Chapter Text
The day Aziraphale met Crowley was a day he doesn’t remember all that well. He is five years old and playing outside his one family suburban home, careful not to pass white picket fencing and enter the street when he sees a child around his age pulling a red wagon full of toys. He stops running and looks meekly at the kid strolling down his road.
“U-uh Hello,” he politely calls out, his voice soft. “Are you alright? You shouldn’t be in the middle of the street, it’s dangerous.”
In return, the other child flips him a middle finger. Aziraphale doesn’t know what that gesture means yet and he takes it as some sort of odd wave. He waves back and gives a shy smile to the kid.
The child stares at him wide-eyed, in shock at the response, and then yells, “Are you some sort of freak?”
“Wh-what?”
“Why are you looking around, mind your own business!”
Aziraphale, poor little Aziraphale, frowns and cocks his head slightly in confusion. He thought he was being friendly not freaky. He watches as the other kid continues walking down the street and feels his heart sink. He’s always had a hard time making friends. Kindergarten would be starting soon and he had hoped he’d become pals with at least someone else his age, unfortunately, it seemed that he had once again failed to make a friend.
A little while later, as the sun begins to set, he’s called into the house by his mother for dinner. At the table his father says grace and then, one by one, his siblings recount their day. He listens patiently, waiting for his turn and smiles wide when his mother signals him to speak.
“I saw another child today,” he begins and his father quickly cuts him off.
“Did you go outside the fence?” He asks with his tone dropping.
“N-no, I didn’t. I just saw them--”
His mother tsks gently, “Him or her darling. People are not ‘thems’ people are either hims or hers.” This wasn’t the first time she’d told him this. She seemed rather insistent on the binary of people and while Aziraphale didn’t understand it he restructured his sentence to soothe her.
“I just saw him or her walking outside. Th--” he stumbles and then says, “He or she had red hair, I’ve never seen someone with red hair before.”
After he’s said that his oldest brother, Gabrial shakes his head. “Listen, if you see someone with red hair in this town it’s best if you don’t talk to them.” When he doesn’t elaborate Aziraphale asks why.
His father answers for him. “There is only one family who has the unfortunate luck of having red hair...the Blackwoods. We do not speak of them or to them.”
“Why?”
His father grimaces deeply, “Are you questioning me?” He doesn’t take well to his authority being questioned.
Quickly the boy amends his words, “No, I- I’m not.”
“Good.”
Conversation ceases after that. Dinner continues quietly, no one speaks. It’s tense and Aziraphale feels bad for ruining dinner. Dinner was supposed to be a time of family and unity, he feels like he’s messed up something sacred. By tomorrow he’ll have forgotten all about how bad he feels but right now his tiny little mind hyper-focuses on the negative emotion.
Finally, when the sun has gone down completely and he’s being tucked into bed by his mom he hears why the family doesn’t associate with the Blackwoods. His father is telling Gabriel and Michael, who despite being strangely named is his older sister, that the Blackwoods are finalizing their “godless divorce” within the next couple of months.
Now Aziraphale understands wholly. Divorcees can not be tolerated for they go against what God had planned. A man and a woman are to be together until they both return to the Lord at death.
~~~
The next time he sees Crowley he’s in middle school, about to enter the ninth grade, and it’s summer once again. He sits outside his front doorstep eating a popsicle when he sees a person with long auburn hair running down the street. He concludes that the person must be a girl, as she has long hair and observes her some more. She’s sweating quite a lot and he thinks she might pass out. Her face is red, redder than her hair, as she goes by he thinks about the color of her hair a little more and a memory sparks in him.
“Hey girl,” He calls out, “Where are you going?”
The girl stops in her path-- rather suddenly to add-- and sneers at him. “I’m a boy dickwad!” He has an accent, sounds British and Aziraphale find his voice, despite the abrasive words, gorgeous.
Crowley doesn’t say anything else. He starts running again. Half of him wants to run after the boy but the other half remembers that he's trouble.
Not even a minute later a woman, disheveled and a mess, is sprinting the same direction Crowley is. She’s cursing wildly as she makes her way down the street. Aziraphale figures that must be Mrs. Blackwood-- or whatever she’s calling herself now a day since the divorce is finished now.
~~~
On the first day of Junior year Aziraphale-- not that he was looking or anything-- spots a redhead. He’s seen this boy over the course of many years and to this day still doesn’t know his name. Well, he knows his surname but not his first and that’s what matters.
Time has passed and now he’s the oldest in the house so now he can make and break the house rules. As he moves away from his collection of siblings in the parking lot he heads towards Crowley with a grin.
The first thing he notices about the lanky boy is how much black he’s wearing and how much occult paraphernalia he has littered around his outfit. His shirt is anything but subtle as in the middle, in large white print, there is Dagon The Great Fish’s summoning configuration. Demons were dangerous, Aziraphale knew that well but he had come to say ‘hi’ and he wasn’t leaving until he did just that.
The second thing he notices is that he can not see Crowley’s eyes. There are wide-rimmed sunglasses blocking his view. He wonders why that is and tries to think back to when he was a kid how his eyes looked but he finds he can’t recall.
Sticking out his hand he says: “Hello, my name is--”
“Aziraphale,” the other boy interrupts with a smirk. He still has that twangy British accent on him, it doesn’t sound fake which only makes him more interested in where and how he got it. “I know, your that bible thumping catholic boy, right? One of 500 kids right? Preachers son?”
His face falls, “I’m not Catholic...” And then after a moment, he says “There are not five-hundred of us. There are only 12.”
Crowley shakes his head, “Like the 12 disciples?”
“Oh,” he lifts his head higher in surprise and his golden curls bounce, “you know something of religion?”
“Don’t look so surprised angel,” He rolls his eyes. “And it’s not all religions it’s just Christianity. Don’t act so high and mighty.”
Aziraphale awkwardly stares at him when he says the word ‘angel’ but doesn’t mention it out loud. If Crowley notices his shock he doesn’t comment on it either. “I wasn’t trying to claim that Christianity was--”
“Yeah, I know I’m just messing with you.”
“Oh,” a small uncomfortable laugh escapes him and then he adds, “You never told me your name.”
“I guess I didn’t.”
He waits a moment before prompting him again. “Well…?”
“Call me Crowley,” he shrugs and shoves his hands into the pockets of his too tight skinny jeans. That can not be up to the dress code.
A much more genuine smile spreads on Aziraphale’s face. “Okay then, will do. I’ll see you around sometime I suppose?”
“We go to the same school, of course, I’ll see you some other time.”
“Right well, I look forward to it.”
Crowley creases his brow but just nods. “Cool, I look forward to it too then.”
All poor Aziraphale can think about for the rest of the day is how unpleasant that conversation was. He hadn't known what to do or even what to expect but what he had done clearly wasn't the right thing. The two of them were stiff the entire time they talked, that's not the start of a friendship.
At lunch his younger brother Uriel, a freshman walks up to him and asks what he was doing talking to Crowley. He simply shrugs and says, “Being friendly of course, nothing new.” Uriel accepts the answer although not convinced and continues walking down the cafeteria aisle to his set of friends.
Aziraphale has always been a loner but not from a lack of trying. In fact, it’s probably the exact opposite: he tries too hard and that immediately makes others wary of him. He came to piece that he was always going to be friend-less a long time ago, maybe even back in first or second grade, but seeing his younger brother so effortlessly blend into the crowd of high school stung a little.
The rest of the day passes without incident. He sees a few people he’s acquaintance with such as Newt, a boy in his computer science class, and Anathema who is hands down the smartest kid in his small town. Because they were all somewhat nerdy they tended to stick together but they weren't pals really.
The rest of his family seems to have dispersed living him to walk home alone himself but he can’t be bothered to mind. Even though there were fewer kids in the house now, only him and three other siblings, sometimes it got too loud for him to just breathe and think around them.
He loved his family, don’t get him wrong! He loved them more than God loved her creations-- well maybe not that much because that’s a little blasphemous but you understand the sentiment don’t you?
Anyway, he began walking home through the forest when a voice calls his name from behind him. He turns to see the face of Crowley with an odd neutral look to him.
“Crowley? Hello I--”
“Shut up,” the taller of the two says as he walks closer, his steps heavy with purpose. “Did someone put you up to talk to me? Did someone dare you, prank you, or anything like that?”
“Good heavens nothing of the sort,” Aziraphale shakes his head confused. “No one talks to me.” He adds for good measure and then feels pathetic as it leaves his mouth.
Not knowing how to respond to that Crowley does what he does best and ignores the statement. “Okay cool. Just had to make sure, I don’t trust anybody around here.”
A breeze rolls through the trees of the forest and Aziraphale asks why not.
“I haven’t been here, like living in this town, in over ten years. I don’t know you,” he waves his hands around to show he’s talking about the town, “people.” He continues his explanation. “I know this is all about small-town u.s.a stuff is supposed to make me feel at home but in comparison to London it just feels like--”
“You lived in London?!”
Crowley stares pointedly at the boy. “Don’t interrupt me. Yeah, I lived in London, so what?”
“So what?” He rolls his eyes overly dramatic, “So what was it like? I’ve never even been outside of the country let alone lived somewhere else! That’s exciting.”
“No, it isn’t angel.”
“You said it again.”
“What again,” he asks legitimately not know what he did.
“You called me angel again. Why?”
“You look like one.” Crowley just said that without a hint of playful banter. He meant what he said honestly.
Aziraphale sputters, “What?”
“Like, look at you. Blond hair, vibrant blue eyes, porcelain skin, you are like what every European thinks an angel looks like.” His face feels hot after he finishes and he starts walking past Aziraphale on the trail.
Turning around and following after him he wonders aloud, “Is that a compliment?”
“Do you want it to be?”
“I much prefer positive things over negative things yes.”
“Well then sure, it’s a compliment.”
The then stop conversating Aziraphale finds himself just following Crowley to wherever he might be headed regardless of if that’s near his house. They walk for what feels like about ten minutes when the shorter boy recognizes the street they’re about to turn on and says, “My house!”
“Yeah, uh your house…”
“How’d you know where I lived?”
Crowley pushes up his glasses and shuffles. “I used to run past your house a lot when I ran away from home, I uh don’t know if you remember.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale face turns into a happy but small smile at the memories. “I do in fact remember.”
“Cool well,” he motions towards the house with the white picket fence, “Bye I guess.”
“Goodbye, have a nice night.”
He mutters, “Uh, you too.” And then turns heel to get home. He doesn’t know what time it is but it’s probably later than he said he’d be home and he doesn’t want to make his mother’s pissed or worried.
It takes him fifteen minutes to get to his house from Aziraphale’s as it’s on the other side of town and when he does his stepmother, mama, is tending the flowers outside of the home.
“Welcome home kid, I thought you got lost.”
“Can’t get rid of me that easily,” he tells her as he walks up the driveway and through the one-car garage into the house.
She sighs and says, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Like he was running some sort of program he heads directly for his room and opens up one of his desk drawers to pull out a notebook and a pen. He then throws himself onto his bed, opens the book and writes down these words:
‘Aziraphale Sanctus might be is my newest crush because he was nice to me for five minutes and apparently that’s enough to make me interested... FUCK MY LIFE.’
He then rips out the page, grabs a lighter and sets fire to the page. As he watches the paper crumple and burns he thinks about how he’s going to stop his tiny crush from becoming bigger.
He hasn’t the faintest idea.