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A party-popper goes off loudly behind Tom, and he finds his back pressed against the nearest wall before he has time to think, while his hands reach for something that isn't there and his brain discards processing what it sees and hears in favour of crashing into a hyper-alert search for danger. He forces himself to breathe, slow and steady, shoves empty hands into the pockets of his bright jacket, and pushes away from the wall on shaky legs towards one of the tents.
This tent stands off to the side, draped in a Pride bunting made of every kind of Pride flag strung together. An accessibility symbol hangs lower down as does a brief list of some of its options (water, sunscreen, quiet space, pronouns, flip-flops, hugs). Inside, the ribbon curtains dividing the different areas have been printed with images of space, from Jupiter in trans pride stripes, to a swirling aurora in aro greens and white shading into a black sky, and a triple ring nebula in bi pink, purple, and blue.
It's run by a middle-aged couple, one a chubby blond in a beige suit, with an ace pride tartan bowtie and a pansy in his buttonhole, the other a thin ginger in women's skinny jeans, a black shirt that proclaims "Queer as in Fuck You" in green, white, and purple genderqueer stripes, and a flashy dark red cane with a snake's head for a handle. Both wear he/him pronoun stickers and matching badges that say "I'm the husband". It takes Tom a long moment before he realises that he recognises them from somewhere, and longer still to make his whirring brain cough up names.
By then, the ginger has taken one long look at him, stepped to his side, and closed a hand around Tom's arm with a slowness clearly calculated not to startle him further. He leads him wordlessly through Jupiter into a quiet, dimly lit space scattered with folding chairs and leaves him there to recover, with a paper cup of water for his fear-dry mouth and a handful of rainbow sweets beside him for the aftershock shakes. Space enough to breathe, quiet enough that his brain finally, finally, convinces itself there's no danger around (though it's still dithering on whether Dr Crowley is safe or deadly), and private enough that he doesn't have to pretend he's fine until he actually is.
***
He's not the only one that Crowley or Aziraphale deals with that way. It's one of the unspoken reasons they run the tent, and the townsfolk are familiar enough with "Angel and his Dear Anthony, aka the A-beams" to steer those that need it their way. They're sitting on a pair of chairs, arms draped behind each other when Tom finally emerges, in a rare openly physical closeness that makes Crowley appear even taller and thinner by contrast to Aziraphale's shorter plumpness.
Crowley gives Tom a nod of recognition, and a look that tells him thanks are neither wanted nor needed. Tom swallows and nods back, dropping the paper cup into the recycling as he goes. It isn't until he's back out in the summer heat and the noise of Pride that the significance of tall and thin and taken and understanding hits him and he inhales sharply and turns away. Safe, he tells his brain. Utterly safe - unless someone threatens what's his. Then... Oh yes, then you should beware.
Aziraphale watches him go, and hums an old wartime tune under his breath. Bless 'em all, bless 'em all...
Crowley chuckles as he recognises it, and improvises a set of verses under his own breath that only get queerer and more profane as they go on, until Aziraphale flaps a hand at him to shut up.
Crowley flashes a brief open, unrepentant grin back. "Oh, angel? Too loud?"
"My dear, under your breath is hardly 'too loud'. I was thinking more you might give the students - ideas - and it's entirely the wrong end of term for that."