An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 11/11
Fandom: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Good Omens (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens), Gabriel (Good Omens), Michael (Good Omens), Uriel (Good Omens), Hastur (Good Omens), Ligur (Good Omens), Muriel (Good Omens), Anathema Device, Agnes Nutter
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Maledictus (Harry Potter), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Slow Burn, Fluff, Smut, No Harry Potter characters, Pining, Friends to Lovers, Flashbacks, Librarian Aziraphale (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Abusive Parents, Intersex Crowley (Good Omens), Genderqueer Crowley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Masturbation, Anal Sex, Frottage, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Hogwarts Professors, Dom/sub Undertones, Professor Crowley (Good Omens), Alternate Universe - Human, Getting Back Together, Hurt/Comfort
Series: Part 1 of The Curse We Carry
Summary:
‘Stupid… stupid… How can you be so stupid?’ Crowley thought while hitting his head with his fist. This was a stupid idea and he knew it. But it didn’t seem stupid with that level of intensity until it started to become real. Until he was sitting right here in a staff’s compartment of the train, on his way to Hogwarts.
The compartment was empty, because the rest of the staff had arrived two weeks prior to prepare for the school year and the students arrival. Since Crowley had accepted the Herbology professor position at the last minute, he had to take the train at the same time as the students. Which meant Crowley was late. Which meant Crowley had nothing prepared. Which meant Aziraphale probably didn’t know he was coming yet…
**
The story goes back and forth between the present day: Where Crowley starts a new job as the Herbology professor in Hogwarts after not speaking to Aziraphale, who works as the Hogwarts’ librarian, for more than 20 years and flashbacks of their school years as students in Hogwarts.
There will be no Harry Potter characters from the books and no related timeline; I’m just using the universe.
IT’S HAPPENING!!!!!! This is the beginning of my first multi chapter fic ever!!!! Thank you to @queenval-art for inspriing this story and editing it so that people can actually get what I am trying to say XD YOU ARE THE BEST!!!!!!!
It has been two weeks since Delora had cursed her, and Lucette couldn’t believe she had been forced to work in this scam of a tavern. If she wasn’t the reason for the mess, why did she have to clean up the first place!?
She was a princess. She was used to the finer things in life, and to have work be done for her, she never had to clean—Ever. She never had to worry about cooking, or washing clothes. Lucette had no idea how these things even worked, she had to learn them, and she had to learn them the hard way.
The Ice Princess sighed, she watched the interactions between the customers and the people that lived here. They seemed friendly with each other, they joked and laughed, they exchanged stories and told each other about their worries, hopes and dreams.. It was disgusting.
Everybody was here for their own selfish reasons, no matter what Parfait and Delora said, they were all here to break their own curse. Why would they care if somebody else broke free? Would they still care if one of them broke free, but the other is still stuck?
It didn’t make any sense to her…
She sighed once more, there was no use in questioning her circumstances day in and day out. She was cursed, nobody remembers her, and she has to deal with it. Her hands glided towards her necklace, the one thing that judged her every action and every word.
Parfait had suggested teaming up with a member of Marchen, but Lucette had immediately dismissed the idea. She didn’t need help from people that obviously hated her! She would and could do this on her own!
The sound of shattering glass filled the air and dread began to fill Lucette’s heart.
Please no…
In the corner of her eye, Lucette noticed the twitching and the dancing of the broom Delora had created. It was the true bane of her existence—and before moment's notice—she pulled towards the broomstick by a force she could not control, her hands glued to the wood and her movement no longer her own as Mr. Broom twirled and sweeped as if his life depended on it!
Lucette was flung from one side to the other, her feet dragging behind her as she tried to keep up with the inanimate object. Its pink bow wiggled happily after the task was done and a smile graced the weird face that Mr. Broom had. Why would Delora give a broom a face anyway? It was a broom!
“You know you could be a bit nicer, whenever you just decide to drag me across the floor.” Her voice sounded tired and exhausted. Her arms hurt and her back was killing her from the unpredictable movements.
The swishing sound right next to her pulled her out of her self pity, and right in front of her she could read the words “I’m sorry” written in dust.
Her eyes quickly glanced to the broom in the corner. He couldn’t have…
by misswhimsy (Teen Wolf, Sterek, rated T, 11k)
In which Derek is a world-record holding speedrunner, Stiles is the glitch hunter who's found some of the biggest strats for the run and Derek's second most annoying mod.
Small crushes get blown wide open when Derek invites Stiles to do commentary for a major run and they finally have a chance to meet in person.
I promised myself nor to run with too much human au... but untill I get that one fic out my muse won't stop. So how bout for Bog, what happened to him in the human universe was he went on a blind date with a woman he met on a dating site. They'd gotten along great thru messages, but when they met, she screamed much like how Bog perceived what happened That Fateful Day.
An Angel On My Shoulder (W.I.P)
Author: Archangel Shorty
Pairing(s): Sam/Gabriel
Rating: Mature
Length: 10247
Guided by a snarky angel and a charming demon, his not-so-imaginary friends from childhood, Sam Winchester must make a choice that will decide the fate of humanity.
Jock!Scott falling for the one he keeps bullying at school, stiles stilinski.
I couldn’t write this to specifications, because the idea of Scott bullying anyone doesn’t align with my view of him. But, here’s a High School no werewolves AU with jock!Scott and nerd!Stiles where Stiles *thinks* Scott’s bullying him.
**
Missed – Understandings
Starting at a new school sucks ass. And not in the fun kind of way that ends with a bang and a whimper.
Beacon Hills is tiny compared to Santa Barbara and he’d thought Santa Barbara was way too small. This is the type of place where it feels like everybody knows your name, and his dad was just elected Sheriff, so it’s probably true. The stares he gets aren’t a figment of his imagination.
Stiles ambles down the hallway with his head bowed and his thumbs tucked into his backpack straps. His contacts have been irritating his eyes in the last couple of weeks, so he’s wearing his glasses, and because he’s only ever used them for home they’re not the stylish, hipster brand of chunky black that everybody wears, they’re an unironic chunky black that no one could wear with panache. He’s also broken out all over his chin and jaw, acne no doubt spreading because of his nervous habit of scratching. He basically looks like every Hollywood cliché of a nerd and he’s painfully aware of it.
He misses his friends. All two of them. He knows how this goes. They start off skyping and snapchatting every couple of days, and then once a week and then once a month and before they know it, they’ve drifted. So maybe he’s pre-empting that by not returning any of Erica and Isaac’s texts and chat requests, but screw it, he’s always been one for self-determinism.
Because he’s looking down, he doesn’t see the dude blocking his path until he’s bowling him over. At least the other guy’s wearing padding. He’s also got on some kind of red sports jersey and shorts. Stiles notices this from his position sprawled on top of him. This is awkward with a capital fuck.
“You all right?” the guy asks, sounding harsh-voiced and wheezing. His dark eyes are narrowed at Stiles, staring at him from top to toe, and you know what? No. Screw this. It’s not like he was looking where he was going either. Stiles cannot be held wholly to blame.
“Are you?” he asks back with a sneer, springing upright again and continuing on his way. He’s totally not going to limp, even though he cracked his knee into the concrete flooring and it’s hurting like hell.
“Hey,” a voice calls, but Stiles ignores it.
He doesn’t need some jerkwad pushing him around. Bad enough that he has to start his life all over again. Bad enough that he has to do it at a distinct disadvantage, as a Junior, when everyone else has figured out the social politics and strange teacher quirks that’ll rule their lives. But to also find himself at the receiving end of some jock asshole’s ire? Nuh uh, not today. Not ever.
*
Scott doesn’t know why the new kid seemingly hates him, but he does. Ever since they crashed into each other, Stilinski glares at him mistrustfully. Not just a small scowl either, but a full-blown glower. It’s kinda scary. He seriously has no clue why asking someone if they’re okay is tantamount to calling for their slaughter. Maybe Stilinski didn’t like the way Scott was examining him, but he’s used to assessing damage with a quick sweep of his eyes. He wasn’t trying to undress him with his gaze or anything. He totally wouldn’t do that without permission.
In the cafeteria, when Scott asks if he’s sitting alone, Stilinski gestures to the empty seats around him and mutters something about his invisible gang. When Scott offers him a spot at his table, Stiles says something about not wanting to contaminate the clique. When Scott tries to give him a pen in English, because it’s clear he can’t find his, Stilinski turns it down in favor of obnoxiously asking the teacher if she has one.
He shoulders past Scott in the library, ignores him outside econ, snickers at his attempt to compliment his Marvel shirt, scoffs at his bike at home time. Maybe — well, probably — he’s got an attitude problem, but Scott remembers what it’s like to be an outcast so he’s gonna keep trying, despite the fact Boyd and Malia told him he shouldn’t.
“Oh, hey, uh, Zerbignew?” Scott says, sliding next to his locker and smiling his most beguiling smile. “I don’t think I’ve introduced myself. I’m Scott.”
“Stiles.”
“What?”
“My name’s Stiles.”
“No offense, dude, but your name’s spelled really weird for how it’s said,” Scott says with a frown. He can sometimes get a little sidetracked. He’s been made aware of this a few times.
“It’s not said tha – it’s the name I go by because no one can say my real name correctly,” Stiles says with the least impressed expression Scott’s ever seen on anyone ever and a flappy hand gesture. “What do you want?”
“Lacrosse tryouts are tomorrow night and I’ve got it on great authority that you’re solidly built, so I was wondering if you were maybe thinking of giving it a shot.”
Stiles looks at him steadily, like he’s waiting for something. Scott doesn’t know what to do with the lack of response, so he shuffles from side to side, literally wrong-footed.
“You don’t have to come. It isn’t mandatory. I just thought it’d be fun.”
“Yeah, real fun, laughing at the uncoordinated nerd,” Stiles spits out.
“What? No. I would never—” Scott’s saying, but Stiles is already stomping away.
Scott’s confused. He’s also seen Stiles’ back one too many times, so he runs up, goes past, skids into his way. Stiles flinches, then stares, mouth downturned. He looks like he’s adopted a defensive position and the hand Scott had been going to reach out collapses against his side.
“I don’t know what your last school was like, or who you think I am, but I’m not out to cause you any harm. I mentioned the lacrosse tryouts because I’m the captain and we’re down six players this season. I thought it might make it easier for you to get to know people.”
Stiles still looks like he’s waiting for the punchline. Scott takes a step back, shrugs his shoulder.
“Nevermind. This was clearly one of my worst ideas. I won’t bother you again.”
Scott turns and walks away, mentally kicking himself for whatever it was he did to make Stiles hate him on sight.
“Are they straight after school? The tryouts?” Stiles’ raised voice asks. Scott spins on his heel, heart beating three times faster at the concession, small though it is.
“Yeah, pretty much. Gotta wait for Coach, but I’ll be on the field with the spare sticks, if you wanna practice?”
Stiles doesn’t answer, pointing toward an open door and then sauntering in its direction. Scott knows for a fact he’s going the wrong way, since he’s got Chemistry across the hall from him, but he feels like telling Stiles that would be pushing his luck, so he walks away, thinking about Stiles’ reaction when he realizes what’s happened.
*
Stiles does his homework. Not his actual homework, because it’s boring and he covered most of it already back home. No, Stiles does his Scott McCall homework. Then he really sorta wishes he hadn’t, because he now realizes he’s been a dick. Perhaps even worse than that. He had thought he was protecting himself from Scott’s harrassment? The best defense is an offense, after all. Turns out his version of offensive was just insulting. From all the accounts he’s gathered; from staff, students, Martha who works at the corner store; Scott is a ray of sunshine. Ugh.
And now he thinks about all the times Scott ‘accosted’ him, and he really doesn’t know why he didn’t realize this before. He should apologize. He’s not going to, but he should.
He spends the next day waiting to see Scott. Every class seems interminable. Weirdly, this is the first day at this hellhole of a school where he hasn’t seen Scott. He doesn’t have English or econ, so there’s no reason for them to run into each other.
Soon as the bell sounds, he’s on his way to the lacrosse field. There’s a group of boys and girls there already, most of them freshmen. There’s a girl he shares two of his classes with called Kira, but she’s talking to a tall black guy and doesn’t notice him waving at her. He automatically feels like a fish out of water and other apt analogies. Frog in the sky? Booger on a plate? He feels surplus to requirements and damned if that isn’t how he’s always felt, even back home.
“You made it!” Scott says, sounding way too enthusiastic considering Stiles has been nothing but an asshole to him since they met. Stiles still can’t help but wonder whether this is all an elaborate trick, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.
“Yeah, I sure did,” Stiles replies, wincing at how pathetic he sounds.
Scott looks wary, like he too is worried this is a set-up. He nods at the crowd as if he’s going to excuse himself and suddenly, powerfully, Stiles doesn’t want him to go.
“You said we could practice?” he asks. “I brought my own stick.” He waves it to illustrate the point.
“You’ve played before?” Scott asks with an expression that isn’t so guarded. It does weird things to Stiles’ stomach. Where did that come from? He has no idea. He’s gonna ignore it for as long as humanly possible.
“Yeah. Kind of. Practiced before, certainly. You’re looking at the resident benchwarmer of the San Marcos Royals.”
“Ah, you’re looking at the former freshman year benchwarmer of the Beacon Hills Cyclones,” Scott says with a twinkle in his eye. “The awesome thing people don’t realize about us benchwarmers is that while all the other players are learning the game running around, exhausted and sweaty, we’re learning strategy and technique while comfortably seated.”
Stiles usually prides himself on his ability to make accurate snap judgements, but he was so wrong about Scott. So, so wrong. He realizes he’s smiling a beat later, scuffs against the grass and bites his lip.
“You wanna practice passing?” he asks. He wants to be asking something else.
*
It turns out that when Stiles isn’t glaring at him, he can be, like, personable. And cute. He tells Scott the goofiest pasta joke he’s ever heard and doesn’t get bored at Scott’s rejoinder of the long library-visiting chicken joke. Stiles tells him a little about Santa Barbara, Scott tells him a lot about Beacon Hills. It’s nice.
Stiles’ groan and eyeroll when Coach finally appears on the field is one of the funniest things Scott’s seen in weeks. Scott wants to stay around him longer, but he has to lead the drills, so he’s dragged away too soon for his liking and coerced into showing the newbies what to do. The rest of the afternoon is an endless succession of demonstration, evaluation, and working hard on not ignoring everyone else in order to look over at Stiles. He can already tell he’s going to go against his moral code and beg Coach to let Stiles on the team. He’s never done that before, not even for Cora Hale, and she threatened him, with menace. But he could see why Stiles was a benchwarmer, especially when they graduated from passing to trying to score goals, yet he could also see Stiles’ strengths — or at least, that’s how he’s justifying it.
Coach is writing up the list of contenders and Scott’s about to suggest Stiles, when he sees ‘Bilinski’ is already being written down. Scott gives a little fistpump and goes to tell Stiles the good news. Stiles is standing talking to Danny, which is awesome, he’s already making friends. Scott sidles on up, but something he hears in Stiles’ tone, a bitter kind of mockery, makes him stop before he can be noticed.
“… took one look at him and decided he was a meatheaded idiot…” Stiles is saying, scratching at his neck.
Danny frowns at him, cuts in. “Scott’s the best,” he returns, but Scott doesn’t wait around to hear anymore. He and Danny go way back and he knows he’ll defend him, but obviously that’ll do nothing to dissuade Stiles.
He feels like a meathead. And an idiot. Obviously he was expecting too much. He’s been told before that he trusts too easily, always tries to see the good in people, even when it doesn’t exist. This is obviously another example of that.
Scott rides home, orders pizza, puts on his favorite movies and doesn’t mope. Some new kid hates him, so what? They hardly know each other. There are plenty of people who see him for who he really is. He may not be perfect, but at least he’s not a buttface. He refuses to get upset over this. When his mom gets home from her shift she makes him double chocolate cocoa with marshmallows, which indicates his refusal may not be working, but Scott simply takes slow sips and nestles his head onto her shoulder without saying a word. She seems to understand.
*
Scott doesn’t see him during English, which makes thanking him for the invitation to the tryouts difficult. Stiles had a great time, made tons of new acquaintances who could become friends, and got to see Scott in all his sweaty, athletic glory. It was a win, in his book. Plus, he made the team. The actual team. It’s like a dream he never dared to have come true. At lunchtime Scott’s sitting alone at the cafeteria, so Stiles walks up with his tray.
“Mind if I join you?”
Scott looks up at him like he’s some foreign object. “This table’s reserved.”
“Oh? You couldn’t find space for me?” Stiles asks, immediately regretting it on realizing Scott’s not playfully teasing him, but serious.
“Nope,” Scott says. “Figuring out how you’d fit is a little beyond me.”
Stiles wonders if he’s in some kind of nightmare as he stumbles away. He watches as other lacrosse players join Scott, a few of whom look like the freshmen at the tryouts, and picks at his sloppy joe when they start to chat and laugh. There’s an obvious gap at the end of one of the benches.
Stiles spends the next several hours trying to puzzle out what he said or did to change Scott from warm and friendly to cold and cruel. Maybe he simply wanted more blood for the team and wasn’t afraid to employ seduction to get it. But that goes against everything he’s heard and heretofore seen. He can’t help but think that it’s through his action, or inaction, that Scott’s suddenly turned the tables. He scans his mind, going over their interactions, still comes up empty.
The rest of the week is much the same. Scott ignores him every time he attempts to talk. It makes him want to retaliate. This is what lifelong rivalries are born from, he thinks. He finally skypes Erica and Isaac back. He also joins the mathletics team, on their suggestion. They say it’s because it’ll give him a chance to compete against his old crush Lydia, who is the leader of the San Marcos team, but he thinks it’s because they’re worried he’s becoming a shut-in.
On Saturday morning there’s lacrosse practice and Stiles decides he’s going to confront this head-on. While Scott doesn’t tell him to fuck off with words, his curt glance suggests he’s projecting that thought with his mind.
“I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot,” Stiles ventures.
Scott crinkles his nose at him and it’s so adorable, Stiles feels like a jerk all over again. “Really? ‘cause I think you made yourself pretty clear.”
“But I came to tryouts?” Stiles says. “We hung out. It was fun, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, and then you told Danny what you really thought of me, so—-”
“Wait, what? What’s he been saying about me? I also admitted how much of a prick I’ve been, did he leave that part out?”
“I overheard you,” Scott says, looking angry. Already Stiles can tell the expression is rarely seen on his face. It looks so wrong with his features, at odds with the person he’s shown himself to be.
Stiles blinks at him, finds his voice going hushed. “Saying what?”
“How I’m a meathead,” Scott says, sounding hurt.
“I was saying that I couldn’t believe I’d thought you were a meathead,” Stiles says. “I was saying that I’d been an asshole to you for no good reason, that I’d made false assumptions about you and your intentions toward me, and I was quickly realizing the error of my ways.”
Scott’s expression smooths out. “Really?”
“Yeah, really,” Stiles concedes, nodding. He thinks he may be able to salvage this after all.
“But why? Why did you think my intentions toward you were anything other than what they were —which was welcoming, by the way. Like, I don’t think I said or did anything that’d indicate I was gonna stuff you into a locker, which is how you acted.”
“Because what are the chances the hot guy would be talking to me if it weren’t to bully me?”
Scott beams at him, beatific. It’s unreasonably beautiful. “You think I’m hot?”
“The hottest,” Stiles says simply.
“I was talking to you because I didn’t want you to feel lonely at your new school. The fact that I think you’re hot too is merely a coincidence,” Scott says, grin slipping into a small smile that Stiles wants to see again and again.
“Does my hotness result in my forgiveness?”
“Does mine?”
“To be honest, I don’t think looking good should result in anything except boners, but the fact you’re a warm and kind-hearted person leads me to say yes.”
Scott chuckles and visibly blushes. “Are you always this inappropriate?”
“Frequently.”
“Then also yes.”
Lacrosse practice starts. They buddy up for the drills. It feels right, feels good. Stiles finally feels like he might be able to make a home here.
*
Scott’s never been very patient, or good at denying himself what he wants, so he asks Stiles on a date within the month. He’s ten seconds too late, because Stiles is already asking him, but it’s the thought that counts. Everyone who knows them groans in relief, with Liam being particularly vocal, and Allison offering to shoot Stiles full of arrows if he hurts Scott.
He wonders how things might’ve been different if they’d never met, or if they’d always known each other, but he likes the way things are. He likes sharing secrets with Stiles, likes learning new things about him and his interests, likes being opened up to new worlds.
“We should definitely skip The Phantom Menace?”
“Absolutely. For sure. I’ll summarize it for you. In 25 words or fewer, if you want.”
Scott leans over and kisses him on the cheek, stealing a handful of popcorn at the same time. “You’re such a nerd.”
“If you’re gonna bully me, you could at least pin me down when you do it.”
“That comes later,” Scott promises, swallowing thickly soon after, already picturing it.
“You’re undressing me with your eyes again, aren’t you?”
“Only if you want me to be?”
Stiles sprawls out wider alongside him, gives him his most mischievous of smirks. “Undress away.”
Scott smiles at him, steals more of his popcorn. Okay, so maybe he’s kind of bullying Stiles. Covertly torturing him, at the very least. Because he knows all they both really want is to be making out, sliding their bodies close and gripping tight, but he’s gonna delay it and prevaricate until Stiles can’t take it any longer. He might fundamentally be kind, but that doesn’t mean he’s perfect, and Stiles has the best way of bringing out the worst in him. He doesn’t mind at all.
He ran a hand through his hair, doing his best to look nonchalant. With a deep breath and mental fistbump, he put on his most winning smile.
“Hey,” he said smoothly, sliding into the seat next to the Canadian. The man didn’t respond.
Alfred’s smile faltered for a second. “Hi,” he tried again, leaning against the bar and tilting his head into the Canadian’s line of vision. The other man jumped and looked up, blinking rapidly. Alfred nearly laughed at him.
“Oh! Hello,” said the Canadian. “I’ve never seen you here before.”
Alfred’s smile resurfaced. “Yeah, my bike broke down and I came in here to get out of the rain for a while. I figured I’d wait for it to stop pouring before I went back out to try and fix it up.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” the Canadian frowned in reply. “I hope it won’t be too difficult to fix.”
Al shrugged. “Nah, that piece of junk does that all the time. I’m thinking, once I’ve got enough cash, I’ll ditch the bike and get a new one. Like a Ducati or a Harley or something. Cool, huh?”
The Canadian chuckled. “Sure, it’s cool. I’d never have the guts to ride a motorcycle, though. I get freaked out just driving a car. But I sort of wish I did. Have a bike, I mean.”
“So why don’t ya just get one?” Alfred grinned, inclining his head a little. The Canadian laughed quietly. It sounded sweet.
“Are you kidding? I’d never survive. I’d probably do something lame like fall off and break my neck before I’d even started, and then there’d be nobody to feed the rat. Not that I have a rat problem or anything,” he quickly clarified, seeing Alfred’s horrified expression. “I meant my pet rat. My cousin gave him to me when I was a kid. He’s white. The rat, I mean. Although my cousin is white too.”
“Yeah? What’s his name?” asked Alfred.
“Francis.”
“You have a white rat named Francis?”
“No, I have a white cousin named Francis. The rat doesn’t have a name. Or he does, I guess, I must have given him one once. I can’t really remember what it was, though.”
Alfred burst out laughing. “You sure sound like a sucky owner.”
The Canadian smiled and shrugged. “In my defense, he likes to act like I don’t exist. I’d probably remember his name if he paid more attention to me. I think I named him Hakunamatata or something.”
“That’s a weird name,” Alfred grinned. “Hey, if I told you my name, you think you’d remember it?”
Alfred could have sworn the Canadian batted his eyelashes coyly, but then again he didn’t seem like the type. “I can’t guarantee anything,” the man said. “I may or may not have had too many drinks. Those two like to feed me cocktails of death just because one’s German and one’s Russian and they can hold their liquor like Hoover Dam.” Here, he gestured to the pub’s workers, who waved. “At this point I can barely remember my own name. Also I’m talking way too much.”
“Yeah, you’re kinda rambling. Don’t stop on my account, though. I personally quite like the way you ramble. And I’m Alfred, by the way, but you can just call me Al. Everyone does.”
The Canadian smiled sweetly at him. “I’m probably Matthew.”
Alfred grinned. “Well, Probably Matthew, it’s nice to meet you.”
