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The last speaker, the Master of Ceremonies for the whole celebration, was, at last, winding up her speech. "...and finally, I cannot leave this without mentioning two pillars of the university, and guardians of the rumour mill, without whom the autumn terms would be very different..."
Crowley had a sudden sinking insight, and just enough time to mutter, "Brace yourself, angel," before the MC concluded, with a wave of her arm.
"...Dr Fell, and Dr Crowley!"
There was instant uproar. A good uproar, pleased, and in favour, and eager to see them respond.
"When this is over," Crowley muttered under cover of the noise, "and we've recovered, you owe me lunch."
Aziraphale was wearing his 'magician' face - a performer's beaming smile that didn't quite reach his eyes and which he could maintain even under serious provocation. He replied out of the corner of his mouth, "Of course. What would you say to some crepes?"
"We are not going to France for crepes." Crowley drew a deep breath and offered Aziraphale his hand, palm up.
Aziraphale took it, and they rose to their feet together. Crowley left his stick hidden under the chairs, trusting in Aziraphale's support to stay balanced and upright.
One step forward. Two. They bowed like actors at the end of a show, or magician and assistant at the end of a perfomance, hand in hand openly for once. Then Crowley turned and held out his hand for the microphone.
"I would like to say a few words." He turned slowly, dark glasses panning across the entire audience so that every student and ex-student might feel that he was speaking specifically to them. Then he nodded, once, that slight approval that every one of his graduates knew and told them simply. "You'll do."
There was a stunned, deafening, hush as he returned the microphone and stalked back to his seat. And then, once they recovered, they cheered him (and his husband) to the rafters.
#
Afterwards, when they finally made it back to the Bentley, Crowley folded his arms on the steering wheel, rested his head on them, and made a sound like a tired tea-kettle.
Aziraphale sagged back into the passenger seat. "I quite agree, my dearest."
Crowley turned his head enough to trade a long look with him, then sighed and sat up. He fished his subtly genderqueer (green leaves with white and purple flowers decorated the lid) pillcase out of his jacket pocket, flipped it open, and tipped his next dose into his cupped hand.
Aziraphale retrieved a half-used bottle of water from his own pocket and passed it over.
Crowley washed it down, handed the bottle back and started the engine. "Let's go home. We can both sleep more comfortably there."
"Anywhere you like," Aziraphale murmured. "As long as you're there with me, I'll be home."
Crowley pulled a face, and then put the car into gear and pulled out into the endless queue spooling out of the University into the world beyond. "Home is where the heart is," he quipped, but the look in his eyes said that Aziraphale had his heart anyway, and always had. "How trite. And how very true, angel."
"All the deepest truths sound trite if people repeat them often enough."
"Familiarity breeds contempt?"
"Exactly. But, my dear?"
"Yes, angel?" The Bentley inched forward along the road, and Crowley glanced over at Aziraphale.
"My familiarity with you will never breed contempt. I will choose you, every time."
"Ngk. Likewise."
Aziraphale straightened as they reached the road, launched from the University alongside their ducklings, the old and the new, to fly free wherever they chose, with whoever they chose.
#
In the story, the ugly duckling grew up to be a swan, finding a place and an identity he'd been denied all his life. So it is with the ducklings they take under their wings.
As it once was with Aziraphale and Crowley.
For like swans, when they chose a mate, and a purpose, it was for life.