Happy Holidays, bravinto! Part 3
Dec. 2nd, 2017 06:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeThe Rose Thief and the Priest
Part 3
Crowley hummed absently to himself as he poked through the books in Canterbury’s Oxfam.
He’d spent the morning with Aziraphale, bringing him a coffee to help with what was doubtlessly a hangover rivalling his own—the priest had muttered something about preferring tea but had seemed happy to see him—and had then headed to High Street to find a bookshop.
After locating the promising-looking Oxfam, he’d made a beeline for the shelves nearest the register, where the books looked oldest. Crowley didn’t know the first thing about how to determine the value of a rare book, or even how to tell if the book was rare, but Aziraphale had said he liked books that were old or esoteric, so that’s what Crowley was looking for.
He knew he could have just asked the man sitting right next to him behind the counter for a recommendation, but he wanted to find one himself. As it was, every time Crowley pulled one of the books off the shelf, causing little flakes of leather binding to flutter to the ground, the man scowled at him.
Most of the books were on local history, and Crowley examined a huge volume on martyrs, but after much deliberation he decided he simply didn’t want to lug the huge thing back to his hotel, and he wasn’t sure if it was esoteric enough anyway.
After quite a bit of pulling books out, checking the price, putting them back, and then pulling them back out again, his eyes landed on a small, modest volume with a faded spine and delicate gold detailing. Part of the title was too worn to read in the shop’s lighting, but the top word, ‘Angels,’ was legible.
Intrigued, Crowley carefully pulled the volume free. He distantly recalled Aziraphale saying that he’d been named after an angel, and, given his interest in old Bibles, they might be something he was interested in as well.
Crowley ran his finger over the faint embossed floral motif on the front cover and opened to the title page. Angels and the Heavenly Spheres proclaimed the block typeface. In smaller, red letters underneath that, it read Denizens of Heaven, Including the Angelic Host, Our Mortal Forebearers, and Our Lord Jesus Christ: Their Dwelling-Places, Duties, and Influences. On the lefthand page lay the frontispiece, a beautiful engraving of several winged figures surrounding a pile of clouds holding a floating sphere with a cross in the centre.
Crowley flipped a few pages further, glancing through the table of contents. It was certainly esoteric, and if Aziraphale’s interests extended to religious mythology, this would certainly take his fancy. Crowley paged back to the beginning, this time looking for the publication date. He found it near the bottom, spelled out in Roman numerals—1744. Not exactly ancient, then, but hopefully old enough to provide some interest.
Bracing himself, Crowley tugged free the slip of acid-free paper tucked just after the front cover and looked at the price. For a long moment he just stared at it, wondering hopefully if he’d mentally transposed a digit, but that did not appear to be the case. They wanted £150 for it.
Crowley flipped back to the title page and looked at it for a long moment, running his eyes over the attractive lines of text. Then he looked back at the other books.
He didn’t know how much he was willing to spend for a rose that may or may not even be that rare, and he didn’t know if bribing Aziraphale with a book would work anyway. Maybe he already had a book just like this one, or maybe he wasn’t interested in angels.
Crowley’s eyes roved back down to the book in his hands, this time resting his gaze on the engraving. Something deep inside himself told him that Aziraphale would like the book. And, name etymology aside, a book about angels just seemed, somehow…fitting for him.
In the end, Crowley haggled with the shopkeeper and managed to get it down to £135, which he charged to his card while mentally cringing at the idea of how much fertiliser he could have bought for that price.
The shopkeeper wrapped the book in plain brown paper for him, and Crowley took extra care to hold it securely as he made his way back to his hotel.
The next day, when Crowley dropped by the church to make his now-routine request to look at the rose bush, Aziraphale invited him into his borrowed office. They passed two hours debating the merits of tea versus coffee and discussing the finer points of automotive excellence, Crowley admitting to his dream of one day owning a vintage Bentley, or maybe a Rolls.
Aziraphale caught on that Crowley hadn’t really been around Canterbury yet, and immediately volunteered to show him around the next day. Crowley, who was busily turning over in his mind how best to present his book bribery, readily agreed. At least it would mean seeing something other than the inside of his hotel room or the church for a change.
Aziraphale turned out to be both a fantastically knowledgeable and extremely easily-distracted tour guide, and several times they had to stop by the side of the road, forming an island around which the streams of tourists flowed, while Aziraphale recounted some anecdote about fourteenth-century legal practise. Crowley had never been much interested in history, but he didn’t find his interest waning. On the contrary, Aziraphale seemed to breathe life into what Crowley had always seen as a bleak and uninteresting past, reanimating history’s actors and revealing that they were, after all, just ordinary people with ordinary thoughts and emotions.
Crowley was content to just gaze at Canterbury Cathedral from afar—his pocketbook was currently feeling some stress, after all—but Aziraphale wouldn’t hear it and insisted that they go inside, even going so far as to buy Crowley’s ticket for him.
The two belfries on the west end of the building were surrounded by a haze of scaffolding, but the rest of the cathedral was visible, Aziraphale taking pains to point out the various architectural features. Crowley knew as much about architecture as he did about churches, which was to say practically nothing, but again he found himself wrapped up in Aziraphale’s words as the priest pointed out the south transepts and explained that the floor plan essentially consisted of two traditional churches lined up end-to-end. Aziraphale, for his part, just seemed delighted to have a captive audience.
The interior of the cathedral was even more spectacular, the sheer height of the nave prompting Crowley to revisit his opinion of medieval people as uninspired and a bit dim. Aziraphale was quick to explain the liturgical and symbolic functions of the various parts of the cathedral to him, and when they reached the north-west transept, he recounted in a low voice the tale of how Thomas Beckett had been murdered here, in his own cathedral, by a couple of knights working on what they thought were the orders of the king.
The cathedral was huge, and they whittled away another two hours walking down the aisles, circling the cloister, and poking around in the crypt.
Afterwards, they took a lazy walk through the church grounds, Aziraphale producing interesting anecdotes about the history of the city while Crowley wondered absently how long he’d keep going before he ran out of trivia and just start making things up.
They had a quick lunch and visited a small chapel, the ruins of a once sizeable abbey, and the city’s Roman wall. As they padded along the paved top of the last, the sun beginning to near the horizon as the wind picked up, Crowley found his mind wandering back to the book sitting on the bedside table in his hotel room, wrapped in brown paper.
After Aziraphale had walked him back to his hotel, Crowley spent a long moment just sitting on the bed and looking at the book. He knew it was his best chance of convincing Aziraphale to let him take a rose, but he could also tell the priest was warming to him, and maybe if he played his cards right he could convince Aziraphale to let him take a cutting without giving him the book. In which case he could take it back to the shop and maybe get at least half of his money back. It had been awfully expensive, after all.
That was what he would do, he decided. Because, ultimately, he was only here for the rose anyway.
There was choir practise at the church the next morning, so Crowley left, walked a bit around the city, and came back later, feeling that it wasn’t half as interesting of a place without Aziraphale.
Upon his return to the church, he found Aziraphale a bit busy with paperwork; apparently filling in for a vicar entailed more than just writing a sermon and showing up on Sunday. Crowley had nowhere else to be, though, and he was supposed to be spending his time buttering Aziraphale up, so he poked through the theological books in the vicar’s office until he found one that didn’t look too boring. Unfortunately, it was still terribly dull, and he kept finding his gaze wandering to where Aziraphale was scowling at the laptop screen on his desk.
Taking a particularly deep scowl as his cue to rescue himself from the boredom of theological discussion, Crowley leaned towards the desk and asked if he could help at all, since he was devilishly good with computers.
Aziraphale looked relieved at the suggestion, and Crowley ended up dragging his chair around to the other side of the desk so he could see what he was doing better. Aziraphale’s proximity was slightly distracting, but Crowley kept his eyes trained on the screen as he walked the priest through the horrendously poorly-designed system that was Microsoft Excel graphs.
Aziraphale audibly gasped as Crowley produced the graph he wanted in just a few seconds, and when Crowley laughed a little the priest confessed that he’d been struggling with the software for days.
“It’s not so bad once you know how it works,” Crowley said consolingly.
“Well, that is the hard part, isn’t it?” Aziraphale pointed out, poking cautiously at the laptop keyboard in the hopes of reproducing the graph Crowley had just made.
“You know what they say,” Crowley said easily, leaning back and stretching out his legs, crossing them at the ankle. “Hell is empty, and all the devils are here, working for Microsoft…”
Aziraphale huffed a laugh and a moment later returned to scowling as he hit the enter key and got an error message.
“Here,” Crowley said, leaning forward again. “You’ve just missed a parenthesis, is all…”
Once they’d won their battle with Excel, Crowley cast Aziraphale a sly gaze.
“So,” he said, sitting back in his seat a little. “Since I’ve been so chivalrous as to help you out, I don’t suppose you’d be inclined to return the favour? Just a single rose…”
“I didn’t realise your magnanimity came with a price,” Aziraphale said mildly, and though his tone was light, he kept his eyes trained on the laptop screen.
“Not a price, really…” Crowley said, sitting forward again and drawing out his words, hoping to convey that he was mostly joking. “It doesn’t cost you anything…”
Aziraphale harrumphed, but Crowley got the distinct impression that he’d misstepped somewhere.
The priest closed out of Excel and Crowley stood, dragging his chair back around to the other side of the desk. “I’ll just be here,” he said lightly, “in case you change your mind.”
Aziraphale made a noise of acknowledgement but kept his eyes trained carefully on the computer screen, and after a while Crowley returned to staring blankly at the theology book and wondering what he’d said wrong.
The next day, Crowley took Angels and the Heavenly Spheres with him to see Aziraphale. He deliberated for a long while, putting the book in his bag and then taking it out again, staring at the brown paper surface of the wrapping. He only had two days left in Canterbury before he had to be getting back to London for the rose show, and he knew he really ought to try to tempt Aziraphale with the book today. That way, if it didn’t work, he could make one last plea on Saturday before he left first thing in the morning on Sunday. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that—Lord knew he’d paid enough for the book, and he at least wanted to see that money put to good use.
So he walked to St Mildred’s in the light rain, holding his messenger bag tight to his side and firmly closed. As he greeted Aziraphale in his office, the back of his mind worked on the question of how to best present the book. He didn’t want to make it overly obvious that he was bribing him, but was hoping that, if he showed some genuine gratitude along with it, Aziraphale would take pity on him and give him what he wanted.
Or, he would just take the book and leave Crowley out £135 with nothing to show for it or his entire trip to Canterbury.
These thoughts mulled around in the back of Crowley’s head as he chatted with Aziraphale and even helped him dust off some of the stonework in the church.
I’ll do it over lunch, he decided mid-morning. If I do it straightaway it’ll seem suspicious.
They walked to a nearby cafe for lunch, but it was a bit busy, the rain drumming noisily on the pavement outside. Somewhere more private would be better. I’ll do it this afternoon.
Crowley lounged around in Aziraphale’s office in the afternoon, idly watching the priest tapping away at his computer and occasionally promising that he was almost done. I don’t want to do it in his office, he thought, hand heavy on the messenger bag he’d plopped in his lap. It’s too…impersonal.
Crowley was beginning to berate himself over his negligence by the time Aziraphale finally finished his work. Crowley, coming to a conclusion regarding the best venue for his plan, suggested they go on a bit of a walk, since the rain had stopped. Aziraphale seemed immensely cheered at the prospect of leaving the church, and Crowley felt a pang of guilt at using it as a pretext for cornering him about the roses.
They meandered through a small park, watching the squirrels darting back and forth under the trees, and Crowley found himself dragging his feet, slowing their pace as much as he dared.
They passed a sandwich shop that Aziraphale said was quite excellent, so they stopped for an early dinner. It was just as good as Aziraphale had promised, but Crowley could only eat half of his, stomach clenching guiltily. Aziraphale asked him if he was all right, and Crowley waved away his concern.
They made their way as slowly as Crowley could manage back to the church. Crowley ground to a halt outside the main doors, and Aziraphale stopped next to him.
“You’re heading back to London on Sunday, right?” Aziraphale asked, voice casual.
“Yeah,” Crowley said, and the hand resting on his messenger bag twitched nervously. “Early.”
This is it, he told himself. This is the perfect moment.
Crowley swallowed. His hand slipped into his bag, fingers closing around the brown paper package.
Tell him you got him a present. You hope he likes it. It’s a token of your gratitude, for showing such kindness to a poor rose-rustler such as yourself.
With the book already nearing the lip of his bag, Crowley hesitated. Because that was what it all came down to, didn’t it? Aziraphale had showed him kindness—a great deal more kindness than anyone had ever shown him before. And he was going to repay that kindness with something that amounted to little more than emotional manipulation?
The perfect William Lobb appeared in Crowley’s mind’s eye: disease-resistant, bearing huge, beautiful flowers that bloomed all year round, and with the light, full fragrance only the old roses could truly possess. He imagined himself owning such a rose bush, crossing it with only the finest specimens and doting on it night and day.
Crowley, mouth half-open with Aziraphale’s name on his lips, hesitated on the brink of making what he sensed was a terrifically important decision. Aziraphale was looking at him expectantly, a faint smile on his face, brilliant blue eyes bright. He looked so much happier than the dour priest that had closed the door to his office on Crowley a week ago.
“I—I, uh—what are you doing tomorrow?” Crowley blurted out, hand closing convulsively around the book in his bag and then forcibly releasing it.
An apologetic look came across Aziraphale’s face. “I need to pay visits to some ailing parishioners,” he explained. “It’ll take most of the day, I’m afraid, but I was, er, I was wondering if you wanted to do dinner, actually. With me. At the vicarage.”
Crowley’s initial disappointment was quickly washed away by relief. “Sure! Yes, uh, that’d be fine. What time?”
They arranged the details and awkwardly bid each other good night. Crowley’s mind was still very much on the book in his bag, and he could feel it burning a hole in the material as he trudged back to his hotel.
But when he gained his room, pulled the book out, and plopped it down on the bedside table, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just dodged a particularly dangerous bullet.
Crowley hadn’t exactly brought his finest clothes to his trek through southeast England, but he had brought one of his favourite blazers, as well as a red button-up that he’d taken quite a fancy to. He had neglected to bring a tie, though, so he left the top button undone and spent what was probably an embarrassingly long time staring at his reflection in the mirror in the loo and trying to arrange his hair into its most aesthetically-pleasing shape. Inevitably, his gaze drifted to his own eyes, the bright golden irises staring back at him worriedly.
He wasn’t entirely sure why he was putting so much effort into this in the first place; it wasn’t as though anything was really at stake. This was just a goodbye dinner with a pleasant acquaintance. He’d never see Aziraphale again, so it really didn’t matter anyway. Before long, this whole trip would just be a fond memory, an exciting caper to reminisce on when his mind wandered, or an interesting example to relate to potential horticulturists of how exciting rose-rustling could be.
With still twenty minutes before he was due at the vicarage, Crowley headed out, carrying a bottle of wine in one hand and a small brown package in the other. He’d decided that, though he no longer intended on using the book as leverage for getting a rose cutting, he probably wouldn’t get much of his money back anyway, so he might as well just give it to Aziraphale as originally planned. Besides, there was still that feeling deep in Crowley’s stomach that Aziraphale would really enjoy it.
When Crowley was nearing St Mildred’s, he took a brief detour to the section of cemetery fence nearest the rose bush. He gazed towards its now-familiar shape, admiring the beautiful blooms for the last time.
It’s been nice knowing you,” he told the bush quietly, temporarily resting the wine bottle on one of the the horizontals of the fence. “I still haven’t the foggiest what you actually are, but you’ve led me on a nice little adventure. So you just keep on growing, and, who knows, maybe I’ll be back someday.”
When he had had his fill of feeling like a fool whispering to a bush from several metres away, Crowley turned his feet towards the vicarage.
He came to a stop a few metres away, looking at the low stone building and eyeing the automatic light out front a little fondly. He neared the door and hesitated just outside, gaze lingering on the letterbox. With a glance at the window, he stepped forward and pried the metal lid of the letterbox open.
It was empty, and Crowley carefully placed the wrapped book inside. He’d added a small note before leaving his hotel, just a small scrap of paper stuck inside where the price had once been, saying only ‘I thought you might like this.’ He knew it would be no mystery as to who had left it there, but Aziraphale surely wouldn’t check his post until the following morning at the earliest, and by then Crowley would be gone. This way, Crowley assured himself, the book wouldn’t be emotionally manipulative in any way; it would just be a gift from a friend, with no strings attached.
Crowley carefully closed the letterbox, making sure the door was securely closed—it wasn’t supposed to rain but you could never be too careful—and then, after performing a last-minute, nervous pat-down, hesitantly approached the door.
He rapped twice and waited, palms suddenly sweating. He adjusted his grip on the wine bottle.
After a moment, the door swung open to reveal Aziraphale.
It looked like he had taken the opportunity to dress up a little as well. He seemed to have gone even further down the stuffy-professor rabbit hole, adding a tan jacket and tie to his usual shirt-and-jumper combo. He’d clearly made an attempt to smooth down his hair as well, to rather comedic effect. But his face split into a grin as he saw Crowley, and Crowley felt his nerves begin to evaporate. It was only Aziraphale, after all.
“Come on in, my dear,” Aziraphale said warmly, stepping back and motioning him inside. “You’re right on time.”
“I brought some wine,” Crowley offered as he walked in, Aziraphale closing the door behind him.
“Excellent,” Aziraphale said, coming back around and looking at the bottle as Crowley held it out to him for his approval. “I picked out a bottle too, but…yes, this one’s better.”
Aziraphale took it from him and gestured for Crowley to follow him into the next room. Crowley did so, and his eyes immediately fell on where Aziraphale had carefully set up a small table near the window. It was draped with a white tablecloth and set with napkins, utensils, crystal wine glasses, and two tall, unlit candles.
“Please take a seat,” Aziraphale said, setting down the wine on the table and gesturing to a chair before bustling off into the kitchen.
Crowley did as he was bid, suddenly nervous again at all the pageantry. He crossed his legs under the table, then uncrossed them again and fidgeted with his feet.
A moment later, Aziraphale reappeared with two plates piled high with food, one of which he set in front of Crowley.
“I haven’t cooked properly in a long time,” Aziraphale admitted apologetically, “so if it’s terrible please don’t feel the need to eat all of it.”
“It looks amazing,” Crowley said honestly, looking down at his plate. Arranged around a large piece of chicken that had been seared to a perfect golden colour lay a heap of glazed string beans dotted with pepper, a dollop of mashed potatoes, and even a small bread roll.
“Oh, well, thank you,” Aziraphale said, looking a little flustered as he opened the wine bottle and poured them both a glass.
“You really didn’t have to do all this,” Crowley said as Aziraphale took his seat on the opposite side of the table.
“Oh, it’s no bother,” Aziraphale insisted. “It’s been ages since…well, it’s nice to have company.”
Crowley made a noise of agreement and started carefully cutting up his chicken.
They made small talk as they worked through the meal, which as far as Crowley was concerned tasted just as good as it looked.
Far too soon, the night began to grow old, and Crowley poured himself another glass of wine as an excuse to stay longer.
When there was a lull in the conversation, Aziraphale said, “So…you’re heading back tomorrow?”
Crowley nodded. “Eight o’clock train. It’s one of the fast ones, so I should be able to reach London before the rose show gets properly started.”
“You said you’d been before,” Aziraphale said.
Crowley nodded. “This will be my third year. It’s an important networking opportunity, especially for meeting potential buyers and seeing what cultivars the other breeders have.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“It is,” Crowley said, taking a sip of his wine. It soured a little on the way down. “Usually I’d be preparing already,” he said. “I’ll have a lot of ground to cover on Monday and Tuesday; Sunday is important for first impressions, but Monday is the main day.”
Aziraphale made a noncommittal noise.
“It’s…ah, it’s quite fun though. Lots of…roses to look at.” Why am I still talking about this? Crowley lapsed into silence, staring awkwardly at his wine glass.
“Well,” Aziraphale said after a moment, “before you go…” The priest twisted in his chair, reaching around to rummage in something behind him. Crowley took the opportunity to take another swallow of wine, trying to calm himself.
Then Aziraphale turned back around and Crowley was grateful he’d already swallowed. The priest held out a single, violet-and-peach-tinged rose to him. The William Lobb.
“Here,” Aziraphale said, and the smile on his face was nervous.
Crowley reached out an incredulous hand and took the rose from Aziraphale, noticing as he did so that the priest had included a segment of the rootstock as well, wrapping the base of the plant in a plastic bag.
“I hope I took the cutting correctly,” Aziraphale said. “I looked up how to do it, but if I did something wrong we can go take another one.”
Crowley stared at the rose in his hands. It was even more beautiful up close, with a full, round bloom and one of the most beautiful colourations Crowley had ever seen.
“It—it looks—but what about the regular vicar?” Crowley looked up in confusion, meeting Aziraphale’s gaze. “And all that about honour and bribery and property that’s not yours to give away?”
Aziraphale gave him a faint smile. “Well, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and to be honest I don’t think he cares much either way.”
Crowley made a strangled noise, but Aziraphale only smiled at him, gaze warm.
Crowley turned his attention back to the rose, gently turning it over in his hands. The leaves were beautiful as well, with a full, symmetrical pattern and no sign of disease, fungal or otherwise. Usually even healthy roses suffered from mild cases of black spot, and it was incredibly rare to find a bush that was completely resistant. As Crowley’s expert eye tracked along the length of the stem, though, he suddenly found himself doubting if it was a William Lobb after all, or even a Charles de Mills. The pattern of the petals was more like a Chrysler Imperial, and the flush of peach wasn’t quite consistent either. Maybe it was better than a William Lobb.
“This is…incredible,” Crowley said honestly, looking up in undisguised delight. “I—thank you, this is…” He looked down at the rose again, this time inspecting how Aziraphale had wrapped the roots. The priest had done an admirable job, and had even taken the time to include some moist soil in the plastic bag. Crowley looked up again, another thank-you on his lips, and that was when Aziraphale leaned across the table and kissed him.
Every atom in Crowley’s body froze as Aziraphale’s lips pressed against his, warm and soft. Crowley’s elation over the rose vanished in an instant, turning bitter in his stomach, and he felt his hands tighten convulsively around the stem, thorns sharp against his palms.
Aziraphale leaned ever so slightly closer, trying to deepen the kiss, and Crowley’s heart kicked back in, beating a mile a minute as he abruptly pulled away, knocking his chair back and struggling to his feet.
“I—I—I should go,” Crowley stammered, tripping over the chair in his haste to escape. Before he could avert his gaze, he caught a glimpse of Aziraphale, still partially leaning over the table and looking up at him with those beautiful blue eyes, appearing very taken aback.
Crowley freed himself from the chair and staggered towards the door, hands still strangling the rose.
“Wait,” Aziraphale found his voice, and Crowley could hear him hurrying from his own chair as Crowley’s eyes latched onto the door. “No, please—”
“Th—thank you for the meal,” Crowley stammered, managing to release the rose long enough to pry the door open, hand shaking.
“Crowley—please—I’m sorry—” Aziraphale said, and now his voice was tinged with desperation, but Crowley was already through the door, stumbling out into the cool evening air.
Crowley’s gaze riveted itself on the lane that would take him back to his hotel, and he hastily started towards it, legs shaking but forcing himself to go as fast as he could without breaking into a sprint.
Aziraphale called after him one more time, but Crowley couldn’t make out his words and just put his head down and walked faster, willing his feet to take him far away.
He didn’t stop until he had gained the safety of his hotel room, locking the door and sinking onto the bed. It took him a moment to remember he was still holding the rose, and when he carefully set it on the bedside table he saw that the thorns had pricked his skin, and he was bleeding in several places. He barely registered the pain, and didn’t bother doing anything more than running his hands under cool water until the stream ran clear.
Then Crowley set the alarm on his phone for morning, curled up on his side on the mattress, and willed himself to never feel anything ever again.
Next: Part 4!
(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-02 01:24 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-02 05:58 pm (UTC)I had tears in my eyes when Aziraphale gave Crowley the rose ;_;
That was SO sweet.
And Crowley being such a good boy, putting the book in the mailbox for him so he will CERTAINLY not take it as bribery <3
And just... those two idiots being their idiot-selfs.
I really can't wait to read part 4 now, I hope it all works out well for those two!
(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-03 03:25 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-04 03:34 am (UTC)I was like "I'll just read this one and then come back to the rest later" but HAH. No. Not with that ending.
It was great though, I really felt everything as the characters did.
(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-04 06:38 pm (UTC)This is a roller coaster ride of emotions......I hope they get together soon waaahh ;w;
(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-04 11:26 pm (UTC)It sounds likr aziraphale put together a very lovely dinner. Poor guy! Bet he didn't expect such a reaction...
Can't wait to see how this ends!
(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-21 08:56 am (UTC)did not see that coming