#darcydoescomedy

[50shadesofoctarine]

BETA READERS - Pweese??? (Audio Transcript Below Cut)

The ethics board didn’t know what to do with him; Neither did the medical board nor the astrological association. Dr. A.J. Crowley was an academic rockstar—for all that the term “rockstar” meant in an environment where the ratio of knitted sweaters to human beings was an astounding 3.3 sweaters for every researcher in too many layers—his name plastered somewhere on most of the papers produced by Tadfield University, as well as a hefty chunk of papers produced outside of TadU (his groundbreaking statistical analysis popping up in all sorts of odd places, although, most notably, in Aziraphale’s pub arguments). A born contrarian, the sciences had called to him. And of course they had! Science was the occupation of mule-headed pricks (see: Nicolaus Copernicus), curious entrepreneurial spirits (see: Marie Curie), and madmen (see: Freud). And Crowley just so happened to be all three. There wasn’t a major field of study that he didn’t have a thumb in. If there was a scientific consensus to be had on the matter, then there was also a Crowley to unrepentantly flip the bird at it.

These were the foreboding thoughts overshadowing the mind of one young (although only young by the standards of post-PhD graduates, which is to say, not young at all) Dr. Fell as he glanced, awestruck, to the other side of the University cafeteria, where Dr. A.J. Crowley sat, eating a bowl of store-bought salad. Aziraphale had been crushing—academically, of course—on Crowley ever since he had read the man’s first paper on multidimensional approaches to quantum entanglement. That Crowley was wrong in his conclusions about relativity and its subsequent angles of observation was no impediment in Aziraphale’s appreciation of his intelligence. They might have disagreed on the finer points, but Crowley’s writing was a wonder to behold. Aziraphale had nearly vibrated out of his seat upon spotting him. Nevermind that he logically understood that Crowley published papers under TadU, the same university that Aziraphale himself wrote for, and therefore bumping into him was not outside the realm of possibility. It was the principle of the matter. Aziraphale knew Crowley as a photo above a well-read author’s note; It was something else entirely to witness him, breathing, flesh and blood, as he gazed into his salad, wine coloured locks flowing down his back. Odd to know that he had poor posture, or that he forked his food around more than he actually ate it. Intimate, in a strange way; That Aziraphale could quote the innermost musings of a man mere meters away from him.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale’s single player staring contest was quite suddenly put into co-op mode, as Crowley—almost like he could sense the attention goring into his back—looked up from his salad and into Aziraphale’s, now bashful, gaze. A tense moment of delicate liminality followed, Aziraphale waiting (much like a man at the gallows) for Crowley’s reaction to his impropriety. He was then surprised when Crowley's expression morphed into one of recognition, rather than one of disgust or awkwardness.

“Dr. Fell!” Crowley called, a grin overtaking the once thoughtful lines of his face. He waved one of his arms haphazardly in a ‘come-over-here’ kind of gesture, using the other to pull out a chair beside him. Aziraphale had the grace to be momentarily astonished before hurrying to meet his academic hero.

“Dr. Crowley, It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance! I’ll be honest, I-I never expected you to know who I was… Let alone…” He let his words trail off into pitiful nothings, stuttering and red in the face.

“Just ‘Crowley’ if you will, or ‘Anthony’ if you must. And the pleasure’s all mine! I first read your work, oh… It’d have to be at least five or six years ago now. Your master’s thesis, I believe. On Paul’s doctrines.” With a leering grin, Crowley leaned forward.

“I will admit, Dr. Fell, your writing had me positively hooked.” He said it as though it were a secret, the kind you wouldn’t dare repeat to your mother. However, from what Aziraphale could tell, he just sort of spoke like that. Like someone who was constantly sharing the intricacies of some deviant sexual act for all the innocence of the actual words themselves. Every sentence that fell out of his mouth reeked of an implied “you saucy minx” like the ghost of Fran Drescher past.

“Er.” Aziraphale replied intelligently, taking a seat. Crowley seemed unperturbed by the sudden verbal ineptitude. When working with academics, you get used to an assorted array of oddball characters. It’s terribly presumptuous, and even more so unproductive, to expect them all to conform to the typical back and forth of neurotypical communication. You don’t get to become Dr. A.J. Crowley, pain in the arse to astrophysicists everywhere, by being over-particular about the oratory of one’s downtime.

“You’re wrong, of course.” He continued with an impish grin, forking his salad cheekily. Aziraphale hadn’t known someone could fork a salad cheekily, but nonetheless, here Crowley was, attempting to prove him incorrect on two fronts.

“Wrong? Dear boy, that was my master's thesis. Should you choose to debate this, I fear I’ll have the home field advantage.” His response was deliberately unaffected, a haughty tune laced with the playfulness that Crowley was absolutely drenched in.

“Unfortunately for you, I’ve read it. And, as such, I fear nothing.” If at all possible, Crowley’s smirk got even wider, eyeing up a challenge like a dog would eye a rather large t-bone steak. It made him seem like the same kind of fellow you’d find jumping between skyscrapers in one of those panic attack inducing youtube videos. Within the relatively safe environment of academic discourse—long past the days of Pythagoras’ maths fueled murder, or, for that matter, Plato’s wrestling prime—it made Aziraphale feel brave.

“Those are bold words, Crowley. Especially coming from someone who has genuinely used Shrodinger’s cat to argue for quantum superpositions.”

Startled, Crowley laughed, mouth opening wide enough to expose the mushy green remnants of the salad he had been chewing. Behind dark glasses, his eyes glittered with a delighted surprise that told Aziraphale Crowley hadn't read his paper on modern approaches to unified field theory.

“Just because the sod wouldn’t have liked my stance, doesn’t mean I can’t use his thought experiment to prove it.” Crowley snorted, looking at Aziraphale speculatively. 

“Anyway, it figures you’d like Shrodinger. All that religious symbolism.” He sighed, inching closer. It would have been a suave manoeuvre were it not for the horrible screech of metal chair leg against hard concrete flooring. Aziraphale shuddered at the sound, wincing apologetically at Crowley. Hoping to convey with his eyes alone that ‘oh no, I did notice your blunder, but I shan’t make a fool of you; I’m kinder than that, see?’

“Science as an imitation of the religious seems more like your sort of thing, actually. I prefer proper works of faith.” He said instead, realising that the eye message wasn’t getting across all that well (because Aziraphale was about as smooth as Crowley in that regard).

“Proper works of faith, huh?” The raise of Crowley's eyebrows could be seen from space. Not that space would want to see such a thing. Aziraphale imagined that space would feel quite silly indeed, if such a glance had been directed towards it. At least, Aziraphale felt quite silly, watching Crowley’s eyebrows approach his hairline; Knocking—not impolitely—for entry.

“C.S. Lewis, mainly. I don’t mind a spot of Tolkien, either. I don’t suppose you read a lot of fantasy, do you?” As Aziraphale was wont to do when embarrassed, he puffed up. And subsequently puffed down; Softening the sulky turn of his tone with the upwards lilt of a question at the end.

“I don’t read much at all, really. Although I do make an exception for the Screwtape Letters.” Crowley answered, trying to find some common ground.

“You seem the type. Devilish as you are in your academic work.” Aziraphale teased. Regardless, Crowley soldiered on, giving tit for tat. Crowley did like tit.

“I’m more into the digital age, not that you’d know anything about that. You don’t even have a Twitter as far as I’m aware.”

If Aziraphale had indeed known what Twitter was, it would have been remarkably telling that Crowley knew he didn’t have one.

[anoddrock]

Tharon got lost

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