Happy Holidays, cupidsbow!
Dec. 7th, 2021 05:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeTitle: My Wandering Days are Over
Recipient:cupidsbow
Rating: General
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Warnings: N/A
Summary: “You’ve tidied,” said the angel, his expression caught somewhere between fondness and exasperation.
“Well spotted,” said Crowley, with a grin.
It was one of those perfect autumn days in the middle of November, when the sun is shining but the air is crisp. The cottage was cold, somewhere outside the duvet, but Crowley was pleasantly warm. He had a sneaking suspicion about the source of all that heat, so he was careful not to stretch as he awoke, lest he whack an unsuspecting angel in the face.
Sure enough, Aziraphale was lying beside him, clad in the cherub-print pyjamas that Crowley had bought for him. Aziraphale claimed to tolerate the pattern because the pyjamas were so satin-y soft, but Crowley knew he could easily miracle a different pattern if he wanted to. The thought made him smile, and he had to suppress the urge to reach out and touch the angel’s sleep-mussed curls.
Part of him wanted to lie in bed until Aziraphale woke up, because the angel was absurdly adorable when he first woke up, and their current proximity could lead to some rather interesting morning activities. But it was eight o’clock, and Crowley knew he had at least three hours to himself, and he could put that time to good use.
Sleep, for Crowley, was utilitarian. He slept for a solid seven each night and then got on with his life. For Aziraphale, sleep was an event. When he developed a taste for it, once in a blue moon, he snuggled in next to Crowley and was dead to the world, sometimes for a stretch of twelve hours. At first Crowley had been baffled by this and a little put out that there were twelve fewer hours he got to spend with Aziraphale. But after they’d moved to the cottage, he’d learned to take the time apart as a blessing.
Because, as it turned out, Aziraphale was a slob.
Yes, Crowley should have known this after spending so much time in the bookshop. He’d once found a stack of old tax forms covered in a layer of dust that was at least three inches thick. And try as he might, he’d never been able to find an ounce of logic in Aziraphale’s shelving system. The angel had attempted to explain it once, but he’d been very drunk indeed, as had Crowley, so the conversation had rather devolved. But the bookshop’s untidy nature had always seemed cozy and inviting. Besides, it was Aziraphale’s domain, even when Crowley had all but moved in, and that made it easier for Crowley to accept the mess.
But now they were properly cohabitating. There had been an estate agent, money had changed hands, paperwork had been signed. There were forms and check stubs filed away that made their sharing of space official. If the space was officially shared, then Crowley thought he should be able to tidy up the space. It sounded logical enough in his head, but it never seemed to withstand the immovable force of Aziraphale when he gave voice to the opinion.
Thus, the stealth tidy was born.
Crowley kissed Aziraphale softly on the forehead and then slid away from him, off the edge of the bed. He snapped to swap his silk pyjamas for leggings and a henley -- tidying called for maximum comfort. Before, daring to dress like this had made him feel like a hermit crab without its shell, all soft underbelly and exposed tendons. The first step in shedding that mentality had been leaving his eyes uncovered around Aziraphale. It had taken months, but eventually he’d stopped reaching for his dark glasses when they were alone together. Things had fallen into place from there.
Aziraphale was snoring contentedly now, and Crowley knew nothing would disturb him. All the same, he shut the bedroom door as he headed downstairs. He snapped again and earbuds appeared in his ears, already playing something with relentless guitar. He took the stairs two at a time, weaving his way through the sitting room and picking up no less than four used mugs along the way. Though he tried to pick them up whenever he saw them, he could never seem to keep up. The mugs went into the sink for later and he returned to the sitting room.
The throw blankets needed folding, the throw pillows needed fluffing and rearranging. Half the fun of snuggling up on the sofa with Aziraphale was getting to mess it up, but you could only mess it up if it was tidy first. As Crowley straightened all the furniture and even adjusted the Turkish rug a bit, he found three misplaced books. When he’d finished everything else, he placed them on the coffee table and stared at them. It always came to this -- should he leave the books here, or put them in the library?
The library was, without question, Aziraphale’s domain. It was an extension of the bookshop, and they’d agreed that Aziraphale could keep it however he liked. Crowley loved Aziraphale and wanted to respect his boundaries, so he generally kept away from the library. But the small stack of three books would grow, he knew, until half the library had migrated into the sitting room. So he took a deep breath, scooped up the books, and set off down the hall to the library.
The room at the back of the house was much larger than one might think, based on the overall size of the house itself. Crowley could swear that it grew a bit each day, slowly expanding to accommodate all the books Aziraphale picked up in town. He stood at the door for a moment, reminding himself that this was a simple procedure, in and out. Place books on the nearest flat surface, leave the room. Easier said than done, but somehow he managed it, forcing himself to ignore the six additional mugs and two plates of biscuits that he spotted.
With that done, Crowley turned up the volume on his earbuds and went to the kitchen. He cleaned the four mugs from the sitting room -- two were cocoa, one was tea, and one was wine -- and then began to contemplate breakfast. There were eggs in the fridge, and he’d just picked up a block of locally made cheddar, so he decided on omelettes.
He could have used miracles for all of this, of course, but that didn’t give him the same rush. There was something so satisfying about setting things to rights with his own hands.
Either his timing was very good, or the smell and sizzle of breakfast cooking was enough to wake an angel. Just as he was plating up, he heard the creak of the staircase and the slap of familiar slippers against the kitchen tile. Crowley set the pan back on the hob and turned to find Aziraphale, delightfully rumpled and tying the sash of his dressing gown.
“You’ve tidied,” said the angel, his expression caught somewhere between fondness and exasperation.
“Well spotted,” said Crowley, with a grin.
Aziraphale sighed and sat at the table by the window. “I always forget that when I have a sleep, I’m liable to wake up and be unable to find any of my possessions.”
“I didn’t touch your library,” said Crowley, turning back to his plates. “Be grateful for that, by the way. It’s taking all the will power I have not to break in there and just start alphabetizing.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Nah, I do have some sense.”
Crowley carried the omelettes to the table, setting one in front of Aziraphale, who leaned forward reflexively to breathe in the eggy, cheesy aroma. He made two more trips, bringing the fresh fruit he’d cut and the stack of toast he’d made.
“Tea?” he asked.
Aziraphale fixed him with a look. “I had a cup of cocoa, somewhere in the sitting room. I would have happily drunk that this morning rather than let it go to waste. I do wonder where it’s got to…”
Crowley rolled his eyes. “That cup of cocoa was so bloody congealed it looked like a mug of marmite.”
“No, not that one, I did mean to clear that away. The other one, it was perfectly fine.”
“They were both disgusting. Tea?”
“Oh, yes, all right,” Aziraphale conceded, slicing into his omelette.
While the tea brewed, Crowley watched Aziraphale eat. There was nothing better than watching Aziraphale enjoy something he’d prepared for him. Watching him all those years at restaurants had been sublime, but a magic ingredient came into play when he’d made the food himself. With each appreciative moan or secret smile, a thrill ran up Crowley’s spine. I did that, he thought. I made him happy.
When they’d finished breakfast, Aziraphale and Crowley stood side by side at the sink. Officially, Aziraphale was there to dry whatever Crowley had washed, but it was definitely more about the brush of fingers through soapy water and the warmth of shoulders bumping together. Crowley felt supremely at ease; he still couldn’t believe they were allowed to live like this.
“Any plans for today?” Aziraphale asked as he dried the skillet.
“I thought I might try making challah bread. From that cookbook you got me last Christmas?”
“Mm,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley knew exactly what that sound meant.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Go on.”
Aziraphale set the skillet down and glanced over at him. “It’s just...you leave the kitchen in such a state when you bake.”
Crowley whooped with laughter. “I leave the kitchen in a state? How many mugs are in your library right now?”
“That’s different, mine is an ordered mess that can easily be tidied.”
“Like you would know,” said Crowley, with a snort. He sank his hands back into the soapy water, scrubbing at a dish. “I’m the one who tidies around here.”
“Yes, but when you bake, it’s a whole day affair. There’s flour everywhere, it’s absolute anarchy.”
“Why did you even get me the cookbook?”
“Food photography is so lovely. The breads in there look absolutely delectable.”
“So let me make you one of them. You can see it, up and close and personal in the real world. Challah in 3D, imagine that.”
“There are breads at the bakery as well, my dear.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
Aziraphale leaned over to kiss him, and Crowley felt his cheeks go red.
“I’ll just make it some other day,” he said. “When you’re so absorbed in one of your dusty books that you won’t even notice the anarchy.”
“That sounds like an excellent plan.”
Crowley pretended to grumble, but he didn’t really mind. After all, their time was their own now, and there would be many other opportunities to bake every bread in that book. The days were different than they once had been, with no paperwork to submit or secrets to keep. Sometimes Crowley made plans or thought up things to do on particular days, but mostly he played it by ear, knowing there was time for it all.
“That still leaves today, though,” Aziraphale continued.
“I saw something about a flower market,” said Crowley. “On the cork board in the coffee shop.”
“Oh, we should do that. Didn’t you want to sell something of yours this year?”
Again, Crowley felt himself go red. “Nothing’s ready yet. Maybe in the spring.”
“Your mums would put everyone else to shame,” said Aziraphale. “Nevermind those African violets you started in the summer. People would go mad for those.”
Crowley scrubbed harder at the dish, though it was definitely clean now. “Like I said, maybe in the spring.”
Aziraphale put his arm around Crowley’s shoulders and pulled him in for a kiss on the cheek. Even now, this casual intimacy could be overwhelming in the best possible way. It had been several years since they’d started holding hands, sitting closer on the sofa then they’d ever dared, and sharing kisses, but Crowley could still be struck dumb by it all. He handed Aziraphale the dish to dry and busied himself with a mug. Aziraphale knew by now not to mistake his quiet for rejection.
“Might we have time for an estate sale as well?” Aziraphale ventured, setting the dish on the countertop.
“Someone with an extensive library?”
“Perhaps. You never know what you might find at these things. One of my old contacts from the shop lets me know whenever there are prospects in this part of the country.”
Crowley smirked at him. “How far?”
“Near Brighton,” said Aziraphale. “But we could be there and back in no time with you behind the wheel.”
Now it was Crowley’s turn to lean in for a kiss, pressing his lips to Aziraphale’s and smiling into it. “Fine by me. A good excuse to take the old girl out for a spin.”
Aziraphale beamed at him, and Crowley felt like he was stood at the back of the garden, drinking in the last of a summer’s day.
With their plans settled and the dishes done, Crowley followed Aziraphale upstairs. As it was already after noon, they employed a few handy miracles to get ready for the day. Sometimes, if it was rainy and miserable, Aziraphale would wake Crowley by climbing into bed with him. They would lie there together, exchanging languid kisses and lazy touches that eventually became frenzied. And then they would wash up the human way, showering together and standing at the sink to brush their teeth. It wasn’t logical, perhaps, to do this when they had the power to bypass such mundanity. But there wasn’t much logic in an angel and demon living together, either.
The flower market had been set up at the center of town -- two dozen tents and stalls, each bursting with various colorful offerings. As they passed an older man’s display of African violets, Aziraphale remarked under his breath that Crowley’s were much nicer. Crowley steered them toward the hydrangea blooms, because he knew Aziraphale loved them.
“A few for the kitchen?” he suggested, surveying the bluish-purple petals.
“Ooh, lovely,” Aziraphale agreed. The woman running the stand wrapped up a bouquet of the blooms and grinned at them knowingly.
They made a circuit of all the stalls, pausing here and there to admire the flowers. Aziraphale asked after everyone’s children or pets, making easy conversation as Crowley scrutinized the wares. In addition to the hydrangeas, Crowley bought Aziraphale a single dusty-pink rose that he knew would end up pressed inside a book. He also picked up some tulip bulbs, with an eye toward the spring.
“I’ll test one or two in the greenhouse,” he said. “I’ve never done tulips. Should get the lay of the land before planting season.”
“Imagine the back garden full of tulips,” said Aziraphale, dreamily.
In the Bentley, Aziraphale slid his spectacles onto his nose and read out directions from a scrap of paper. It was the first long drive Crowley had taken in a while; if he took the Bentley out these days, it was typically just to get into town. Though he spotted Aziraphale white-knuckling the door handle, Crowley didn’t let off the gas. He even lowered his window a bit to feel the rush of air as they sped along. It was thrilling, and he made a mental note to take more drives on his own, so he could open her up even more on deserted country lanes.
The estate sale was not in an enormous manor, but rather at a cottage comparable in size to their own. As he parked the car, Crowley peered doubtfully through the windscreen. “You sure this is the place?”
“Absolutely,” said Aziraphale, as he tucked away his glasses. “I know it looks small, but I trust my contact. Let’s have a look, shall we?”
The cottage was bustling with people, family members of the deceased and interested parties alike. Someone had set up a coffee machine, and Crowley filled a paper cup for himself. The coffee was predictably bad, so Crowley subtly improved his own cup and the nearly full pot as he wandered after Aziraphale. It was immediately apparent that Aziraphale was right to trust his contact -- the house was sixty percent bookshelves.
Crowley sidled up to Aziraphale, who was fumbling for his spectacles and notebook, as though the books might disappear before he could inspect them. “I take it you’re here for the long haul?”
Aziraphale turned, with an apologetic smile. “If that’s all right?”
“Where have I got to be?” said Crowley, taking a sip of his coffee. “Take your time, angel.”
The apologetic smile shifted into the localized sunbeam from earlier. “Thank you, my dear.”
Crowley squeezed his arm affectionately and went in search of a place to sit down. Luckily there were a number of old, broken-in chintz chairs scattered about the sitting room. Crowley chose one by the window and drank his coffee at a leisurely pace, refilling the cup with a latte when he’d finished. He watched people come and go, and he refilled his cup three more times before he saw Aziraphale again. When the angel wandered into the sitting room to inspect the bookshelves there, he looked harried but pleased.
After he’d surveyed all the shelves, Aziraphale made his way over to Crowley, grinning and clutching his notebook. “This is better than I dared hope. Old Gladys -- it’s her cottage -- had a number of first editions in her possession, it’s quite thrilling. What’s more, most of the people here aren’t even interested in the books!”
“Pays to be connected, eh?” said Crowley. Now he was grinning, feeling Aziraphale’s excitement like a contact high.
“Indeed it does,” said Aziraphale, wiggling his shoulders a bit.
“How many books are coming home with us?”
“Oh, er, roughly two boxes worth,” said Aziraphale. “Perhaps three.”
Crowley’s grin grew as he stood up. “Is that all? You’re not holding back?”
Aziraphale smirked at him and shook his head. “My dear, when have I ever held back?”
“Yup, fair enough. Point me toward these boxes.”
It was definitely three boxes, and they were heaped, like the tablespoons mentioned in some of Crowley’s recipes. Their lids wouldn’t close properly, so Crowley had to carry them one at a time and very carefully, keeping them balanced so no books dropped to the ground. When the boxes were safely stowed in the Bentley, Crowley returned to the house to find Aziraphale charming the pants off the young woman handling the estate sale.
“You don’t have to tip me, sir, honestly,” she said, as Crowley approached.
“I insist!” said Aziraphale. “You’ve been ever so helpful, setting aside the books I found along the way. Please, you’ve gone above and beyond.”
“Oh, all right.” The woman took the money, still looking a bit sheepish.
“And don’t you worry about that job interview. I’ll be keeping you in my prayers, and I have a feeling that things will work out in your favor.”
“Er, thank you,” said the woman. “Thanks, that’s very nice of you.”
Aziraphale gave her one of his sunbeam smiles, and Crowley noticed the woman’s shoulders drop as the tension left her. She returned Aziraphale’s smile and waved goodbye as he walked away with Crowley.
“I do so love doing that,” he said. “They have such difficult lives, worrying about money and job interviews...it’s all so absurd. The least I can do is make things a bit easier for them.”
At the car, Crowley opened Aziraphale’s door for him and kissed him before he had a chance to duck inside. When he pulled back, he smiled in the face of Aziraphale’s pleased bewilderment. “C’mon, let’s get home.”
As Crowley pulled away from the house, Aziraphale reached over to hold his hand. Crowley ignored the feeling of heat on his cheeks and tried to concentrate on driving one-handed. But the Bentley was well-equipped to fill in the gaps for him, as it always had done. If Crowley were to abandon the wheel entirely in favor of an impromptu makeout session right there in the front seat, the Bentley would handle things. But the other drivers on the road didn’t know that, so Crowley dismissed the thought and drove on.
“You need help with those?” Crowley asked, once they were back home.
“No, I’ve got them.” Aziraphale deftly stacked the three boxes of books and lifted them as though they were full of feathers.
Crowley stood and watched him walk into the cottage, with half a mind to follow him and ravish him up against his bookshelves. But he knew Aziraphale would want to “catalogue” his new finds, which consisted mainly of flipping through them and making notes about where they might be shelved if he ever came up with a consistent system. So Crowley carried his flower market purchases into the kitchen, where he put the hydrangeas in a vase. Then he took the tulip bulbs into the greenhouse.
After an hour’s worth of internet research and pacing around the greenhouse, Crowley discovered that he’d bought the bulbs at exactly the time of year they should be planted. So he forgot about the greenhouse test and instead found a spot for them in the garden, where he thought Aziraphale would be able to see them from the library. He gave them a stern talking to and promised he’d be back to check on their progress.
While it was true that Crowley kept away from the library, lest he lose his mind and start organizing it, there was one exception to this rule. If Aziraphale was in the library, Crowley could join him there. Historically, the presence of Aziraphale curbed Crowley’s tidying urges, mainly through conversation and the opportunity for annoyance.
“Good finds?” Crowley asked, after rapping his knuckles on the library’s door frame.
“Mm, indeed,” said Aziraphale, not looking up from his book. “Some very interesting...very early printings...no idea where she’d have found them…”
“A woman after your own heart.” Crowley perched on the arm of Aziraphale’s chair, ever so gently nudging Aziraphale’s arm off in the process.
“Yes,” he said, distractedly, turning a page. “Kindred spirits, to be sure.”
Crowley started off simply, nosing at Aziraphale’s temple. Then he laid a trail of kisses down his cheek and started nibbling at his ear. He was surprised when Aziraphale sighed and leaned into it; usually it took much more than this to get his attention.
“Did you come here just to be a menace?”
“I thought you liked this particular form of menacing.”
“On occasion, where appropriate.”
Crowley kissed the shell of his ear. “I’ve had a lovely day. Have you had a lovely day?”
“It was wonderful, my dear.”
“Then I consider this an appropriate way to end it.” Crowley leaned down to kiss him properly.
“Mm,” Aziraphale replied, against his lips. “Yes. All right, fair enough. Sofa?”
After 6,000 years of avoiding touch and closeness, except under “safe” conditions (handing someone a bag full of books, for example), cuddling was a revelation. Aziraphale was warm and solid and soft, and Crowley loved nothing more than getting as close to him as possible. Here on the sofa, they shifted easily into their default positions, with Aziraphale on his back and Crowley on his side, pressed up against him. Crowley kissed his neck for a bit, delighting in the way Aziraphale sighed happily and fondled his hair. He pushed up on his elbows to kiss Aziraphale once, twice, before lying back down and settling in.
Aziraphale got one arm under Crowley to hold him close, his hand drifting lazily up and down the demon’s spine. It only took a minute or so for Crowley to feel his eyelids getting heavy. It was like a spell, this closeness and warmth, that put him so at ease that his body’s immediate reaction was to fall asleep. He could feel himself drifting, that familiar pull of unconsciousness.
“Are you going to nap?”
“Mmph?” said Crowley, raising his head from Aziraphale’s chest.
“Yes, I thought so. I think I’ll just…”
Aziraphale pulled down a quick miracle to summon the book he’d been flipping through when Crowley had first arrived. Then he pulled down another to make the book hover at the perfect height so he could read from his reclined position on the sofa.
“An accomplished multi-tasker,” said Crowley, patting Aziraphale’s chest fondly.
“Go ahead and sleep, dear,” said Aziraphale, kissing the top of his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”
As Crowley fell back into nap mode, he turned this simple truth over in his mind. He’d never stopped to consider it, but as he thought about it now he felt a bit sniffly. Because it was true, at last -- Aziraphale wasn’t going anywhere. Neither of them were, not without each other.
Recipient:
cupidsbowRating: General
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Warnings: N/A
Summary: “You’ve tidied,” said the angel, his expression caught somewhere between fondness and exasperation.
“Well spotted,” said Crowley, with a grin.
It was one of those perfect autumn days in the middle of November, when the sun is shining but the air is crisp. The cottage was cold, somewhere outside the duvet, but Crowley was pleasantly warm. He had a sneaking suspicion about the source of all that heat, so he was careful not to stretch as he awoke, lest he whack an unsuspecting angel in the face.
Sure enough, Aziraphale was lying beside him, clad in the cherub-print pyjamas that Crowley had bought for him. Aziraphale claimed to tolerate the pattern because the pyjamas were so satin-y soft, but Crowley knew he could easily miracle a different pattern if he wanted to. The thought made him smile, and he had to suppress the urge to reach out and touch the angel’s sleep-mussed curls.
Part of him wanted to lie in bed until Aziraphale woke up, because the angel was absurdly adorable when he first woke up, and their current proximity could lead to some rather interesting morning activities. But it was eight o’clock, and Crowley knew he had at least three hours to himself, and he could put that time to good use.
Sleep, for Crowley, was utilitarian. He slept for a solid seven each night and then got on with his life. For Aziraphale, sleep was an event. When he developed a taste for it, once in a blue moon, he snuggled in next to Crowley and was dead to the world, sometimes for a stretch of twelve hours. At first Crowley had been baffled by this and a little put out that there were twelve fewer hours he got to spend with Aziraphale. But after they’d moved to the cottage, he’d learned to take the time apart as a blessing.
Because, as it turned out, Aziraphale was a slob.
Yes, Crowley should have known this after spending so much time in the bookshop. He’d once found a stack of old tax forms covered in a layer of dust that was at least three inches thick. And try as he might, he’d never been able to find an ounce of logic in Aziraphale’s shelving system. The angel had attempted to explain it once, but he’d been very drunk indeed, as had Crowley, so the conversation had rather devolved. But the bookshop’s untidy nature had always seemed cozy and inviting. Besides, it was Aziraphale’s domain, even when Crowley had all but moved in, and that made it easier for Crowley to accept the mess.
But now they were properly cohabitating. There had been an estate agent, money had changed hands, paperwork had been signed. There were forms and check stubs filed away that made their sharing of space official. If the space was officially shared, then Crowley thought he should be able to tidy up the space. It sounded logical enough in his head, but it never seemed to withstand the immovable force of Aziraphale when he gave voice to the opinion.
Thus, the stealth tidy was born.
Crowley kissed Aziraphale softly on the forehead and then slid away from him, off the edge of the bed. He snapped to swap his silk pyjamas for leggings and a henley -- tidying called for maximum comfort. Before, daring to dress like this had made him feel like a hermit crab without its shell, all soft underbelly and exposed tendons. The first step in shedding that mentality had been leaving his eyes uncovered around Aziraphale. It had taken months, but eventually he’d stopped reaching for his dark glasses when they were alone together. Things had fallen into place from there.
Aziraphale was snoring contentedly now, and Crowley knew nothing would disturb him. All the same, he shut the bedroom door as he headed downstairs. He snapped again and earbuds appeared in his ears, already playing something with relentless guitar. He took the stairs two at a time, weaving his way through the sitting room and picking up no less than four used mugs along the way. Though he tried to pick them up whenever he saw them, he could never seem to keep up. The mugs went into the sink for later and he returned to the sitting room.
The throw blankets needed folding, the throw pillows needed fluffing and rearranging. Half the fun of snuggling up on the sofa with Aziraphale was getting to mess it up, but you could only mess it up if it was tidy first. As Crowley straightened all the furniture and even adjusted the Turkish rug a bit, he found three misplaced books. When he’d finished everything else, he placed them on the coffee table and stared at them. It always came to this -- should he leave the books here, or put them in the library?
The library was, without question, Aziraphale’s domain. It was an extension of the bookshop, and they’d agreed that Aziraphale could keep it however he liked. Crowley loved Aziraphale and wanted to respect his boundaries, so he generally kept away from the library. But the small stack of three books would grow, he knew, until half the library had migrated into the sitting room. So he took a deep breath, scooped up the books, and set off down the hall to the library.
The room at the back of the house was much larger than one might think, based on the overall size of the house itself. Crowley could swear that it grew a bit each day, slowly expanding to accommodate all the books Aziraphale picked up in town. He stood at the door for a moment, reminding himself that this was a simple procedure, in and out. Place books on the nearest flat surface, leave the room. Easier said than done, but somehow he managed it, forcing himself to ignore the six additional mugs and two plates of biscuits that he spotted.
With that done, Crowley turned up the volume on his earbuds and went to the kitchen. He cleaned the four mugs from the sitting room -- two were cocoa, one was tea, and one was wine -- and then began to contemplate breakfast. There were eggs in the fridge, and he’d just picked up a block of locally made cheddar, so he decided on omelettes.
He could have used miracles for all of this, of course, but that didn’t give him the same rush. There was something so satisfying about setting things to rights with his own hands.
Either his timing was very good, or the smell and sizzle of breakfast cooking was enough to wake an angel. Just as he was plating up, he heard the creak of the staircase and the slap of familiar slippers against the kitchen tile. Crowley set the pan back on the hob and turned to find Aziraphale, delightfully rumpled and tying the sash of his dressing gown.
“You’ve tidied,” said the angel, his expression caught somewhere between fondness and exasperation.
“Well spotted,” said Crowley, with a grin.
Aziraphale sighed and sat at the table by the window. “I always forget that when I have a sleep, I’m liable to wake up and be unable to find any of my possessions.”
“I didn’t touch your library,” said Crowley, turning back to his plates. “Be grateful for that, by the way. It’s taking all the will power I have not to break in there and just start alphabetizing.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Nah, I do have some sense.”
Crowley carried the omelettes to the table, setting one in front of Aziraphale, who leaned forward reflexively to breathe in the eggy, cheesy aroma. He made two more trips, bringing the fresh fruit he’d cut and the stack of toast he’d made.
“Tea?” he asked.
Aziraphale fixed him with a look. “I had a cup of cocoa, somewhere in the sitting room. I would have happily drunk that this morning rather than let it go to waste. I do wonder where it’s got to…”
Crowley rolled his eyes. “That cup of cocoa was so bloody congealed it looked like a mug of marmite.”
“No, not that one, I did mean to clear that away. The other one, it was perfectly fine.”
“They were both disgusting. Tea?”
“Oh, yes, all right,” Aziraphale conceded, slicing into his omelette.
While the tea brewed, Crowley watched Aziraphale eat. There was nothing better than watching Aziraphale enjoy something he’d prepared for him. Watching him all those years at restaurants had been sublime, but a magic ingredient came into play when he’d made the food himself. With each appreciative moan or secret smile, a thrill ran up Crowley’s spine. I did that, he thought. I made him happy.
When they’d finished breakfast, Aziraphale and Crowley stood side by side at the sink. Officially, Aziraphale was there to dry whatever Crowley had washed, but it was definitely more about the brush of fingers through soapy water and the warmth of shoulders bumping together. Crowley felt supremely at ease; he still couldn’t believe they were allowed to live like this.
“Any plans for today?” Aziraphale asked as he dried the skillet.
“I thought I might try making challah bread. From that cookbook you got me last Christmas?”
“Mm,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley knew exactly what that sound meant.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Go on.”
Aziraphale set the skillet down and glanced over at him. “It’s just...you leave the kitchen in such a state when you bake.”
Crowley whooped with laughter. “I leave the kitchen in a state? How many mugs are in your library right now?”
“That’s different, mine is an ordered mess that can easily be tidied.”
“Like you would know,” said Crowley, with a snort. He sank his hands back into the soapy water, scrubbing at a dish. “I’m the one who tidies around here.”
“Yes, but when you bake, it’s a whole day affair. There’s flour everywhere, it’s absolute anarchy.”
“Why did you even get me the cookbook?”
“Food photography is so lovely. The breads in there look absolutely delectable.”
“So let me make you one of them. You can see it, up and close and personal in the real world. Challah in 3D, imagine that.”
“There are breads at the bakery as well, my dear.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
Aziraphale leaned over to kiss him, and Crowley felt his cheeks go red.
“I’ll just make it some other day,” he said. “When you’re so absorbed in one of your dusty books that you won’t even notice the anarchy.”
“That sounds like an excellent plan.”
Crowley pretended to grumble, but he didn’t really mind. After all, their time was their own now, and there would be many other opportunities to bake every bread in that book. The days were different than they once had been, with no paperwork to submit or secrets to keep. Sometimes Crowley made plans or thought up things to do on particular days, but mostly he played it by ear, knowing there was time for it all.
“That still leaves today, though,” Aziraphale continued.
“I saw something about a flower market,” said Crowley. “On the cork board in the coffee shop.”
“Oh, we should do that. Didn’t you want to sell something of yours this year?”
Again, Crowley felt himself go red. “Nothing’s ready yet. Maybe in the spring.”
“Your mums would put everyone else to shame,” said Aziraphale. “Nevermind those African violets you started in the summer. People would go mad for those.”
Crowley scrubbed harder at the dish, though it was definitely clean now. “Like I said, maybe in the spring.”
Aziraphale put his arm around Crowley’s shoulders and pulled him in for a kiss on the cheek. Even now, this casual intimacy could be overwhelming in the best possible way. It had been several years since they’d started holding hands, sitting closer on the sofa then they’d ever dared, and sharing kisses, but Crowley could still be struck dumb by it all. He handed Aziraphale the dish to dry and busied himself with a mug. Aziraphale knew by now not to mistake his quiet for rejection.
“Might we have time for an estate sale as well?” Aziraphale ventured, setting the dish on the countertop.
“Someone with an extensive library?”
“Perhaps. You never know what you might find at these things. One of my old contacts from the shop lets me know whenever there are prospects in this part of the country.”
Crowley smirked at him. “How far?”
“Near Brighton,” said Aziraphale. “But we could be there and back in no time with you behind the wheel.”
Now it was Crowley’s turn to lean in for a kiss, pressing his lips to Aziraphale’s and smiling into it. “Fine by me. A good excuse to take the old girl out for a spin.”
Aziraphale beamed at him, and Crowley felt like he was stood at the back of the garden, drinking in the last of a summer’s day.
With their plans settled and the dishes done, Crowley followed Aziraphale upstairs. As it was already after noon, they employed a few handy miracles to get ready for the day. Sometimes, if it was rainy and miserable, Aziraphale would wake Crowley by climbing into bed with him. They would lie there together, exchanging languid kisses and lazy touches that eventually became frenzied. And then they would wash up the human way, showering together and standing at the sink to brush their teeth. It wasn’t logical, perhaps, to do this when they had the power to bypass such mundanity. But there wasn’t much logic in an angel and demon living together, either.
The flower market had been set up at the center of town -- two dozen tents and stalls, each bursting with various colorful offerings. As they passed an older man’s display of African violets, Aziraphale remarked under his breath that Crowley’s were much nicer. Crowley steered them toward the hydrangea blooms, because he knew Aziraphale loved them.
“A few for the kitchen?” he suggested, surveying the bluish-purple petals.
“Ooh, lovely,” Aziraphale agreed. The woman running the stand wrapped up a bouquet of the blooms and grinned at them knowingly.
They made a circuit of all the stalls, pausing here and there to admire the flowers. Aziraphale asked after everyone’s children or pets, making easy conversation as Crowley scrutinized the wares. In addition to the hydrangeas, Crowley bought Aziraphale a single dusty-pink rose that he knew would end up pressed inside a book. He also picked up some tulip bulbs, with an eye toward the spring.
“I’ll test one or two in the greenhouse,” he said. “I’ve never done tulips. Should get the lay of the land before planting season.”
“Imagine the back garden full of tulips,” said Aziraphale, dreamily.
In the Bentley, Aziraphale slid his spectacles onto his nose and read out directions from a scrap of paper. It was the first long drive Crowley had taken in a while; if he took the Bentley out these days, it was typically just to get into town. Though he spotted Aziraphale white-knuckling the door handle, Crowley didn’t let off the gas. He even lowered his window a bit to feel the rush of air as they sped along. It was thrilling, and he made a mental note to take more drives on his own, so he could open her up even more on deserted country lanes.
The estate sale was not in an enormous manor, but rather at a cottage comparable in size to their own. As he parked the car, Crowley peered doubtfully through the windscreen. “You sure this is the place?”
“Absolutely,” said Aziraphale, as he tucked away his glasses. “I know it looks small, but I trust my contact. Let’s have a look, shall we?”
The cottage was bustling with people, family members of the deceased and interested parties alike. Someone had set up a coffee machine, and Crowley filled a paper cup for himself. The coffee was predictably bad, so Crowley subtly improved his own cup and the nearly full pot as he wandered after Aziraphale. It was immediately apparent that Aziraphale was right to trust his contact -- the house was sixty percent bookshelves.
Crowley sidled up to Aziraphale, who was fumbling for his spectacles and notebook, as though the books might disappear before he could inspect them. “I take it you’re here for the long haul?”
Aziraphale turned, with an apologetic smile. “If that’s all right?”
“Where have I got to be?” said Crowley, taking a sip of his coffee. “Take your time, angel.”
The apologetic smile shifted into the localized sunbeam from earlier. “Thank you, my dear.”
Crowley squeezed his arm affectionately and went in search of a place to sit down. Luckily there were a number of old, broken-in chintz chairs scattered about the sitting room. Crowley chose one by the window and drank his coffee at a leisurely pace, refilling the cup with a latte when he’d finished. He watched people come and go, and he refilled his cup three more times before he saw Aziraphale again. When the angel wandered into the sitting room to inspect the bookshelves there, he looked harried but pleased.
After he’d surveyed all the shelves, Aziraphale made his way over to Crowley, grinning and clutching his notebook. “This is better than I dared hope. Old Gladys -- it’s her cottage -- had a number of first editions in her possession, it’s quite thrilling. What’s more, most of the people here aren’t even interested in the books!”
“Pays to be connected, eh?” said Crowley. Now he was grinning, feeling Aziraphale’s excitement like a contact high.
“Indeed it does,” said Aziraphale, wiggling his shoulders a bit.
“How many books are coming home with us?”
“Oh, er, roughly two boxes worth,” said Aziraphale. “Perhaps three.”
Crowley’s grin grew as he stood up. “Is that all? You’re not holding back?”
Aziraphale smirked at him and shook his head. “My dear, when have I ever held back?”
“Yup, fair enough. Point me toward these boxes.”
It was definitely three boxes, and they were heaped, like the tablespoons mentioned in some of Crowley’s recipes. Their lids wouldn’t close properly, so Crowley had to carry them one at a time and very carefully, keeping them balanced so no books dropped to the ground. When the boxes were safely stowed in the Bentley, Crowley returned to the house to find Aziraphale charming the pants off the young woman handling the estate sale.
“You don’t have to tip me, sir, honestly,” she said, as Crowley approached.
“I insist!” said Aziraphale. “You’ve been ever so helpful, setting aside the books I found along the way. Please, you’ve gone above and beyond.”
“Oh, all right.” The woman took the money, still looking a bit sheepish.
“And don’t you worry about that job interview. I’ll be keeping you in my prayers, and I have a feeling that things will work out in your favor.”
“Er, thank you,” said the woman. “Thanks, that’s very nice of you.”
Aziraphale gave her one of his sunbeam smiles, and Crowley noticed the woman’s shoulders drop as the tension left her. She returned Aziraphale’s smile and waved goodbye as he walked away with Crowley.
“I do so love doing that,” he said. “They have such difficult lives, worrying about money and job interviews...it’s all so absurd. The least I can do is make things a bit easier for them.”
At the car, Crowley opened Aziraphale’s door for him and kissed him before he had a chance to duck inside. When he pulled back, he smiled in the face of Aziraphale’s pleased bewilderment. “C’mon, let’s get home.”
As Crowley pulled away from the house, Aziraphale reached over to hold his hand. Crowley ignored the feeling of heat on his cheeks and tried to concentrate on driving one-handed. But the Bentley was well-equipped to fill in the gaps for him, as it always had done. If Crowley were to abandon the wheel entirely in favor of an impromptu makeout session right there in the front seat, the Bentley would handle things. But the other drivers on the road didn’t know that, so Crowley dismissed the thought and drove on.
“You need help with those?” Crowley asked, once they were back home.
“No, I’ve got them.” Aziraphale deftly stacked the three boxes of books and lifted them as though they were full of feathers.
Crowley stood and watched him walk into the cottage, with half a mind to follow him and ravish him up against his bookshelves. But he knew Aziraphale would want to “catalogue” his new finds, which consisted mainly of flipping through them and making notes about where they might be shelved if he ever came up with a consistent system. So Crowley carried his flower market purchases into the kitchen, where he put the hydrangeas in a vase. Then he took the tulip bulbs into the greenhouse.
After an hour’s worth of internet research and pacing around the greenhouse, Crowley discovered that he’d bought the bulbs at exactly the time of year they should be planted. So he forgot about the greenhouse test and instead found a spot for them in the garden, where he thought Aziraphale would be able to see them from the library. He gave them a stern talking to and promised he’d be back to check on their progress.
While it was true that Crowley kept away from the library, lest he lose his mind and start organizing it, there was one exception to this rule. If Aziraphale was in the library, Crowley could join him there. Historically, the presence of Aziraphale curbed Crowley’s tidying urges, mainly through conversation and the opportunity for annoyance.
“Good finds?” Crowley asked, after rapping his knuckles on the library’s door frame.
“Mm, indeed,” said Aziraphale, not looking up from his book. “Some very interesting...very early printings...no idea where she’d have found them…”
“A woman after your own heart.” Crowley perched on the arm of Aziraphale’s chair, ever so gently nudging Aziraphale’s arm off in the process.
“Yes,” he said, distractedly, turning a page. “Kindred spirits, to be sure.”
Crowley started off simply, nosing at Aziraphale’s temple. Then he laid a trail of kisses down his cheek and started nibbling at his ear. He was surprised when Aziraphale sighed and leaned into it; usually it took much more than this to get his attention.
“Did you come here just to be a menace?”
“I thought you liked this particular form of menacing.”
“On occasion, where appropriate.”
Crowley kissed the shell of his ear. “I’ve had a lovely day. Have you had a lovely day?”
“It was wonderful, my dear.”
“Then I consider this an appropriate way to end it.” Crowley leaned down to kiss him properly.
“Mm,” Aziraphale replied, against his lips. “Yes. All right, fair enough. Sofa?”
After 6,000 years of avoiding touch and closeness, except under “safe” conditions (handing someone a bag full of books, for example), cuddling was a revelation. Aziraphale was warm and solid and soft, and Crowley loved nothing more than getting as close to him as possible. Here on the sofa, they shifted easily into their default positions, with Aziraphale on his back and Crowley on his side, pressed up against him. Crowley kissed his neck for a bit, delighting in the way Aziraphale sighed happily and fondled his hair. He pushed up on his elbows to kiss Aziraphale once, twice, before lying back down and settling in.
Aziraphale got one arm under Crowley to hold him close, his hand drifting lazily up and down the demon’s spine. It only took a minute or so for Crowley to feel his eyelids getting heavy. It was like a spell, this closeness and warmth, that put him so at ease that his body’s immediate reaction was to fall asleep. He could feel himself drifting, that familiar pull of unconsciousness.
“Are you going to nap?”
“Mmph?” said Crowley, raising his head from Aziraphale’s chest.
“Yes, I thought so. I think I’ll just…”
Aziraphale pulled down a quick miracle to summon the book he’d been flipping through when Crowley had first arrived. Then he pulled down another to make the book hover at the perfect height so he could read from his reclined position on the sofa.
“An accomplished multi-tasker,” said Crowley, patting Aziraphale’s chest fondly.
“Go ahead and sleep, dear,” said Aziraphale, kissing the top of his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”
As Crowley fell back into nap mode, he turned this simple truth over in his mind. He’d never stopped to consider it, but as he thought about it now he felt a bit sniffly. Because it was true, at last -- Aziraphale wasn’t going anywhere. Neither of them were, not without each other.
(no subject)
Date: 2021-12-07 11:34 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2021-12-08 03:05 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2021-12-07 03:44 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2021-12-08 04:50 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2021-12-08 11:38 am (UTC)And I really loved the humour and the style!
My favourite lines are definitely:
“Challah in 3D, imagine that.”
and
“The apologetic smile shifted into the localized sunbeam from earlier.”:D
They are adorable!
(no subject)
Date: 2021-12-08 09:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2021-12-09 07:11 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2021-12-11 09:59 pm (UTC)Beautiful, cozy, heart-warming fic, thank you!
(no subject)
Date: 2021-12-14 03:56 am (UTC)Love the part about Crowley learning to be more vulnerable in what he wears around Aziraphale, starting with his eyes :)
“Crowley could swear that it grew a bit each day, slowly expanding to accommodate all the books Aziraphale picked up in town” God, I need this
“Crowley bought Aziraphale a single dusty-pink rose that he knew would end up pressed inside a book” This is so lovely and romantic
I feel like I just had a wonderful nap on a warm summer day. This is so cozy and pleasant, thank you!
(no subject)
Date: 2021-12-17 01:26 am (UTC)