! Do not light that on fire,” Eastgate says, already striding across the room at a clip. “I swear. You know better than this. There’s flammable materials right – stop this instant and put that down, young man. Crowley. A little help?”
Well, so much for having a little peace.
“Wensleydale! Behave or I’ll tell your parents about your secret stash of cheese in the lab refrigerator,” Crowley threatens.
“You wouldn’t!”
“Try me.”
The kid at least has enough sense to stop and put the lighter down. Wensleydale’s parents don’t let him have cheese because he’s lactose intolerant. Crowley believes in letting kids learn from their own mistakes, generally, so he doesn’t normally say anything about the cheese. Even though it spits in the face of lab safety and procedures. His solution had been to move everything else to the other refrigerator.
“All right, everyone. Adjourn for the day. I want outlines for your essays by Monday,” Eastgate announces. “Have a good weekend!”
Chatter dissipates slowly as the students trickle out of the room, and Crowley watches Eastgate bid farewell to each one as they exit. A pat on the shoulder for most, a handshake for a few. Some get a high five or a little salute. Perhaps he’s just a tactile person. But Crowley isn’t. To Crowley, a touch on his back means something. And he liked it, a lot.
“So,” Crowley says as Eastgate returns to stand at his side. They survey the chaos before them. If Crowley hadn’t been so distracted by a certain teacher, he would have ordered the groups to clean up after themselves before leaving.
“Yes?” Eastgate asks. His hand returns gently to that same spot on Crowley’s back, then moves up just a bit, and a thumb grazes Crowley’s neck. Crowley nearly forgets where he is, and his eyes flutter shut.
There’s a light scratch of nails on Crowley’s nape. Exactly what does Eastgate think he’s doing? Crowley should move, or at least clear his throat conspicuously. As it stands, he doesn’t want to break the spell. That’s what this is, a spell. He’s under it. Must be some manner of hypnosis the gods passed down.
It’s no time to get lost in some kind of trance. Crowley has to pull himself together. He opens his eyes, and the room is still in complete disarray.
“Help me clean up this mess?” he asks, and the hand retracts, landing at Aziraphale’s side.
“Couldn’t we just, I don’t know, leave it until morning?”
“Absolutely not,” Crowley says. “This is exactly how we end up with a sinkful of tea and crumpets every Thursday. I’m begging you to clean up one single mess.”
Aziraphale’s eyebrows nearly disappear into the stratosphere.
“I beg your –”
“Forgiveness? Yeah, you should. Did you ever wonder where all those dishes go?”
“I assumed the janitorial staff –”
Crowley explodes with laughter, doubling over with his hands on his knees.
“Janitorial – oh, that’s rich. No, Mr E. The staff has never once cleaned up your dishes. It always falls to me.”
“Well, you certainly aren’t obligated.”
“No, I’m certainly not. But the thing is, the sight of them drives me crazy. The sight of you drives me crazy. Your little sweater vests and your sensible shoes. That curly hair and those strong forearms. You’ve no right to those. What exactly are you lifting? I’ve never seen you pick up anything heavy! But then you roll up those sleeves and –”
Oh shit, oh shit. What’s his mouth doing? What’s he saying? Stop, stop, stop!
—
Aziraphale is confused, to put it lightly. Crowley’s started talking and a mix of seemingly unconnected thoughts is pouring out. Seemingly unconnected except for the fact that they’re all about Aziraphale. Wait.
“My… arms? You’re thinking about my arms?”
“Arms, hands, fingers. What – and I mean what – were you doing with your hand on my neck just now? Touching, caressing.”
Had he been?
“Was I?”
“Yes – I can’t believe you didn’t – yes. You were –”
Crowley’s face is red. He’s sputtering and waving his hands about. There’s a wild look in his eye. Crowley is bothered, stirred up… aroused?
Most of the sounds coming out of Crowley’s mouth could hardly be classified as words, and the ones that could are not fit for the classroom. He’s started pacing, and Aziraphale watches the swing of his hips, the shape of his calves in his tight jeans. The little heel on his snakeskin boot emphasizes the tone of his leg muscles.
Aziraphale has a strong urge to step forward into Crowley’s path, to block him into stillness, to place a single finger across his lips to keep them from moving. So he does. Aziraphale takes two purposeful strides into the path Crowley has been walking back and forth and puts his index finger over Crowley’s still-moving lips.
“What’s this?” Crowley manages to say, although a tad muffled by the finger. It hasn’t worked. Perhaps another method would be best for getting his point across.
“Kiss me?” Aziraphale asks. The question must catch Crowley off guard, because he begins sputtering again.
“OK,” Crowley finally agrees. Aziraphale removes his finger and stares into light brown eyes that blink thrice before Crowley moves in closer. He stops millimeters from Aziraphale’s mouth. “Like this?”
“Bit closer actually,” Aziraphale clarifies, and he can’t help but smile.
Crowley’s top lip brushes against Aziraphale’s teeth as he bites Aziraphale’s lower lip and holds.
“Li’ thith?” Crowley jokes.
Aziraphale nearly disappears into a cloud of giggles. Crowley releases his lip. Face to face, they descend into a fit of laughter. They don’t, however, move apart. Eventually they stop laughing and just look at each other.
“I can see you could use some instruction on how to properly kiss. Must have been far too long since you’ve done it. Would you like me to demonstrate for you?” Aziraphale asks.
“An expert, I see. Go on, Mr Eastgate, wow me with your miracles,” Crowley responds.
Slowly, deliberately, Aziraphale palms the back of Crowley’s neck, remembering how flustered it had made him simply being touched there. Next, he joins their foreheads, noses slotted together, side-by-side. Feeling the moment, Aziraphale licks his lips. Then, languidly, he bestows upon Crowley a tender, open-mouthed kiss. It’s a sudden deep spot in a shallow pool, and Aziraphale takes a step into it without looking down. One leg buckles beneath him, the worthless thing, but Crowley’s arm is there to catch him at the waist and hold him upright. Well, as upright as he can be when Crowley’s tongue is practically down his throat.
It may be minutes or it may be hours. Aziraphale would rather not know. Just as he’d rather not ever need to breathe again.
“Good lord,” he whispers into Crowley’s mouth.
“Yeah,” Crowley agrees. Just as Aziraphale had done, Crowley touches their foreheads together.
Aziraphale’s life until this point has been covered in a translucent film; he knows this now. He knows it in the same way he knew, on his first and only day working retail, that he wasn’t cut out to sell a single thing, not that day and not in his lifetime. Back then he’d turned in his apron and never looked back.
The Aziraphale that doesn’t need anyone else in his life is dead now.
He needs Crowley like water, could go days without him but not without suffering. All he wants is to spend every waking moment with their bodies tangled together in a knot of limbs. The halls have grown quiet.
“Wait a tick,” Aziraphale whispers as he pulls reluctantly away, locks the door, and pulls down the shades.
—
Crowley flexes his fingers, trying to confirm this is real. Seems to be, except for the fact that Eastgate – Aziraphale; he should probably start thinking of him as Aziraphale or perhaps a pet name instead – is locking the door. Crowley has free, unfettered access to that arse. Or, he will, as soon as Aziraphale walks it back over to him, which hopefully will be sooner than later. Because Crowley has plans for those thighs. He has plans for every part of this plush, adorable, charmingly insufferable man.
Shades drawn, Aziraphale turns around and begins rolling up his sleeves. Fuck if that’s not exactly the thing to short out Crowley’s brain and leave it in a twisted smoking heap. Doesn’t need it anyway. Not a drop of blood left in the top half of his body to run such a complex and unnecessary organ. No, Crowley has many other uses for the lust pumping through his veins. It travels quickly down.
When Aziraphale is back in his arms, they tip sideways onto the reading couch in the back corner of Aziraphale’s history classroom. There’s a bust of Napoleon staring at them. When Crowley removes his jacket, he tosses it strategically over Bonaparte’s face. That’s better.
A pretzel, Crowley wraps his limbs haphazardly around the soft, angelic teacher.
“Where’d you come from?” Crowley asks nonsensically. The question goes unanswered except for a soft caress that brushes his back. It moves up his spine, and Crowley shivers, dropping his head onto Aziraphale’s shoulder.
Aziraphale’s hair is as soft as it looks, and Crowley buries both hands deep into it, dragging their faces together for another kiss, sloppy and urgent. It’s all teeth and nibbles, all sliding tongues and low moans.
There’s a stack of books behind Aziraphale – until it tips unceremoniously and topples to the floor. Neither of them moves to retrieve them, focused as they are on unbuttoning and unzipping and grabbing greedy handfuls of newly exposed flesh.
Little yelps and deep groans slip out as Aziraphale scratches parallel lines down Crowley’s back, little red trails. Crowley’s nearly lost in the feeling of that when there’s a tender touch on his temple. It’s fleeting and warm and then he’s kissing the soft flesh of Aziraphale’s jaw.
Swinging a leg over him, Crowley climbs into Aziraphale’s lap. Knees sinking into the cushions, he presses himself, hard and eager, against the slight swell of Aziraphale’s belly; trapped, Aziraphale wriggles, equally stiff and aching. Crowley grinds down and forward, pleased Aziraphale moans wantonly.
In the hall, the floor buffer whirs across the linoleum. The sound is comforting white noise. Crowley knows, as well, that Shadwell will never hear them, lost as he always is in the bagpipe songs playing loudly through his headphones.
God, he doesn’t want to think about Shadwell right now.
“Must be Shadwell out there,” Aziraphale says. Damn it.
“Don’t want to think about him,” Crowley says, low and sultry, in Aziraphale’s ear. “Want to think about this. You.”
Crowley rolls his hips, shirt hanging open.
“Fuck,” Aziraphale groans into Crowley’s bare chest. Eagerly, Crowley snakes his fingers under Aziraphale’s layers.
Every part of him that touches Aziraphale is jolted awake. Crowley wants to touch every part of him, taste everything, leave little tooth marks in half-moon formations everywhere. It would be nice to tumble down into this and never come out.
There are Aziraphale’s hands on his hips, there are lips on Crowley’s ear, whispering Aziraphale’s every little thought.
“Look at you,” Aziraphale says, running his hands over Crowley’s chest. Both of their shirts hang open on their shoulders. “Lithe and slinky. What would it be like to have you bouncing on my cock right here on this couch? What kind of sounds would you make? Would you scream for me, if I wanted you to? I’d make a mess of you, you know. Fold your legs to your chest and fuck down into you until you come, helplessly, all over your own chest.”
Good holy fuck.
“Ngk. What else?”
“I could,” Aziraphale starts, and pauses when Crowley sucks hard on his collarbone. “I could pull out at the last moment and come all over you, too.”
Crowley pulls Aziraphale’s cock, thick and rock hard, from his trousers, wraps his hand firmly around it. “Let me suck you off?”
“Yes. Yes, please.”
Smiling, Crowley climbs onto the floor. He puts a pillow down for his knees and gets on eye level with Aziraphale’s cock. As much as he longs to kiss every single vein, he goes first to kiss Aziraphale’s stomach, to dip the tip of his tongue into his belly button. Gripping Aziraphale’s hips, he plants several kisses there, mere distractions from the fact that he’s about to lunge.
—
Crowley’s mouth is on him, warm and tight, and Crowley’s tongue is wrapping around him in ways that shouldn’t be humanly possible. Aziraphale bucks up slightly, not too much, and the slight graze of a tooth catches on the head of his cock. A sharp intake of breath doesn’t stop Crowley, thank god, from taking all of him, tip to base.
The sight of Crowley, tousled hair bouncing as he moves, is nearly enough to make Aziraphale come then and there. He notices Crowley’s arm moving, touching himself. Crowley is so turned on by kneeling at Aziraphale’s feet he’s taken himself in hand.
Greedily, he grabs Crowley’s hair and tugs. It’s a lifeline, a tether, a ground wire. It doesn’t stop him from sparking, from flying off, from crying out the closer he gets to losing control. Aziraphale is still tugging, hips twitching, moaning, when he knows he can’t hold back any longer. Just then Crowley lifts his head and strokes Aziraphale’s cock.
“You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you?” Crowley asks. “I want it all over my face. Please, angel. Come all over me, you dirty boy.”
Crowley sticks his tongue out, flat and wide and licks the tip of Aziraphale’s dick, pumping him into it over and over until Aziraphale comes all over Crowley’s tongue, his nose, his cheeks, and one errant spot near his eyebrow.
“Fuck,” is all Aziraphale can say as he rests a palm on Crowley’s cheek, slides a thumb through his own spend, smearing it everywhere. Then he slips the thumb in Crowley’s mouth and Crowley holds it there, drags his teeth over the knuckle.
Aziraphale pats his lap, and Crowley climbs back on, flies still open, cock pointing to the ceiling. His hand, covered in spit and come, wraps tightly around Crowley, working him fast and hard.
“That was so fucking hot, Crowley,” he says. “So good. I want you to do one more thing for me. Be good for me one more time.”
Crowley whimpers and plunges his eager tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale sucks hard around that tongue, tastes the ghost of himself there as Crowley comes all over his own bare belly.
Lord, he’s such a beautiful mess.
—
On the day the final project is due, the day the students will give their presentations, two teachers ride up slowly on a sleek, black motorcycle, one all in black and the other in a yellow helmet, a brown leather jacket, and matching boots.
When Aziraphale lifts his helmet, several students stop and stare.
“I’ve never seen you in jeans,” Anathema says as the three of them walk to the staff room together.
“Well, I’m told one isn’t meant to wear one’s vintage slacks while on the bike, as Crowley calls it.”
“Yes, angel. I’m not the only one who calls it a bike. And, no, one would not be very protected from road rash in one’s vintage trousers if one were to crash.”
“Crowley! What have I said to you about the C-word?”
“I don’t think you and anyone else in the universe have the same idea of what the C-word is, Aziraphale. I would be careful, if I were you, about using that term around your students. Unless you want to be the latest gossip.”
“My dear,” Aziraphale says. “Look around you. We already are the latest gossip.”
Crowley had known it would happen. It’s exactly why he insisted on riding to work together. Best to rip the plaster off all at once and be done with it. As soon as one of their students caught them holding hands, it would all be over, anyway and Crowley has no intention of letting Aziraphale’s hand go unheld.
“You two really are the cutest,” Anathema says, then leans in to whisper in Crowley’s ear. “See? Told you he wasn’t so bad.”
Crowley snorts. “Well, you really undersold it.”
“What’s that, you two?” Aziraphale asks, leaning to look past Crowley at Anathema.
“I was just telling Crowley here that the two of you are adorable,” Anathema says a bit too loudly. Several more students gawp at them as they continue down the hall.
When they eventually make it to their classroom – after a thorough grilling as the few minutes before class will allow their friend to give them – the students clap and cheer.
“See?” Pepper says, leaning over to punch Adam on the arm. “Told ya!”
“Who had presentation day in the pool?” Adam asks the room as he opens his notebook. “Greasy Johnson!”
“Hey,” Crowley admonishes. “That’s Miles to you.”
“Right. Sorry, Miles. You win the pool.”
“Yes!”
“Now kiss!” Wensleydale shouts, hands cupped over his mouth.
“Kiss, kiss, kiss!” they all chant.
“Well, angel? Whaddaya say? Too inappropriate?”
“Maybe just one,” Aziraphale says. “On the cheek.”
Crowley smiles shyly and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. It’s not the answer he had been expecting, but he’s learned he can’t usually guess what Aziraphale will do. It’s part of his charm, his infinite variety.
Blushing bright red, Crowley kisses his colleague on the cheek. And the crowd goes wild.
Comicgeekery
Date: 2025-01-02 12:18 am (UTC)You also made them both excellent teachers. Aziraphale with his hands-on empathy and Crowley with his laid-back but firm respect for the students. And good thing Aziraphale interfered when Adam wanted to exclude Pepper from the presentation for "historical accuracy". The sexism was bad enough, but that was about ten seconds from being super racist too. I'm assuming Adam and Pepper aren't friends yet in this version, otherwise he'd know better! I also thought the scene with Miles was really sweet.
Thank you for this great story!
Re: Comicgeekery
Date: 2025-01-09 04:19 pm (UTC)Exactly right. Adam and Pepper are poised to become friends after working on this project together, which comes with a little bit of stepping on toes before they know each other. Kind of like Aziraphale and Crowley, only for them it's enemies to friends rather than enemies to lovers.
(no subject)
Date: 2025-01-08 09:29 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2025-01-09 04:20 pm (UTC)