Archive of Our Own

20 years ago

Sheldonian Theatre,

Oxford University

Students filed into the historic theatre in small groups and singles. The late-day class was usually well-attended, but today it looked as though every seat would be filled. Histories in Conflict: Medieval Evidence on Trial, a final-year course, was notorious for its surprise guest lecturers and entertaining end-of-year student debates. Legendary performances from past years were still hotly discussed decades later, resurrected at department wine-and-cheeses by former students and professors who often dropped in to watch the fierce competition unfold.

The class drew an unusual mix of history and non-history majors for such an advanced course. It was seen as a proving ground for aspiring lawyers and would-be entrepreneurs, and its unique venue made it a quiet pilgrimage site for architects and art historians alike. The Sheldonian was a magnificent old building - one of Sir Christopher Wren's earliest designs - modelled after Roman amphitheaters. Its ceiling, an awe-inspiring work by Robert Streater, mimicked a classical sky, with the personifications of the academic disciplines gazing down from their clouds.

The ornate wood and gilded frames went unappreciated by Aziraphale. He perched on an uncomfortable chair atop the temporary raised dais at the centre of the U-shaped theatre seating, determined not to fidget - or sweat. The tiered rows of his peers rose around him, faces tilted expectantly downward, and his bowtie already felt too tight.

He exchanged a tight smile with his debate partner, Maggie Tark - a bubbly blonde finishing her BA in Early Music and already bound for City Law School the following year. She'd been his roommate since second year, and in a few weeks they would both decamp to London, where he would begin his MSc in Archaeology at Birkbeck.

His favourite loafers gleamed in the lights. His crisp yellow WHSmith five-by-three cue cards were stacked neatly in his hands. His cap sat jauntily on his head.

Ready or not.

Aziraphale wiggled as he adjusted his cap, smugness settling over him like a warm coat. The bright red Phrygian cap was brilliantly authentic. It folded softly on top and pushed his hair into a curly halo framing his face. He was particularly in love with the embroidered band he'd added, scavenged from an Oxfam tablecloth. He'd nearly gone with a full hood, but had been worried about sweating.

No one had bothered to wear period-appropriate accoutrements in the debates so far. However, there were stories of costumes in past years and Aziraphale had always been something of a showman at heart. He'd nearly grown a beard and mustache, until Maggie pointed out - kindly, but firmly - that there really wasn't enough time to achieve anything long enough to be historically accurate.

Regrettable.

Originally, he'd planned a Bycocket, with its sharp, pointed brim, maybe embroidered or fur-lined - a feather? However, research had proved that the timing was off by a century. He'd sulked nearly an entire day over it.

So. A Phrygian it was.

I can't wait to see Anthony's reaction.

Aziraphale smirked.

Speaking of which, that red-headed devil was officially late.

Anthony's debate partner, Anathema Device, a somewhat mysterious woman completing her degree in some odd combination of History and Folklore, stood in quiet conversation with Professor Armstrong by one of the intricately carved half-walls.

Aziraphale's fingers worried the brim of his cap as the professor frowned at her, but finally nodded. Anathema climbed the two steps to her seat on Aziraphale's far left in the row of four chairs, a conspicuously empty chair between them.

Maggie leaned in, shielding her mouth with her cue cards. "Where's her gorgeous man at? We're starting," she whispered.

Aziraphale wondered the same. Normally, Anathema and Anthony arrived together, departed together, hovered within arm's reach of one another - laughing and sharing private smiles. She didn't seem frantic or upset over her missing partner. His absence was clearly deliberate.

Professor Armstrong moved to the front of the room and raised his hands for silence. Aziraphale straightened at once, tugging on his waistcoat and tucking his hands into his lap. The usual student-fueled noise echoed loudly in the large space, but slowly thinned out, except for a few coughs and some rustling.

Before the professor could speak, the door on the upper level swung open. The Head of the Archaeology Department walked through, the fire door closing with a heavy thud behind him. With an apologetic wave, he took a seat in the front row of the mezzanine, a student promptly edging along the hard wooden bench to make room.

The Head of Archaeology had chosen to attend their debate.

The stakes were high now.

Well - higher.

Aziraphale hadn't seen the Head at a single debate all term, which was precisely why his attendance had been floated - quite casually - at the Department wine-and-cheese the previous week by someone who owed Aziraphale a favour.

An idle suggestion, just a couple of pointed remarks.

Actually, Aziraphale had armed the poor man with a full crib sheet's worth of highlights of his academic career to bring up at the wine-and-cheese, ordered both by importance and recency. He had included Maggie's acceptance to law school, the intellectual importance of this specific debate, and - as a last resort - one short point about his Opposition.

That Anathema was American.

Well, he had been forced into such desperate measures; the Head was overseeing applications for a paid dig in Northumberland starting in two months. Aziraphale's application remained unanswered.

Six months of carefully engineered 'chance' encounters and painstakingly manufactured conversations had so far resulted only in politely blank looks - and being addressed as 'Arthur' or 'Andrew' when the Head remembered him at all.

He needed that dig. Financially. Academically. Existentially.

This debate needed to finally make an impression on the man.

Aziraphale needed him to remember his name.

His nerves tightened in his chest, sharpened by determination. Aziraphale glared at the empty seat next to him. Concentrate hard enough, maybe Anthony would appear when summoned, like a jinn or a demon.

All semester, the Biology major's flame-red hair, tight trousers, and needling questions had been a distraction. They clashed in class over controversial opinions about interpreting the past - Anthony's cheeks would colour deliciously, his cultivated lazy drawl occasionally breaking into real passion. Aziraphale surprisingly started to look forward to their bi-weekly encounters, but purposefully sat in the front row lest he be tempted to stare at the man and give himself away. He would then quickly escape after class to avoid any potentially embarrassing small talk.

Well, until he had needed to seek Anthony out for help, quite recently.

Professor Armstrong's voice cut in, explaining the debate structure,

"This final debate will follow the Oxford format. As you know, our final debate is always held between our highest mark, in this case Mr. Fell, and the class-elected challenger, this year being our outspoken Mr. Crowley - wherever he is. Their chosen partners for today's debate are: Ms. Tark and Ms. Device. I have been assured by Ms. Device that Mr. Crowley intends to appear for his address in - "

A pause. A pointed glance at the door to the left of the theatre.

" - eight minutes."

Aziraphale whipped towards the door, which was slightly ajar, just in time to see a flicker of black clothing in the window set into it. His eyes narrowed. He didn't like surprises. This debate was not supposed to be a surprise. The pieces had been maneuvered diligently - deals made with the devil, so to speak.

What was that - devil - about to do?

The Professor continued, "For those joining us for the first time, each member's address is seven minutes. The first and last minutes are protected, otherwise the opponents may raise points of order or clarification. As a reminder to our debaters, stand when you want to speak; your comments must be on topic. Refer to me as Mr Speaker, and I will note or overrule it for consideration by the House - your peers here. Then we’ll open to questions from the floor, closing remarks, and votes.” 

Professor... 'Speaker' Armstrong made his way to his chair that was one in a double line of seating on the main floor. Setting a large digital timer on the vacant seat to his left, he crossed his long legs and gave an encouraging smile.

"Impress me."

Aziraphale breathed deeply to centre himself. This was it. Maggie would present the team's case-in-chief - every assumption, definition and argument they had to support their stance. He would go second and build his argument in the moment based on the other team's choice of counterpoints. He lined up his cue cards with written rebuttals to a variety of possible arguments the opposition might make. 

Maggie moved to the front and centre of the dais. Aziraphale frowned at the partially closed door before lifting his chin, squaring his shoulders and giving his partner his attention and his brightest, most confident smile.

Maggie took a deep breath and began. "Mr Speaker, esteemed guests, distinguished opposition, ladies and gentlemen, we are here today to present our motion that King Henry's reign should be condemned as one of the most damaging in our nation's history."

Aziraphale's eyes flicked up and caught the Department Head nodding and smiling.

Good

"King Henry the First was an ambitious third son who was never meant to be a king. His policies and behaviour proved out his unsuitability, and England paid for his choices in blood for many years afterwards," Maggie concluded.

Their argument was researched, carefully printed out on cards, and cited. She opened strong with a catalogue of the King's documented misdeeds, drawn from early chronicles, household accounts, and clerical letters: fratricide and usurpation, harsh treatment of his other brother, punitive taxation of his people, horrible treatment of the nobility, and a succession crisis that flung his dynasty into chaos.

Maggie moved out of her first minute and started to dive deeper into each accusation. Anathema listened attentively, raising a point of order about how the so-called 'usurpation' remarks were only political maneuverings that were necessary to prevent a power vacuum, and Henry was never officially charged with his older brother, William the Second's, murder. It was biased interpretation of the historical record.

Professor Armstrong accepted the point and Anathema sat.

Aziraphale hid a smile.

Anathema later stood and, with pointed politeness, clarified that Oxford University itself stood on land donated by Henry the First. He had confiscated the lands of the nobility that refused to contribute the very necessary taxes to secure the nation’s borders and alliances. Surely everyone agreed that this institution was a far better use of resources than yet another vast private estate.

Excellent points. Aziraphale tried to make his expression carefully neutral, though his lips twitched at the polite applause and interested murmur. That research had been far too good not to share.

As Maggie continued, Aziraphale flicked another glance at the door, his foot tapping a nervous rhythm against the floor. At least the Speaker looked engaged, head bent over his notes. Engaged was good, surely. But was he impressed? Was the Head impressed?

He looked up into the second tier, but Aziraphale had never been good at reading body language, and at this distance - across the stage, the rising layers of seats, the sheer weight of people watching - any sense of the room slipped beyond him.

Suddenly, the room burst into laughter.

It took Aziraphale a moment to realise why. Anathema had objected - with a sly smile - that Henry’s brother Robert wasn't “imprisoned for life” so much as granted early retirement from politics, albeit in medieval Cardiff, which was slightly more preferable to the blindings, starvations, and mutilations suffered by Robert's supporters at court.

Someone shouted, “Mae’n well na Llundain!”^[1] Whistles and claps followed, and Anathema sat down smiling, eyebrows raised in open challenge toward Maggie.

Maggie rolled her eyes and landed her final point: Henry I’s succession mess - Matilda, Stephen, and the Anarchy that followed - setting England on a long, bloody path of instability.

There was enthusiastic clapping from the audience that thundered in the open space as Maggie returned to her seat, grinning. 

It was a great opening argument. Aziraphale flushed with pride. They had nailed it.

The Speaker nodded as he set down his pen. Aziraphale shook Maggie’s hand, murmuring congratulations -

DAH-DAH-DAAAHHH!

A tinny trumpet fanfare blasted through the hall, blatting with the overconfidence of a Renaissance Faire amplified by poor audio equipment. Aziraphale’s smile froze. His hand remained locked in Maggie’s. Her eyes went comically wide.

The fourth debate partner had finally shown up.

Anthony Crowley stood just inside the now-open doorway in the most bizarre getup Aziraphale had ever seen. He’d let his dark red hair down from its usual bun and sported an impressive goatee. Tiny round black glasses perched on his nose, and an absurdly long white quill stuck jauntily behind one ear. A large roll of fire-eaten parchment – blackened and burnt on the edges – was tied with a red ribbon and held aloft in his hand like a cartoon pirate.

The costume only grew more ridiculous from there. A black velvet jacket, all puffed sleeves and monstrous buttons, with lace dripping from his wrists like some Restoration fop. Around his neck — good heavens — something that looked alarmingly like coffee filters had been repurposed into a Tudor ruff. He wore black ballooning breeches that tied off just under his knee and modern sheer black stockings that clung to his long, shapely calves. 

And... Was that a codpiece?

To top it off, so to speak,  on his feet were - Aziraphale huffed and had to close his eyes for a moment, though the image was seared into his mind - shiny black snakeskin ankle boots, heeled high enough to cant Anthony’s hips forward in a manner he found deeply alarming. 

Heat crawled up Aziraphale’s neck, while he tried to compose himself in the face of this spectacle. He should have anticipated Anthony would pull something.

Gingers are trouble, his father always said. 

Especially one with a flair for the dramatic.

Anthony gave a sweeping bow once he had everyone's attention. A collective gasp and muffled laughs echoed through the theatre. Students leaned over the railings, smiling and elbowing each other as they stared. Aziraphale saw Anthony's friend Eric, seated in the back of the main tier, high-five several people around him.

Aziraphale tugged on his cap, wishing desperately that he'd just gone with a gorgeous Bycocket - and the beard. Clearly, historical accuracy wasn't appreciated by this audience, and the beard would have helped hide his flaming face. 

Sure that he had everyone's attention, Anthony strode partway to the dias, heels clicking on the wood floor, both arms held up above his head like a minister praising the Lord. The audience quieted.

“Oyez, oyez!” he cried, his voice filling the space. “Attend, good folk! Tidings from the court of His Most Glorious Highness, King Henry the First - a master of war and a most doting sire - cruelly besmirched by slanderous chroniclers and their suspiciously biased quills!”

A ripple of laughter rolled through the audience. Someone clapped and wolf-whistled. A quick glance up showed the Head of Archaeology looking impassive, but the Speaker appeared to be biting back a smile. Suddenly, Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he should be worried or excited. Would Anthony make this a famous debate or an infamous debate? 

Quick calculations flicked through his mind as he felt the energy in the audience ratchet upwards. He could use this. A little controversial costuming and clearly over-the-top behaviour by his opposition would only make their points more memorable long after the debate ended.

Make Aziraphale more memorable if he rose to the occasion.

Newly determined, he focused intently on Anthony. He would not look at those boots again.

Anthony, unsurprisingly, was working his mismatched get-up. He leapt up the short flight of steps, crossed the small stage, passing the centre point between the two sets of chairs and stopped almost exactly in front of Aziraphale, facing the audience. He unrolled the crispy parchment with long, elegant fingers. Small black flakes fell from the sides, littering the ground, nearly getting on Aziraphale's shoes.

“Friends and Countrypeople,” Anthony called out in a loud voice, “pray attend! King Henry, first of his name, was but a mortal man set in mortal times. He took up a realm left in shambles by his battle-mad brothers and wrought order from their folly. He strengthened the borders through shrewd warcraft and alliances craftier still. His legal reforms became the very bones of our common law; his councils were filled with men of talent rather than some lord’s useless cousin.”

Startled, Aziraphale’s brain fought to decipher the perplexing language spilling forth from Anthony's mouth. He heard muffled laughter coming from Anathema's direction. 

Anthony continued, “His father dealt him a poor hand indeed, for he was the least cherished of the three. And dost thou truly claim his brothers were more fit than he? I trow not! One was forever in rebellion, and the other couldst not have led an army out of a privy if thou gavest him a torch. The Plantagenet line fell not for Henry’s sins, but from a most unlucky shipwreck… and a plate of infernal eels that brought down this glorious and pious Christian soul!”

The students roared, stamping their feet - no doubt for the spirit of the speech rather than its dubious content. Anthony swept into another low bow, his arse ending up less than two feet from Aziraphale’s face.

Good Lord.

Maggie knocked her leg into his, and Aziraphale snapped his gaze down - to Anthony’s shiny, slender calves instead. Blast it. Was there nowhere safe to look?

He ought to be assembling points of order for his team against this maddeningly incoherent argument. Instead, his cue cards sat uselessly in his grip. Those were interesting stockings. Women’s, surely. Borrowed? And were those his boots? Did he have a closet full of heeled shoes?

Maggie gave his toe a sharp little kick.

Right.

Points. 

Aziraphale wrenched his eyes up from the silky legs just as Anthony decided to glance over his shoulder at him through those ridiculous John Lennon glasses. Aziraphale took the moment of brief eye contact to widen his eyes, desperately trying to convey his concern that this fever-dream take on their arrangement was unexpected and growing concerning.

Anthony winked. 

Aziraphale hoped the wink meant, “Don’t worry, Aziraphale, I’ve got this under control, really, and of course I remember our agreement because I am smart and reliable and not at all impulsive or prone to poor decisions, and my failure to tell you about this plan is completely fine, honestly, I’m only using this ridiculous piece of paper - which yes, I may have scorched on a burner, very hazardous - but it’s just for show, because you told me to have Anathema write the notes since her handwriting isn’t atrocious, so my chicken scrawl here is purely decorative, all your points are on hidden cue cards I can refer to at any moment. By the way love the cap, very authentic.”

Aziraphale had a feeling the wink probably meant, “You said, let's make it memorable.”

“Mr Speaker,” Anthony’s voice rang across the theatre, “this party doth contend that history should record that King Henry the First was no villain, but a visionary! Aye, he was fierce — because he needs must be. Yet he was also a devoted father, progressive toward the empowerment of women, and, dare I say, something of an egalitarian. History hath wronged an effective ruler by judging him outside his proper age.”

Aziraphale frowned. Empowerment of women? What on earth…

Maggie pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Does he know what egalitarian even means?” she sighed.

Aziraphale made a sympathetic noise while still mulling over the last few points of Anthony’s statement. A devoted father? It was a nearly indefensible stance. I told him to make points about historical contextuality and bias in clerical writings. 

Aziraphale nearly sighed with relief when Anthony spent his first minutes in familiar territory, describing King Henry as a man of his times, unfairly evaluated by modern standards rather than in a historical context. Regaining confidence, Aziraphale passed a ready cue card to Maggie, who stood and countered with a point of order around contemporary resources also remarking on the unusual brutality of his reign. Anthony flashed a frown at Aziraphale, but responded appropriately. The professor noted the point, and Maggie sat.

Excellent point, counterpoint. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath. It was working out fine. The outfit was unexpected, but really shouldn’t have been. He had described several famous class debates of the past to Anthony - costumes had come up. Clearly, Anthony had taken inspiration, even if he had failed to research his choices. Aziraphale sniffed. 

Anthony’s next two minutes highlighted important legislative changes and the downstream impact of alliances Henry forged to stabilise the kingdom. Good points, albeit still delivered in his distracting pseudo-medieval cadence. Aziraphale readied his cue cards for the planned pivot to 'taxation being the only viable means of funding by medieval governments'. 

Then Anthony paused.

He rolled up his parchment, brushed black flecks off his hands, and unleashed chaos.

What followed would be remembered for a very, very long time by everyone who witnessed the linguistic and philosophical carnage. Aziraphale struggled to disentangle the completely unexpected arguments from the mash of fifteenth-century slang and what might have been Mancunian?^[2]  It was a horrifying fusion created by someone who had watched Blackadder and Coronation Street and thought, 'Why not both?' 

The audience stared, transfixed.

Halfway through a minute-long flowery speech that he belatedly realised was praising King Henry’s ‘close’ relationship with his brothers, Aziraphale jumped to his feet, spluttering.

“Point of clarification. King Henry had himself crowned not even three days after William was killed in front of him, while his other brother, the designated heir, was on a crusade. Explain to the House how you believe Henry did soothly shew the virtues of brotherly love?”

Anthony waved a hand dismissively, “Well then, ’tis plain he put the whole realm afore his own woe! For a lad must needs keep the kingdom from falling right over, whilst his great oaf of a brother jaunted off on a murder-pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Alas, there be no shortage of proper dodgy sorts slinking about.”

“Yes, HIM!” exclaimed Aziraphale, “Henry’s the dodgy sorts slinking about!”

Anthony pressed his fist to his heart with a gasp, “Slander!”

“Your point of clarification is noted, Mr Fell,” said the Speaker, looking between them with a slight crease in his brow.

Satisfied that he’d puzzled out Anthony’s speech and scored a point, Aziraphale sat with a smile. Maybe Anthony would return to the real arguments.

Or not.

Aziraphale shot to his feet again.

“Point of order! Did you just call Shakespeare a slanderous Tudor quill-thief?!”

Anthony's eyes glinted, “Yea. That sheep-biting, eight penny…”

“Eight-penny?!” Aziraphale gasped, scandalised, “Repent, you villainous coxcomb!”

“Stop! Thank you. Both sides will refrain from personal attacks, medieval or modern,” the Speaker interrupted, “Mr Fell, your point is overruled, please sit.”

Aziraphale sat down, eyes narrowed. Really? Insulting Shakespeare? Some things could not be borne. He fixed his cap more firmly on his head and shuffled his cue cards, ready for battle. Maggie threw a concerned look at him, but Aziraphale ignored her, fuming.

Anthony talked on, then something in his words snagged. Aziraphale smacked Maggie’s shoulder with his cue cards. She jolted, turning to him, puzzled, and he leaned in to whisper urgently, gesturing.

After a beat, she sighed through her nose and pushed to her feet, reluctantly.

“Point of order, the Honourable Member is editorialising.”

Anthony playfully frowned at her and flashed Aziraphale a hurt look.

“I only remark that the red-haired of uncommon wit are often, most unfairly, met with suspicion by one's peers and rivals - it's pure prejudice.”

Aziraphale burst out,  “Henry had dark hair!” 

Anthony rounded on him. “Nope.” The p cracked like a starter’s pistol. “Big bloke. Proper ginger.”

“That’s Henry the Eighth!” Aziraphale’s hands gestured his disbelief at such a statement.

“Oh. Huh. Forsooth.” 

Azirapahle glared at Anthony, who had the audacity to wink at him again before turning back to face the audience again. 

“Please stand if you are making a point, Mr Fell,” rebuked the Speaker.

“Yes, apologies, Mr Speaker,” said Aziraphale, grimacing slightly. Maggie huffed and sat with a thump in her seat, looking uncommonly cross. 

“Mr Crowley, stick to facts. Let’s move on,” commanded the Speaker. He wasn't smiling anymore, but Aziraphale couldn't judge his mood. 

Aziraphale stayed seated, hands clenched around his cue cards, determined to keep quiet even while Anthony held forth on Henry’s egalitarian instincts and ‘modern-mindedness.’ Laughter rippled through the benches. Someone clapped.

Anthony pressed on, voice warming as he praised Henry’s ‘dedication’ to his offspring - his deep commitment to being a ‘kind and steadfast begetter.’

Appalled, Aziraphale was on his feet before the phrase finished landing.

He waited this time to be acknowledged, though, tapping his toe in impatience.

Anthony glanced over, lips quirked, and gave a lazy little wave.

“On a point of information - my Opposition fails to mention that King Henry had contentious relationships with many of his children. One of his daughters tried to assassinate him with a crossbow.”

“‘Twas but one of his comely daughters, good sirs and ladies. A fair average, I say, for a house of such multitude! Verily, all children argue with their sires, no?”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at Anthony, unimpressed.

“This wasn't just an argument. He blinded two of her daughters as a warning to the husband he sold her to. His legitimate daughter, Matilda, was sent away at five and married off by twelve. And as for the others -” Aziraphale was warming to it now. “He named four of his daughters Matilda. One died on a recklessly planned voyage, one was sent to a nunnery, and another was bartered into marriage with Conan the Fat. Does any of that suggest a kind or steadfast father?”

He didn’t pause.

“He didn’t have children to love them. He had them to use them. As currency. As leverage. As tools of control. And his daughters, in particular, paid the highest price for it.”

Aziraphale took a breath to continue on to King Henry's ill treatment of his sons when he noticed that, instead of Anthony looking annoyed at Aziraphale’s laying out of facts, he looked entertained, pleased, even. His gaze held Aziraphale’s, his mouth curving as though Aziraphale had just said something clever for him alone. 

Aziraphale hesitated, swallowing down his next sentence in surprise. Something about that look scattered his thoughts, blew his counterarguments from his mind like dandelion fluff. He had meant to antagonize him, not… provoke whatever that emotion was. 

The Speaker sighed.

“Mr Fell, that’s the fifth point of order. Please sit - and stay seated, or we’ll be here forever. The House will take notice, and the Opposition will try to finish quickly.”

Anthony smirked. "Not my style, but noted.” 

The class laughed, and Aziraphale’s cheeks heated at the implication, an inappropriate vision searing his mind’s eye. 

Anthony continued into his final minute, and with another flourishing bow, the fiend took his seat to loud applause. On his way to his chair, Anthony leaned down to Aziraphale, tapping him on the knee with his roll of parchment, leaving a black smudge, and pointed at the ceiling.

“Not fair. You brought your whole family, angel.” 

Automatically, Aziraphale looked up, although he knew what was there. Fat cherubs with blond curls were frolicking together among the painted clouds.

Very funny.

He shot Anthony a withering look. The man only grinned.

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to address the Speaker and the House.

Anthony’s side had been less debate than spectacle. His cue cards with talking points lay skewed in Aziraphale’s hands, their neat order broken. He glanced down once, then again, mind racing. Following the original planned points might sound dry, pedantic, next to Anthony’s gleeful show.

No. That would not do.

He stood, adjusted his bowtie, set the cards deliberately onto his seat, and stepped to the centre of the dais with nothing but memory and indignation to carry him.

If Anthony meant to win the House with theatrics and provocation, Aziraphale would meet him there - armed not with parchment, but wit, scholarship, and just enough venom to make it hurt.

The benches leaned in.

He felt the Head of Department staring down at him.

A muttered “g’luck” from his left set his chin and rolled his shoulders back.

The plan was simple - if Anthony wanted to veer from academic discussions of bias and modern interpretations - to portray King Henry I as a maligned visionary and family man - well, Aziraphale would drag every scandal, every whispered vice, every moral failing of Henry’s court into the light.

Everyone loved gossip, especially when it wore the respectable cloak of scholarship.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, tugging his vest.

“The House maintains that King Henry the First’s reign was catastrophic for England,” he announced, “His inner circle - those so-called advisers and favourites - were morally suspect: a nest of opportunists, flatterers, and self-serving courtiers who encouraged a ruler already inclined toward excess, cruelty, and unchecked ambition, all while actively undermining the stability of the realm.”

He wiggled in satisfaction at his opening statement. It was good.

To his left, Anthony made a strangled sound and slid down in his chair, his unfairly gorgeous heels now sprawled squarely in Aziraphale’s peripheral vision. Aziraphale sniffed at the interruption and angled away from the infernal boots, smiling at the audience. 

Then he attacked.

Every sentence landed like a sword, slicing and forceful. A curl of his lip. A deliberate pause. He tossed in a flourish of Latin, a historical reference, and pointed counters to Anthony's arguments. The quiet, lethal satisfaction of the righteous smiting their enemy settled over him like a warm coat.

A particular statement caused Anthony’s boots to twitch. Eric’s hushed, delighted “Oof! That hurts!” cut through the room, with several in the audience snickering behind their hands.

The Opposition didn't take it silently, but they did stumble over points of order that sounded more like protests than arguments to Aziraphale.

Anathema stood first. “Point of clarification - having illegitimate children is practically a royal requirement. Hardly a moral failing that materially harmed the realm.”

“He had twenty-five illegitimate children,” Aziraphale shot back. “That he acknowledged.”

“Precisely. He acknowledged them. Transparency! Accountability! Traits you want in a king.”

“He had to acknowledge them,” Aziraphale snapped. “He required a small standing army of offspring because he couldn’t trust his own barons. Each child was bartered for advantage, each marriage bought with ruinous dowries that England couldn’t afford. Half his children were spies, and the other half were married off like treaty clauses.”

“He was forging alliances!”

“And then breaking them,” Aziraphale replied smoothly. “Often spectacularly, leaving those same allies - and his own children -  abandoned, impoverished, or blinded. Occasionally all three.”

Anathema opened her mouth.

“Overruled,” said the Speaker. "Move on, please."

Anathema sat, frowning. Aziraphale caught Anthony grinning into his lap.

Aziraphale continued to his next point, a laundry list of Henry’s many terrible and completely uncalled-for punishments on his enemies (and friends). This time, Anthony stood, thankfully having decided to abandon his medieval affectation. 

“Point of Order,” he said, his voice a lazy drawl. “It’s hearsay that Henry threw this ‘Conan’ from a tower. Perhaps he just happened to be there. Where’s the proof?”

“Were you expecting photographic evidence?” Aziraphale couldn’t help his bitchy tone.

“Well, at least a tapestry recording.” Anthony paused and tilted his head. “Wasn’t Conan fat? How could Henry lift him out a window?”

“That was a different Conan.”

Anthony squinted. “How many Conans are there?”

“As many as there are Matildas, it seems,” Aziraphale shot back.

A ripple of laughter moved through the room.

“Noted,” said the Speaker dryly. “However, the Opposition will take this seriously, please.”

Anthony held up his hands in mock surrender. Their gazes locked across the narrow space, tension humming between them.

Aziraphale looked away first, exhaling sharply and rushing on into his final minutes. He suddenly felt exposed on the stage, confused by Anthony's odd moods, and his confusing reaction to the man. Aziraphale directed his focus to the malign influences clustering around the King at court. Anathema rose from her seat and Aziraphale reluctantly waved her in.

“Point of Order - surely my opposition is aware that the so-called opportunistic and greedy ‘New Men’ of King Henry's court were only described as such by the barons they were replacing, and a certain class of modern historians. They couldn’t stomach the notion that Henry broke with tradition and found non-noble men to run his government. Roger of Salesbury and Ranulf Flambard were effective-– ”

“Ranulf was barbaric, and there was nothing effective about Roger of Salisbury,” Aziraphale sputtered. “He was a flatterer. Henry heard him preach once and - by his own account - liked his countenance enough to raise him to the highest office in the land. He thought he was pretty, and gave him a job! Just a further example of the poor judgment that plagued his reign.”

Anathema didn’t blink. “On what evidence do you claim Roger was undeserving? Perhaps he was a brilliant administrator in addition to being… pretty.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “If he were competent, why did King Stephen seize his lands and wealth and leave him to die shortly after Henry’s death? Roger was manipulative and ambitious. His influence was ruinous.”

Anthony rose. “Just to clarify,” he said mildly. “Stephen didn’t bring Roger down because he was incompetent. He brought him down because Roger - and people like him - made him uncomfortable.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“Well, look how Roger's described in the chronicles you, yourself, have cited. He was magically inclined, and smooth-mannered. He was luxurious, effeminate, and - most damning - over-familiar with the King.”

A murmur rippled through the room. Aziraphale’s eyes widened as he realised where this was going - mentally begging Anthony not to say it.

“He was gay,” Anthony stated matter-of-factly, “And that, apparently, remains more scandalous than corruption.”

Maggie gave a little gasp. The Speaker stared hard at Anthony.

“No! That’s not… no one ever... How?” Aziraphale stammered, his cheeks burning. 

“You need me to explain how?” Anthony chided. Anathema slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her laugh. Then, as an afterthought, Anthony added, “I also think Roger and Henry were fucking.”

The audience erupted.

“Mr Crowley!” admonished the Speaker.

“No! You cannot!” Aziraphale gasped, a hand to his chest - all but clutching his pearls.

The class was in chaos now, Aziraphale was gaping like a fish on stage, and the Speaker had to stand and clap his hands to quiet the class, “Alright, everyone, calm down. Gentlemen, I believe that’s far enough. The Opposition will sit and keep it clean. Mr Fell - please finish.”

Anthony sat in a sprawl of limbs, an indecipherable look on his face.

Aziraphale could barely remember his plan for his final minute. He barely pulled himself together, his words came out compressed. A rush. His stomach churned, and too quickly he sat back down.

He closed his eyes. Anthony’s last point swirled. Where had that come from? Gay. It was completely ridiculous. Anthony was just throwing theories at the wall. Slanderous remarks and a close relationship did not mean gay.

And yet - 

Passages surfaced, unbidden. Descriptions of Roger. Henry’s actions. Potential patterns in their interactions and decisions. His fingers tapped on his thigh while he tried to cohere the facts into something he could make sense of.

Meanwhile, Anathema started her arguments. Monastic chroniclers being biased, heavy taxation being a necessary evil, Henry’s rule being generally more stable than both his father’s and brother's reigns. Clean arguments, ones that Aziraphale has prepared for. But Aziraphale barely paid attention, letting Maggie counter with a few points of order.

At least Anathema didn’t return to the king’s bedroom. For that, Aziraphale was grateful - he had three rebuttals reluctantly ready, aware they’d sound either pedantic, prudish, or, confusingly for him, homophobic. It was an excellent trap, and Anthony knew it.

After Anathema finished, it came time for questions from the House. Several hands shot up around the theatre, and Speaker Armstrong stood and turned to the audience, motioning to a girl in the third row. She stood, sweeping her blonde hair over her shoulder.

“Thank you. This is for Aziraphale and Maggie. It is a common claim that King Henry died of eating too many lampreys, which sounds like a cover-up. What are your thoughts?”

Anthony snorted, and Aziraphale shot him a look before plucking out a card for Maggie to respond with. He'd been ready for that one.

“We believe that it is a complete fabrication,” she stated confidently. “There are no other recorded cases of ‘death by lamprey’, ever, and there is only a single contemporary that claims that is how King Henry died. Others present conflicting evidence that does not align with lamprey poisoning. We believe he was likely murdered by one of his nephews’ followers. Henry was a brute, unpredictable, and disliked by much of the nobility. He was taking too long to die and was going to leave his kingdom to be inherited by a woman whom he had married to the enemy - an Anjou.”

The Speaker gestured to Aziraphale's left, "Opposition remarks?"

Anthony stood.

“We don't believe he was murdered. By the time Henry died, he was well-liked. No motive, no payoff. He wasn’t a tyrant. The barons had already sworn to Matilda and her husband, and their son, who was half Anjou, ended up with the throne after Stephen. If killing Henry was the plan, doing it at that point was spectacularly pointless.”

Aziraphale rose quickly to support Maggie.

“Hardly pointless. Stephen couldn’t have known he wouldn’t have an heir. Henry was assuredly murdered by those closest to him! They embalmed his body only an hour after his death - so quickly and slipshod, it liquified en route home to England! The entire process was suspicious. Stephen was crowned before the king was even buried - while Matilda was unable to travel - the timing was, in fact, perfect.”

Anthony wrinkled his nose at him. “It was medieval times, and the man was practically ancient. Sure, maybe it wasn’t the lampreys - maybe it was the cabbage next to them, or some other food-borne horror. Honestly, I’m surprised they didn’t just blame a passing comet, or a whiff of bad air, or... ducks.”

“Ducks,” Aziraphale narrowed his eyes.

“Ducks,” Anthony bit off with relish. “Vicious, bloodthirsty ducks back then.”

“What? Name a single duck–related death…”

Anathema decided to jump in, clearly sensing the descent into madness. Now all four of them stood, facing each other.

“Forget the ducks,” she replied, “we’ll never know for sure, as the body cannot be tested for poison or pathogens or … duck-bites… he was buried at Reading Abbey - which itself has been buried somewhere under Reading, and no one has located it.”

Anthony snorted.

“Yes. Thank you, Ms Device, for interrupting … that. Everyone, sit down, please. Next question?” asked the Speaker, shooting what seemed like an unhappy look at the stage.

Aziraphale felt sweat start to slip past the tight band of his Phygrian and into his eyebrows.

A boy in the back stood and cleared his throat.

“Going back to Roger of Salisbury. Do you really think Henry was sleeping with the hot priest?”

“Who doesn’t love a handsome man in black?” replied Anthony with a gesture that encompassed his own darkly clad body. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and huffed.

“Next question,” the Speaker moved on quickly, "Yes, Eric?"

“If he had thirty children, all of England and half of Normandy, how did he have time for a boyfriend?” Eric shouted, his black-lined eyes creased with mirth.

“Roger’s clearly less high maintenance than you, you git!” retorted Anthony with a grin, and the class roared with laughter.

Speaker Armstrong clapped, trying unsuccessfully to get the attention of the students. Above him, the Head of Archaeology stood, his face in a frown. He pushed past students who quickly stopped laughing and exited through the second-tier door. The door closing couldn’t be heard over the commotion in the theatre, yet the slam shuddered through Aziraphales’ bones.

“Raise your hand!” the Speaker shouted at the audience sternly, trying to get their attention. He pointed at Anthony. “Don’t banter with the House, Mr Crowley. Only warning.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Next question. A serious question, please!” 

A girl stood near the back.

“Marry, Shag, Kill - Henry, Roger, or Conan the Fat?” 

 The barely contained mirth bubbled over again, with various students shouting their answers.

“Throw Conan from the tower!”

“Kill him with fish!”

“Roger’s a hottie!”

“I’d shag Anthony!” 

The comments somehow all sounded like they were coming from Eric. Did he have a twin?

Aziraphale felt dazed. Where had the debate gone wrong?

“Sit down. Everyone!” The Professor’s voice cut across the room as he strode to the dais, clearly abandoning his role. The debaters jolted into action, scrambling into their seats, sensing his mood; the rest of the class was slower, smothered laughs and whispers lingering long after he reached the centre.

Finally, silence settled uneasily in the theatre. Even for this notorious class, they all knew this had gone off the rails.

“I think we’ve had enough,” Professor Armstrong said once he had everyone's attention. “We’ll skip closing remarks - I really can’t imagine they’d improve matters.” The last part was muttered just for the debaters. Aziraphale’s heart sank.

The Professor turned to the debaters and leaned forward, voice low and cutting. “Every year, I look for arguments that challenge history’s assumption - something thoughtful, incisive. I’m not sure how you all turned a serious discussion about the legacy of an influential king into… a circus of egos and sex scandals. It’s equally impressive and disappointing.”

Aziraphale slumped. Anthony sat ramrod straight in his seat.

The Professor exhaled heavily as he visibly tried to calm down.

“We’ll also forgo voting. I suspect the House would be voting on Henry’s likelihood of being a gay monarch rather than whether he was actually a competent one.”

He turned to face the rest of the theatre and raised his voice. “Class dismissed.”

A loud, confused discussion erupted from the students. 

Beside Aziraphale came a muttered ‘fuck’. Above them, he could almost hear the mocking laugh of the naked snake-covered Envy plummeting from the glory of the academic heavens.

Aziraphale rested against the low stone wall encircling the Sheldonian courtyard, his head tipped back against the slim iron posts, eyes closed. He’d been there since Professor Armstrong had unhappily ushered them off the stage and out the doors, clearly disappointed in his supposedly star debaters. He had barely reached the courtyard before his fellow students descended in a circle around him, flushed with excitement, calling out questions and half-formed challenges, eager to wring a few more sparks from the spectacle they'd seen onstage.

Anthony, infuriatingly, seemed to enjoy it - laughing, leaning into the attention, tossing out sharp comments that sent fresh ripples through the crowd. Aziraphale, by contrast, could only endure it, letting the noise wash over him, still stunned by the debate’s outcome. Maggie had squeezed his arm in sympathy before slipping away for her next class, abandoning him to the crowd with a promise to bring something sweet back to the flat. Eventually, even the most persistent stragglers drifted off, and Aziraphale collapsed more fully onto the wall, unable to contemplate the walk home yet.

It was just starting to rain. Not enough for an umbrella, just a mist, but the quiet dreariness of it suited his mood. He was tired, and the rough stone under his fingers, with cool metal against his head, was grounding.

“I’m sorry,” he said wearily. ‘What was it you were saying?”

“I said, that one went down like a lead balloon.” Anthony had removed the ruff of coffee filters and peeled off the facial hair. His jacket hung open, and his white blouse frothed out dramatically. He sprawled on the wall beside Aziraphale, heels braced in a crack of the flagstones, lazily blowing cigarette smoke into the air, as if auditioning for the part of romantic ne’er-do-well. 

“Oh. Yes.” An understatement.

“I think it was a bit of an overreaction, to be honest,” said Anthony. “Can’t see what’s so bad about a bit of lively debate. The House loved it, yea?”

“Must be bad,” reasoned Aziraphale, in the slightly concerned tones of one who can’t see it either. “He ended the debate early. There wasn't even a vote.”

“Hmph. He tells you you’re the Opposition and to just get up there and make trouble. So, I thought I’d make it a bit interesting. Add some flair to history. Gave the debate a sense of occasion. You’d think he’d be grateful.”

“Yes, well, he shouldn’t have been surprised,” Aziraphale said, rubbing his face. “I can’t imagine you could be anything less than dramatic. It's why they voted for you in the first place. Being a spectacle is clearly in your basic, you know. Nature.”

Crowley’s head snapped up, “Oi!”

“You disagree?”

“Fine, but you see what I mean - he paired us on purpose. He knew how the class would vote. The angel of the class,”- Aziraphale snorted at that - “and a… well, demon of the class, I suppose. Then he acts surprised when it all goes sideways. We argue in class constantly. Honestly, what did he think was going to happen?”

“Hush. You’re not a demon, Anthony - more an… imp.”

Anthony laughed, a little too sharply, and coughed on his cigarette smoke. As he waved away the air and tried to catch his breath, Aziraphale quirked his lips. “Anyway, best not to speculate. You can’t second-guess a tenured professor. They work in mysterious ways.”

They sat for a while, watching raindrops darken the stone at their feet, the courtyard emptying as dusk and weather closed in.

After a moment, Anthony said, “Didn’t you have a red hat?”

“Er,” said Aziraphale, fidgeting with his damp cue cards.

“You did, didn’t you?” said Anthony. “It had an interesting shape, very… bulbous.”

Aziraphale winced. He should probably get home, his arse was getting cold.

“Was hoping to look at it more closely," Anthony remarked casually, "I’ll be sad if you did something rash."

“Rash? I didn’t bin it, if that’s what you are asking.”

“No? Didn’t cast it on the ground in a fit of pique?”

Aziraphale swatted at Anthony with his cue cards at the comment. As if he’d desecrate handmade clothing. Anthony stood and stamped out his cigarette butt on the ground. He turned to Aziraphale, leaning a slim hip against the low wall and waited, arms crossed. Aziraphale glanced up at him before looking away with a resigned sigh.

“If you must know,” he said a trifle testily, “I gave it away.”

“You wot?”

“I gave it away! I’m capable of generous acts, you know.”

“Yes, you’re a regular angel, as I said.” Anthony paused. “I’m actually more surprised someone wanted it.”

“Oh, marvelous. Thank you very much. It took ages to felt that hat!”

“Well,” Anthony backpeddled, “I mean, it’s just such an… interesting style?” 

“It’s Phrygian.”

Anthony blinked at him. “... Did you just swear?”

“No! A Phrygian cap. It was very common in the 1100s. Unlike some people, I at least tried for historical accuracy! Some of us restrain ourselves from wearing Bycockets, even if we want to!”

Anthony grinned. “Noticed my codpiece, did you?”

Aziraphale's eyes drifted downwards without meaning to, before snapping back up. “A Bycocket! Not a cock… never mind. A Robin Hood hat. You know what? Let’s stop talking about it.” 

There was silence for a moment.

Aziraphale tried not to notice that Anthony’s white blouse was in danger of becoming translucent; he could almost see a nipple under his crossed arms... blast it! There really was nowhere safe to look. The man was a walking landmine and Aziraphale was going to make him uncomfortable by staring. He turned his attention to the lights slowly coming on in the buildings around them.

He should really go home, there was no reason to keep sitting here.

Beside him, Anthony cleared his throat. 

“So… did they want the hat for a Smurf costume?”

Right. That's quite enough.

Aziraphale shot to his feet, stuffing his cue cards into the pocket of his trench coat. “I must head off. I need a cup of tea and a wallow while I attempt to devise a new way of getting on a paid dig this summer.”

He strode away from the wall, heading towards the open square and the ornate wrought iron gate at the far end that led to Catte Street.

He hadn’t gone more than a few steps when the sharp rap of Anthony’s heels followed him.

“Oy, Aziraphale - wait. I’m sorry. I'm sorry!  I know you wanted this to go well. I'm sorry that...”

"Stop." Aziraphale turned back so abruptly that Anthony had to twist aside to avoid colliding with him. As Anthony teetered backward, Aziraphale's hands shot out on instinct, gripping his elbow and waist. The white fabric was soft to the touch, and the size and angle of Anthony’s slim waist burned itself into Aziraphale's palm. He let go almost before Anthony had fully regained his balance, desperate not to betray how interested he was in pulling him closer. They ended up standing unnervingly close, eyes locked, their breath beginning to mist in the cooling air.

Aziraphale watched Anthony's expression flicker through emotions he couldn't name. He could barely untangle his own - stunned, defeated, disappointed, rueful - each one crowding the next until he was left wordless. He tried to marshal a suitable response to Anthony's torrent of an apology. The truth was he hadn't forgiven him, but it would be unbearably rude to say so.

Anthony was clearly waiting for Aziraphale to say something an all Aziraphale truly wanted was to go home and hide from the confusing, bright presence of this man.

“Anthony,” he said finally, the name escaping as a soft sigh. “I thought... It’s just… we had an arrangement. I gave you all the notes." He pushed a hand through his curls, which were starting to lose their shape in the drizzle. "We were meant to present a coherent set of arguments. And you - well! I mean, you...”

“Improvised.” Anthony cut in, finally breaking eye contact and kicking his foot at a pebble on the ground. “I improvised! A little? I knew you’d counter me. You always do - we always fight like mad, and I thought… well, I thought you’d enjoy the challenge.” He trailed off sheepishly, and made a futile attempt to shove his hands into pockets that didn’t exist. “The notes were excellent. Really. Just a bit... boring. I thought it needed more. To be… you know... memorable. I guess.” He trailed off, seemingly staring hard at a Sheldonian opening hours placard beside them.

“Right. Boring. Memorable.” Aziraphale huffed. “So you called out Roger as gay to... what? Pick a fight with me? How on earth did you think I would react to that? I couldn't say anything! You know I’m… well…” He flailed slightly, unable to put it into words in the quiet courtyard. "It wasn't funny to me."

“No! Yes. I mean -” Anthony turned back and stepped closer, one hand lifted in supplication, the earnestness on his face unmistakable. “I know. It wasn't meant to be a joke. I did research of my own, honestly. And for what it's worth, I think it was real - that something was going on between Henry and Roger. Something very unusual about their situation. About how everyone reacted to it. After Henry's death.”

“Only you would see a romance between the philandering king and his 'pretty' incompetent minister,” Aziraphale said, trying for disapproval, though his heart wasn’t in it.

“I can always recognize good chemistry," Anthony said, lightly - teasing. "At least between a charming ginger and his brilliant, gorgeous - if occasionally impossible - angel.”

Aziraphale’s eyes snapped to his, narrowing.

Anthony gave a slow, suggestive wink.

Hmm.

"A charming ginger?" Aziraphale murmured, stepping closer before he could reconsider, lifting a hand to cup the side of Anthony's face. With his thumb, he slowly wiped away the faint smudge of black eyeliner beginning to run beneath Anthony's eye.

Anthony froze - smile faltering, eyes wide, lips parted.

Aziraphale eyes dropped unconsciously to Anthony's mouth. He felt Anthony lean slightly into his touch. His stomach swooped.

Perhaps this was a terrible game.

“Henry had black hair, you churl,” he said primely and gave Anthony's cheek a light, corrective slap. Anthony's head jerked back.

“Oh, come on!” Anthony exclaimed, startled into laughter as he batted Aziraphale’s hand away. “Churl? Churl? Who says that? Anyway, I was alluding!”

“Then use facts,” Aziraphale shot back, before grinning, “They’re more convincing.”

Anthony laughed again, bright and pleased, eyes crinkling. “You are such a bastard.”

Happy to end the exchange on that note, and feeling much better about the whole evening, Aziraphale gave a small bow. "Why, thank you. Now, my tea and wallow awaits. Have a good-night, dear." 

He turned up his coat collar and started to leave, still chuckling.

-- and then Anthony caught his hand.

The shift was immediate. Laughter drained from the moment like a breath pulled in and held. Aziraphale turned back slowly, the swooping sensation back.

Anthony's grip was light - his fingers warm on Aziraphale's rain-chilled skin. In the glow spilling from the Sheldonian windows, his hazel eyes were vivid, intent.

They stared at each other.

Transfixed, Aziraphale watched the tip of Anthony's tongue sweep an errant raindrop from his lip before biting the red flesh with his teeth. Arousal flared - sharp and sudden - alongside the urge to kiss him. 

Anthony tugged gently on Aziraphale's hand, as if to draw him closer. Aziraphale stayed still.

“Forget the tea and wallow, Az,” Anthony said, his voice pitched low and warm. “Come to mine.” 

Aziraphale inhaled as the words landed with weight. This didn't sound like a casual extension of the evening.

It sounded like -

a proposition.

He was stunned.

“It’s close," Anthony added, already smiling - clearly confident in the answer. "I've got dry clothes you can borrow. We can..." His lips quirked. "Get to know each other.” 

Whatever expression that was on Aziraphale's face must have seemed encouraging because Anthony’s free hand rose, brushing a stray damp curl from Aziraphale’s forehead.

His fingers traced a line down the side of Aziraphale's face and came to rest lightly on his chest, pressing just enough to make the intent clear. Heat bloomed in its wake, a sharp, undeniable flare.

Aziraphale searched Anthony’s face for something solid beneath the easy charm - something he could name, file away, make sense of. His thoughts skittered through his memories: the smirks, the banter, the teasing; stolen moments planning their arrangement outside class.

Had he missed the signs? Or was this something new - born in the glow of the theater windows - in the encroaching solitude of the evening after the storm?

He had thought Anthony was with Anathema - perhaps he still was. Or... perhaps he never had been.

Was he serious... or merely curious?

Did it matter?

Only a handful of days remained in the semester - not the time to start something - only to taste.

Almost without deciding to, Aziraphale's fingers unfurled into Anthony’s grasp, slipping slowly beneath the cuff of his lacy sleeve to trace the vulnerable inside of his wrist. A pulse leapt beneath his touch.

In that moment - rain soaking his opposition's ridiculous approximation of bombastic trunk hose - Aziraphale knew he, at least, wanted more than a taste. He was not built for one-night stands, and there was no future in this flirtation.

There really wasn't.

He needed to think of next year, of his studies - of distance, of practicality.

And yet...

Tonight was standing right in front of him: a bit bedraggled, indeed charming, and undeniably warm - all slender calves, and utterly indecent boots.

The space between them tightened, drawn taut as a bowstring. A careless breath from a tipping point.

Suddenly, the nearby bells of St. Mary began to peal, shattering the moment - their unexpected tones reverberating across the stone courtyard. Hauled back into awareness of their surroundings, Aziraphale realised that they were not, in fact, alone. A familiar figure was moving towards them over Anthony’s shoulder.

Impulsively, he made his decision.

He gently withdrew his hand.

Anthony let him go - slowly - until only their fingertips remained, and then cold air rushed in as they fell apart. Anthony exhaled a shaky breath, his hand closing over his wrist where Aziraphale had touched him, whether to erase the caress or hold it there, he couldn’t tell.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale softly, with genuine feeling, already taking a small step back. Spur-of-the-moment or not, he appreciated the compliment for what it was. “But better not. Maggie is waiting for me - and someone’s waiting for you.” He gestured over Anthony's shoulder, but Anthony didn't even glance behind him. 

"Aziraphale." Anthony's soft voice was nearly pleading.

Aziraphale wanted to say something else - something reckless, something honest.

He didn't.

“Today has been… an experience," he said at last. Then, more gently, “And I do forgive you, Anthony. Mind how you go, my dear.” 

Anthony cleared his throat, visibly resettling into a confident pose that belied his hand still rubbing his wrist.

“Right,” he agreed roughly. “Right. You too, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale turned away, his heart doing complicated, unruly things in his chest. It was the right choice - but he instantly regretted it. 

Anthony didn’t follow this time - not that he expected him to. With a deep sigh, he cursed himself and his soft heart as he passed under the iron gates and hurried home.

“Well, that went down like a lead balloon.” Anathema’s mocking voice - and thankfully, her umbrella - came up from behind Anthony. 

“Oy, shut it,” Anthony grumbled, still staring after the retreating figure. “You heard that?” 

Anathema grinned, “I eavesdropped a bit. Not often I get to hear you groveling. Then I popped into the bookshop to get out of the rain, but now I'm hungry - so let's go.”

She looped his arm into hers as she always did and pulled him closer under the umbrella. “Sooo? Tell me everything. He didn’t punch you - so that’s better than I thought you deserved.”

Funny, Anthony felt punched.

“We deserved. We. This wasn’t just my idea. You made the ruff.” 

“And you made the scroll. And Eric made the weird shorts," she paused, considering.

"And the codpiece, I recall. He insisted." 

Anthony barked a short laugh. They exited the courtyard, turning in the opposite direction that Aziraphale had taken. Anthony reflected on the unexpected turns of the afternoon. He could swear his cheek still burned a little - either from Aziraphale's caress or slap, he wasn't sure.

He'd enjoyed both.

Anathema squeezed his bicep to get his attention, her thumb circling gently on the damp material of his jacket.

“Did you pave things over, though? All good between you? I wouldn't want Fell to come after us in a dark alley. I honestly thought he was going to die when you actually brought out your gay Henry theory," she paused, "and then when the department head walked out.”

Anthony grimaced, "Fuck. He did get the department head there?" 

"What? Oh, of course, you were in the hallway when he came in. He was in the mezzanine. Left during the... chaos."

Anthony closed his eyes. He suddenly understood Aziraphale's comment about the dig this summer. Getting the department head to sign him on had been the whole reason for their Arrangement. Shit. A new regret to add to his pile.

They walked on in silence. Sensing his mood, Ana tucked in closer and laid her head on his shoulder.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.

Anthony sighed. Did he? He felt water sliding from his hairline and he swiped a hand down his face to clear it away.

“I... He wasn't interested," then he corrected himself, "No, I mean - maybe he was, but... I waited too late... Went too fast."

To his alarm, he sounded far more upset than he'd meant to. He cleared his throat.

“Anyways, it's fine. I leave for Edinburgh soon anyway.”

Aziraphale walking away made sense. He couldn’t even blame him. 

If he was honest, Anthony hadn’t even known what he wanted from Aziraphale - not really. Not after tonight. The moment had been there, bright and sudden, and he’d grasped at it impulsively. Aziraphale deserved better than that.

He'd gone down in flames. Deservedly.

“You waited too...?" Ana said, a note of surprise in her voice. "Wait... were you... you were interested in Aziraphale Fell? Like... dating? I thought you didn't like him? You're always arguing in class."

Anthony blinked, heat creeping into his cheeks. "...I... Yeah. I do like him." He swallowed. "...More than I expected, honestly."

They had reached their building and Ana pulled out the keys for the door while Anthony held the umbrella. She got the door open and ushered him in.

"So you, what? Asked him out on a date?"

"Err.. Not exactly."

Ana stopped on the stairwell and turned to stare at him, hands on hips.

"You didn't ask him to fuck you, did you?"

Anthony spluttered, "No!"

She shot him a piercing look through her glasses, "God, you're hopeless. Okay. Did you get his number?”

“Fuck," Anthony muttered. He hadn't even asked.

“Well, that's not a problem - you can look it up,” she assured him - practical and efficient. “How many Aziraphale Fells can there be? Call him tomorrow, buy him lunch.”

As they climbed the stairs he thought it over.

He could. 

But Aziraphale had said no - and that mattered. Anthony wasn't about to chase someone who'd drawn a line, however gently - or reluctantly.

Still, the thought needled him: Had he been clear enough about what he wanted - how he felt? 

What if Aziraphale thought this was just another impulsive idea from the Book of Anthony Crowley? 

He could call him, just to show he had been sincere. After all, maybe it could lead to something. They would only be a train ride apart - London, Edinburgh. Maybe - 

As the door to their flat closed behind him, Anthony exhaled, forcing himself back into cold logic. 

The calls would cost a fortune. There wouldn't be enough time. They might not have a connection.

Let it lie. Move on.

Ana tossed him a towel and he started to dry off his hair.

“Tell me again why we took this class?” 

He heard Ana opening their wine cabinet.

“Came recommended.”

“By your great-great-great aunt?” 

“Basically,” she hedged. “Said it would be important for our futures.”

“Learning to debate? Suffering public humiliation?”

“Preventing Aziraphale from getting that dig?” she countered with a laugh.

Anthony winced. "We don't know that - I'm sure he'll figure something out."

Ana took the towel from him and pressed a glass into his hand, "Well, there's always a reason. Sometimes it just takes a while to see it." She headed to the loo to hang up the towel.

Anthony held the glass to his lips without taking a sip. Maybe he should call Aziraphale.

Lightning cracked in the distance and the heavens finally opened up in a furious downpour. 

He didn't call.

Not yet.