Happy Holidays, Ouida!
Dec. 25th, 2022 03:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeTitle: Snow Day
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley on a winter day in their South Downs cottage
Prompt: “A/C, detailed cozy morning in the South Downs cottage. I just want them to eat toast and drink coffee and be sappy about it. Them being besties who are in love etc. Tooth rotting amounts of cuddling and casual affection and domestic routine.”
Pairing: Aziraphale and Crowley
Rating: General
Gift: My giftee is Ouida
They were calling for snow. They, of course, were the humans on the television that Crowley insisted on installing in their front reception room. Aziraphale had not been sure about the inclusion of the device in a reception room of all places. What would their guests think? Crowley, however, had previously compromised on the home décor front by letting Aziraphale choose the furniture for most of the rooms in their cottage. He couldn't exactly be outdone when it came to things like selflessness and compromise by a demon of all people, and so Aziraphale begrudgingly withdrew his objections to the television.
Of course, Aziraphale would have learned of the impending snow from Crowley without watching the television. Crowley was quite put out at the mere idea that it would snow. Yesterday afternoon, he'd made a show of moping around their home and bemoaning the coming weather as if the world was going to end (again). It was more than a little ridiculous. Crowley was more than 6,000 years old. By now, he surely understood how winter worked.
The television continued to squawk about the snow's arrival – after lunch and perhaps early enough for a bit of sledding before dinner – as Aziraphale shrugged into his winter coat. They were out of cocoa, and if he was going to be snowed in with a sulking demon, he at least needed some strong cocoa. If he left soon, he should have plenty of time to walk into the village and get his latest favorite mix from the little tea shop. With dreams of cocoa and warm biscuits dancing in his mind, Aziraphale slid his hands into his coat pockets.
And stopped.
His mittens were missing. Oh bother. He could have sworn he had left them in his pockets. He began scanning the area around the coat rack when a bit of bright blue caught his attention. Aziraphale snorted. He should have known. Muttering to himself, he pulled his mittens from Crowley's coat. As he did, several pieces of mail came loose.
Not again.
Crowley's latest idea of Demonic Deeds was to take mail out of their neighbors' letter boxes and distribute it to other neighbors. Only the bills tended to find the correct recipients; cards, letters, and even mailers had a tendency to end up several houses away on at least a weekly basis. The humans on their street were getting quite annoyed with the post. Aziraphale understood that was Crowley's point, but he couldn't see this ending well. Sooner or later, the humans were going to figure it out. Humans were clever like that.
Mail tucked under one arm, Aziraphale stepped outside the cottage. The winter air smelled of smoke from nearby chimneys and that unmistakable scent that spoke of imminent snow. It almost diminished the annoyance of returning mail to the proper neighbors on the way to the tea shop. Almost.
In the great tradition of villages everywhere when news broke of impending snow, the locals were hurrying about buying “necessities.” Aziraphale had learned long ago that, for some reason, humans believed what they really needed to survive a snow was a collection of bread, eggs, and milk. He wasn't sure why those were not routinely purchased as part of the visit to the grocer's; Crowley dutifully purchased them as part of their weekly shopping every Wednesday. Perhaps there were things you learned after 6,000 years that humans had yet to pick up on?
Now that he was thinking about it, maybe he should get bread. Crowley would likely do what he did every time they got a fresh snow – retreat to his room and nap for days. Aziraphale felt a twinge of something he wanted to say was annoyance. If he was being honest with himself, it was disappointment and loneliness. He had spent centuries watching humans spend time together when snow came and had expected Crowley would want to engage in those experiences now that they were, well, semi-retired. While he certainly wasn't expecting rides in a horse-drawn carriage – he respected Crowley's feelings on horses – he didn't see why curling up in front of a fire with warm snacks and drinks while the snow swirled outside was out of the question. Yet in the three years they'd been in their cottage, it was always the same. Once he learned snow was on the way, Crowley would retreat to his room, burrow under a pile of blankets, and sleep through it all as if it was something he couldn't be bothered with.
Well. There was nothing to be done about Crowley. The demon would do what he wanted. Aziraphale, at least, could have his snacks and warm drinks and fire, even if he spent it with a good book instead.
The bell over the door of the tea shop jingled as he entered. It was followed immediately by the best smells of winter – cinnamon and baking pastries and a wood fire.
“Ah, Mr. Fell.” Behind the counter, Mrs. Covington held a finger in the air as if she had just been blessed with a brilliant idea. A grin lit up her face. “I know what you're here for. Give me just a second. I've got Anthony's order in the back.”
“Anthony?” Aziraphale said. That had to be Crowley, but he could think of no reason that Crowley would have called in an order to the tea shop. Perhaps he'd done it before the weather forecast had been finalized?
Mrs. Covington looked stricken. “Oh dear. I've ruined a surprise, haven't I?”
“Probably not,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley doesn't really like surprises.” He wanted to chalk that up to the surprise of being gifted with a basket full of Antichrist, but Crowley had been twitchy about surprises before. Not wanting the Keeper of Treats to be upset, he added diplomatically, “I thought he'd placed the order under AJ.”
“Ah,” Mrs. Covington relaxed. “No. Although he was a bit distracted when he called it in last night, right before we closed. He went on a bit about the storm and how-”
“You!”
It was a basic human reaction to turn towards such a loud, angry interruption. Despite being not human, Aziraphale felt himself reacting like one. He twisted towards the loud human entering the coffee shop. He was rewarded by seeing the man point viciously at him. Aziraphale sighed. Not this again. He let his Customer Face start to form and gave a cool nod to the man. “Mr. Mason.”
“Don't Mr. Mason me,” Mr. Mason growled. With a dramatic flourish, he threw something onto Mrs. Covington's clean counter. “You want to explain this?”
“James!” Mrs. Covington snatched the object from the counter. “People eat here, you know?”
“Stay out of this, Gloria,” Mr. Mason snapped. “This is between me and him.”
“Then keep it off my counter,” Mrs. Covington shot back. With two fingers, she held out the object to them.
Aziraphale took it. By now, they were the center of attention, so he took a few moments to make a show of studying the object. It looked like a harmonica, although he wasn't sure why it was streaked with some sort of grease. He felt his own scowl form. If that got under his nails... “I don't know what you think a harmonica has to do with me. I certainly don't play.” Sniffing, Aziraphale grabbed a napkin from the dispenser and wrapped the harmonica in it, then grabbed another and began to clean his hands. “I also take much better care of my things.”
“Your, your....that man who lives with you!” Mr. Mason sputtered angrily.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale snorted. “My partner has many musical talents, Mr. Mason, but I can truthfully say harmonica is not among them.” He could really not imagine that Crowley had suddenly taken up an interest, either, let alone that he'd tell Mr. Mason about it. Crowley referred to Mr. Mason as his 'nemesis.'
“Abigail was whistling.” Mr. Mason sounded as if this was the end of the world. “And when I investigated, I found that.”
“I'm sorry,” Aziraphale said, “But who is Abigail?”
“You know damn well who Abigail is,” Mr. Mason said.
“I really don't.” Aziraphale told him.
“His car,” Mrs. Covington said helpfully.
“She's not a car,” Mr. Mason was indignant. “She's a 1934 Mercedes Benz 500K.” He jabbed a finger at the harmonica. “And I know he strapped that to her engine.”
“Why would Crowley attach a harmonica to your car?” Aziraphale asked, despite already knowing the answer was some combination of 'I need to do some occasional Demonic Deeds, Angel' and Crowley still fuming that Mr. Mason said something unkind about the Bentley.
“Because he's jealous, that's why.” Mr. Mason crossed his arms and managed to look almost as haughty as Aziraphale. “He knows Abigail is superior to that piece of junk he drives and is trying to sabotage her.”
“It has been awhile since I read a dictionary,” Aziraphale allowed a bit of what Crowley called his Insufferable Voice creep into his tone, “But if I recall correctly, sabotage requires the causing of damage. Did the harmonica damage your car?”
There was a pause before Mason managed a, “Well....no.”
“And of course, a fine, upstanding citizen such as yourself, who has never done anything wrong, would not make such a public accusation against your neighbor without proof,” Aziraphale continued. “Could you please explain to me why you think Crowley took a break from his very hectic work schedule to attach a harmonica to your car?”
“Who else could have done it?” Mr. Mason demanded.
“I'm afraid I don't have an answer to that,” Aziraphale said, “But I'm sure there's more than one suspect. This is, after all, hardly the work of a mastermind. It's the work of someone who thinks gluing coins to the pavement is clever. I'm sure there are a dozen neighborhood children who could have been bored and thought something like this would be funny.”
Mr. Mason was silent.
“Of course,” Aziraphale added, allowing his tone to take on a bit of Judgmental Disappointment, “None of that explains why you felt the need to accost me about this. If you believe you have a quarrel with Crowley, take it up with him. I have better things to do with my time.” He turned to block Mr. Mason with his shoulder and offered Mrs. Covington a smile. “Now, dear,” his voice took on a pleasant, soft tone, “How much do I owe you?”
~*~
Crowley met him at the door. The demon froze, his sunglasses halfway to his face. Slowly, he lowered them to his side and stared at Aziraphale over the tops of no less than four scarves. His eyes moved to the box in Aziraphale's hands. It was the sort of moment that called for some sort of clever remark.
Crowley said, “I thought you were reading.” Clever, it was not.
Aziraphale arched an eyebrow at him. “I thought you were sleeping.”
Crowley shuffled his feet in the way that he did when he was embarrassed but also secretly up to something sweet. “No.” There was silence a beat. “Is that my order?”
“Mrs. Covington sent it home with me,” Aziraphale confirmed.
“The cocoa mix, too?” Crowley asked, an almost hopeful tinge coming into his voice.
Aziraphale held up a paper bag.
“Thank damnation,” Crowley said. “We can go back inside.” As if there was nothing odd about what had just happened, he retreated into their cottage.
“Are you wearing three coats?” Aziraphale asked, following him into the tiny hall. He did not know about modern fashion, but he couldn't imagine wearing three coats was now in style.
“They're calling for snow,” Crowley said, as if that explained everything. He began unwrapping his scarves. “How did you find out about your surprise? I thought I was rather clever about it.”
“You were. I had no idea.” Aziraphale said. “I went to get some treats for the storm and your order was waiting.”
Crowley let out a little noise that was almost a laugh. “Thwarted by a craving for scones.” He finished hanging up his outerwear, then took the box from Aziraphale and disappeared into the reception room.
Aziraphale moved to follow him. He paused in the doorway. The front reception room had been cold and dark when he left. While he was out, Crowley had breathed life into it. A fire burned in the fireplace. The lamps were lit to warm the space. The couch had been moved to the center of the room and positioned to take advantage of the view of both the fire and the window. It was piled with what looked to be Crowley's favorite blankets. Four books were neatly stacked beside the couch, within easy reach, while a fifth had been dropped haphazardly on top of the blankets. The side tables were pushed together against one wall and held the electric kettle, mugs, plates, and...were those marshmallows? There was a jar of marshmallows.
“This is for me.” He sounded like a bit of an idiot. Of course Crowley had set this up for him. He hadn't vocalized his little cozy snow day fantasy, but somehow Crowley figured it out....
“It's for us,” Crowley corrected. “I ordered some of my favorite flavors of those mini-scones, too.” He reached under one of the side tables to where he'd left a small machine. At the press of a button, the machine began playing music.
“You even have a phonograph,” Aziraphale noted. He couldn't hide the bit of breathless surprise from his voice. It was almost as if Crowley had reached into his mind and recreated what he'd found.
“That's a CD player, Angel,” Crowley sounded amused. “It's 1993. People listen to CDs now.”
“But,” Aziraphale found himself commenting on the least surprising bit of the scene, “That's jazz.”
“Yeah. You can get all sorts of music on CD. It's not limited to new releases.” Crowley said.
It was safer to talk about music than to ask why did you do this? or say I feel so incredibly loved right now. Those sorts of things would send Crowley blushing, shuffling his feet, and looking uncomfortable. Not wanting to make things awkward, Aziraphale kept the topic on the safe issue of Crowley's music player. He studied the machine a moment before asking, “And does it play records?”
“Nope. It only plays CDs. If you want to listen to music you own, you first need to buy it all over again.” Crowley balanced the box from the tea shop between the edge of the side tables and his arm as he began arranging mini-scones on a glass plate. “You have to hand it to humans. They're constantly coming up with all these new gadgets that are great for sinning. With CDs, there's envy for not having the latest technology, and gluttony and greed in repurchasing everything, and even pride in having the newest and best before your friends. The technology market is a boon for Hell. Course, no one at the office understands how any of it works. They're really sleeping on the opportunities.”
“Fascinating.” Aziraphale might mention something about these CD players the next time he had to turn in a memorandum. Letting Heaven know about the sinful nature of the latest human musical inventions would make it look like he had been hard at work on things other than his To Be Read pile. “Do you know what's really remarkable? It's actually playing jazz and not car music.”
“Car music?” Crowley asked.
“All your cassettes,” Aziraphale said. “They don't play what they claim to. You may be surprised at this, Crowley, but I am aware that Fat Bottom Girls was not written by anyone in the Baroque or Classical periods.”
“Oh. Yeah. The CDs are kept in the cottage.” Crowley shrugged as if that explained it.
Aziraphale decided he didn't want to know. He contented himself with looking through the stack of books. Crowley had selected a variety of options, each one promising to be interesting.
“We have cocoa and tea,” Crowley finished arranging scones. “And if you'd like something harder, I've got the ingredients for Smoking Bishop. I can mix some up and you can pretend to be scandalized that we're drinking at such an early hour.”
“You know how to make Smoking Bishop?” Aziraphale asked. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had the mulled wine. It had fallen out of favor with the humans ages ago.
“Just because I slept through most of the 19th Century doesn't mean I missed out on everything.” The demon opened the cocoa mix and dumped it into the electric kettle. “I always make sure to catch up on the important things when I wake up, you know.”
Aziraphale watched as Crowley tapped a button on the kettle. He was mostly sure that was not an appropriate form of cocoa preparation, but bit back any remark on that topic. Crowley seemed to think that was how cocoa was made. It would probably turn out fine. Instead, he stuck to the prior topic of conversation. “You missed out on the Gavotte.”
“No one misses the Gavotte but you.” Crowley gave him an exasperated look that was tinged with fondness.
“It's going to come back in style.” Aziraphale helped himself to a mini-scone and glanced into the box. A-ha. He pulled free the small package of cream and helped himself to a generous serving. These really were divine. He remembered when they'd first talked about moving out of town. He had foolishly worried the food wouldn't be nearly as good. Those worries had been for nothing.
A lot of his worries had been for nothing. He hadn't told Crowley, but he had spent more than one night unable to focus on his reading because of the niggling little concerns that they wouldn't be able to combine their lives. They'd known each other for millennia, but, well, it was different when you lived with someone. There were all sorts of things that never presented as problems when you had an Arrangement but that could become disasters when you had a partnership. You could love someone deeply and still find their little habits ridiculous and grating. And there had been – what was the expression – pathbumps? - yes, pathbumps. There had been pathbumps in the early days. They'd found a way, though. Crowley stopped losing his mind when Aziraphale forgot that coasters existed, and Aziraphale made an effort to put his plates in the sink instead of leaving them scattered about their home. Crowley tried to keep Aziraphale out of his demonic deeds (or whatever other mischief Crowley felt compelled to do), and Aziraphale never expected Crowley to participate in the God-related activities of their new community. They found ways to communicate and compromise – whether it was on the telly or the furniture or even how to spend a snow day.
Aziraphale licked the remaining crumbs from his fingers. His free hand snagged the book that had been left on the blankets. “What is A Spy For All Seasons?”
“Ah. That one is mine. It's a James Bond knock-off,” Crowley said. “But if you want to try it-”
“No. I am quite happy with the selection you pulled for me,” he said quickly. Crowley had many positive traits, but his taste in reading material had never been one of them. Aziraphale was still not sure how someone who had such exquisite taste in food and drink could have the worst taste in books. But that, he supposed, was Crowley. He had always been a walking contradiction. Aziraphale selected a book from the stack that was meant for him and settled onto the couch. Outside the window, it was beginning to snow.
As if he'd been waiting for his cue, Crowley asked, “Cocoa?”
“In a bit.” Aziraphale patted the spot beside him.
There was a flourish of movement as Crowley got himself comfortable. Blankets were arranged. Pillows were positioned. A demon was draped onto the couch and partially against him. And then Crowley gave him one of those little smiles that spoke volumes as he opened his own book and settled in.
Aziraphale supposed that, technically, this wasn't much different than what he usually did. After all, he had dedicated reading time every day. This time of year, though, reading was often a solitary activity. Crowley might sit near him for half an hour and flip through a magazine, but the demon would then need to find something to do. In the warmer months, they could spend that time together in the back garden; Crowley could discipline the flowers and the veg patch while Aziraphale read. Now that it was colder, he'd missed being able to share his reading time with Crowley. Being able to curl up with the person who meant the most to him and to share one of his favorite activities felt almost special.
He should have been reading, but Aziraphale found his attention kept drifting to the person he was reading with. Crowley was engaged in his own book, his forehead making the cute wrinkles it did when he was thinking. It was everything Aziraphale could do not to lean over and kiss them. He forced himself to try to pay attention to his book. He only managed to make it through one chapter before breaking the silence. “Is your book exciting?”
“Eh,” Crowley shrugged. “The main character isn't as cool as James Bond. He doesn't have any taste in cars. But it's early. Maybe he'll learn.” He shot Aziraphale a smug grin. “I believe you literary types would call that character development. How's yours?”
“Mine is about humans trying to understand Egypt,” Aziraphale offered. “They're making a lot of educated guesses, but about a third of them are just flat out wrong.”
“That's pretty good for modern humans,” Crowley said. “Although I wish they'd spend less time on trying to learn about pharaohs, though, and more time trying to recreate some of those meals.”
Oh. The meals. They didn't make meals like that anymore.... “I suspect the best recipes have been lost,” Aziraphale agreed. “Do you know, Crowley, after several civilizations ended and no one preserved the instructions for those meals that everyone loved, I started writing them down?”
“Really?” Crowley perked up.
“Oh, yes. The humans, I suppose, just assumed everyone would remember because those dishes were so prevalent, but after a generation or so, everyone forgot,” Aziraphale explained.
“That's mortality for you,” Crowley agreed.
“It was such a shame. I'd get these cravings, and no one would know what I was talking about when, a hundred years earlier, you could find that particular snack anywhere. Well, once I realized what was happening, I began collecting the good recipes. I've got a notebook of them in my library. Of course, it's been easier these past few centuries, now that paper is so readily available, but I've got a few from as early as our days in Rome.”
“I was thinking about taking a cooking class,” Crowley became thoughtful. “I never really bothered to learn since I always lived in the middle of cities, with more restaurants than I could try in a human lifespan. Now that we're out here, we don't have as many options. Might as well get some real use of that kitchen-diner we've got. Want to go with me?”
“To your cooking class?” Aziraphale asked.
“I mean, if I sign up,” Crowley said quickly. “I'm still thinking about it.”
Aziraphale knew that he himself would never be good at cooking. But maybe it would give Crowley something to do in the colder months, and he could read while Crowley made snacks or tried to recreate centuries-old favorites.... Aziraphale supposed he could make a fool of himself while Crowley learned to cook if it meant something like that. “It could be fun. If you decide to go, I'll come along.”
They settled back into companionable silence. Aziraphale felt Crowley snuggle a bit closer and paused to kiss the top of the demon's head before returning to his book. Outside, the snow seemed to dance in the streetlights, the only life in a silent wintery landscape. Every so often, Crowley's fingers would brush along his arm. Aziraphale found himself leaning more and more against Crowley, until they'd shifted positions so he was propped against the demon.
“Have you ever roasted chestnuts?” Crowley broke the silence.
“Hm?” Aziraphale felt his eyes flick over the top of his book.
“Like the song,” Crowley elaborated. “They're always playing it in the stores this time of year. Something like 'chestnuts roasting in a roaring fire.'”
“I believe they roast on an open fire,” Aziraphale corrected.
“How does that even work?” Crowley wondered aloud. “Wouldn't they just burn up?”
“I assume some sort of cookware is involved,” Aziraphale mused. He hadn't really given it much thought. Holiday songs tended to be either silly or the sorts of things his colleagues were extremely passionate about. Neither category held his interest for long.
“They don't mention cookware, though,” Crowley was still stuck on roasting chestnuts.
“The lyricist probably assumed it was understood,” Aziraphale opined. “Is there a point to this, dear?”
“It's a clue.” Crowley held up A Spy For All Seasons. “In the book. And now the blessed song is stuck in my head and I'm wondering what roasted chestnuts taste like. Never tried them, myself.”
“Something for the next snow day?” Aziraphale suggested.
Crowley contemplated that a moment, then nodded. “It's a date.” Whatever existential crisis he'd been having about chestnuts was now averted, and he returned to his novel like it was the most natural thing.
The mention of the next snow day, however, was now stuck in Aziraphale's mind. After pondering it a good five minutes, Aziraphale took his turn in breaking the silence. “Crowley?”
“Hm?”
“Why do you hate it when it snows?”
“Just do,” Crowley replied, letting out a little yawn.
It was a fair answer. And it was a nice afternoon. Aziraphale told himself to let it go. People irrationally hated things all the time. He didn't, of course. His dislikes were completely rational, but he was an angel. There was no rule that demons couldn't be irrational. It was hard, however, to let things go when Crowley's shoulder still felt stiff under his head. He'd tensed it when Aziraphale mentioned the snow... “It feels like more than that,” Aziraphale remarked.
Crowley sighed. “It's stupid, Angel.”
“It upsets you enough that you usually go to sleep to avoid it,” Aziraphale observed.
Crowley was silent. Just when Aziraphale had decided to return to his book and stop pushing, the demon confessed. “When it's cold, reptiles' bodies become really slow, but their minds are conscious. Seems awful, when you think about it. Being awake but not able do anything. When it snows, there's this little voice in the back of my mind that wonders if I'll, I don't know, accidentally shift into snake form and then not be able to change back because I'm too cold.” He winced. “I told you it was stupid.”
No. It wasn't. It was all of Crowley's fears, rolled up into one. He wasn't sure why snow was the trigger, but there had been plenty of times over the centuries that he and Crowley had been separated. There easily could have been times when Crowley felt compelled to change forms for one reason or another. Aziraphale knew he hated doing it. He also knew that Crowley viewed his recently discovered free will as one of the most precious things he had. Being stuck in another form and being unable to move, well, it was a metaphor, wasn't it? It was the loss of free will and everything that came with it – all the Earth things and human things Crowley enjoyed, the life Crowley built....Crowley's relationship with him. Aziraphale lifted his head and shifted so he could look at Crowley. “You aren't stupid,” he said, “And if I don't think less of you for strapping harmonicas to cars, I'm certainly not going to think less of you for disliking snow.”
Crowley's brow wrinkled even as his shoulders relaxed. “How did you know about the harmonica?”
“Mr. Mason confronted me about it when I was at the tea shop,” Aziraphale said.
Crowley's confusion intensified. “He thinks you strapped a harmonica to an engine? You don't like to touch dirt and that's much easier to clean than engine oil.”
“Oh, he knows you did it, but he's a bit intimidated by you,” Aziraphale opined, “And thought I'd be easier to bully.”
Crowley snorted. “What an idiot.” There was a pause. “You think he's intimidated by me?” Crowley's voice sounded hopeful.
“You can be very intimidating when you want to be,” Aziraphale reassured him. “Not to me, of course. I've seen you lose an argument to a duck while drunk. But you can intimidate humans when you try.”
“Not as well as you can,” Crowley sounded a bit envious.
“Yes, well, I've just had more practice,” Aziraphale lied. “All those years with customers.”
“Do you miss it?” Crowley asked. “Owning a book shop?”
“I miss having easy access to all my books,” Aziraphale said, his mind flitting to the many tomes in storage. “But I don't miss the threat of customers taking them away.”
“I've been thinking about that,” Crowley said. “We've already got the garage at the back of the garden. If we put in for planning permission to add a story, we could move the books in storage into that space. There won't be room for you to add more reading nooks, but we could put rows of shelves in – like a university library – and we should be able to fit the rest of your books. Then, if you'd need one that we didn't have in the cottage, you could just walk across the back garden and retrieve it.”
“Do you even know how planning permission works?” Aziraphale felt his eyebrows rise. “Getting the council to agree to let us extend over the garage is not going to be easy.”
“You remember the part where we can do miracles, right?” Crowley pointed out. “A little demonic nudge here and there, and we can get your book storage. And you know they'll be safe there; I keep the Bentley in the garage. There's no safer place in England.”
That was true. And it would be so much better if, whenever he needed a book, he didn't need to ask Crowley to drive him across the county to retrieve it.... “I take it you have some plans?”
“I know a guy,” Crowley said. He stretched. “I'm going to get some cocoa. You want some?”
“Sounds delightful.” Aziraphale replied. “Could you be a dear and bring me some of those scones, as well?”
Crowley moved to obey. “By the way,” he busied himself with the kettle, “I'm sorry about Mason. I didn't expect he'd bother you over my little payback.”
Aziraphale shrugged. Petty tricks were part of the package with Crowley. He'd accepted that long ago. That said, now there was an opening, perhaps he could direct Crowley's little war with Mr. Mason in a less disruptive direction.... “You know, Crowley, the best revenge is success. Why don't you enter the Bentley in one of those car shows he's always taking his car to? Your car is in perfect condition and has all original parts. I might not know much about cars, but I would wager judges would award the Bentley top marks.”
“I went to one of those things years back,” Crowley told him. “The Bentley did win, but it was – I don't know – awkward. I didn't know anyone and it felt like I was sort of just standing around in the background.”
“If you want some company, I'm not opposed to going with you so long as I can bring some books,” Aziraphale remarked.
Crowley handed him his cocoa. “Really?” He sounded suspicious.
“You go to the estate sales of book collectors with me,” Aziraphale reminded him.
Crowley thought about that, then nodded. “Fair point.” He snagged his own mug and returned to his seat. “I suppose it's like that story, where the couple sells things they love to buy the other presents. Except we just agree to put up with the other's interests.”
It took Aziraphale a moment to identify the story Crowley meant. When he did, he had to laugh. “I think our way is better. For one, I don't have to sell any books to show you I love you, and you don't have to sell the Bentley.”
“Don't joke about things like that.” Crowley looked scandalized.
Aziraphale leaned forward and kissed him on the nose. “In all seriousness, Crowley, getting to spend time with you is a gift. You could not have given me a better present than this afternoon.”
“Yeah?” Crowley looked pleased, despite his face starting to color. Even though Aziraphale couldn't see the demon's feet, he heard them shuffle against the blanket. “I mean, uh, I'm glad you like it, Angel.” He cleared his throat and held up his mug for a toast. “Uh, to reading?”
“To a wonderful afternoon with my wonderful partner.” Aziraphale clinked his mug against Crowley's. “And to reading.”
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley on a winter day in their South Downs cottage
Prompt: “A/C, detailed cozy morning in the South Downs cottage. I just want them to eat toast and drink coffee and be sappy about it. Them being besties who are in love etc. Tooth rotting amounts of cuddling and casual affection and domestic routine.”
Pairing: Aziraphale and Crowley
Rating: General
Gift: My giftee is Ouida
They were calling for snow. They, of course, were the humans on the television that Crowley insisted on installing in their front reception room. Aziraphale had not been sure about the inclusion of the device in a reception room of all places. What would their guests think? Crowley, however, had previously compromised on the home décor front by letting Aziraphale choose the furniture for most of the rooms in their cottage. He couldn't exactly be outdone when it came to things like selflessness and compromise by a demon of all people, and so Aziraphale begrudgingly withdrew his objections to the television.
Of course, Aziraphale would have learned of the impending snow from Crowley without watching the television. Crowley was quite put out at the mere idea that it would snow. Yesterday afternoon, he'd made a show of moping around their home and bemoaning the coming weather as if the world was going to end (again). It was more than a little ridiculous. Crowley was more than 6,000 years old. By now, he surely understood how winter worked.
The television continued to squawk about the snow's arrival – after lunch and perhaps early enough for a bit of sledding before dinner – as Aziraphale shrugged into his winter coat. They were out of cocoa, and if he was going to be snowed in with a sulking demon, he at least needed some strong cocoa. If he left soon, he should have plenty of time to walk into the village and get his latest favorite mix from the little tea shop. With dreams of cocoa and warm biscuits dancing in his mind, Aziraphale slid his hands into his coat pockets.
And stopped.
His mittens were missing. Oh bother. He could have sworn he had left them in his pockets. He began scanning the area around the coat rack when a bit of bright blue caught his attention. Aziraphale snorted. He should have known. Muttering to himself, he pulled his mittens from Crowley's coat. As he did, several pieces of mail came loose.
Not again.
Crowley's latest idea of Demonic Deeds was to take mail out of their neighbors' letter boxes and distribute it to other neighbors. Only the bills tended to find the correct recipients; cards, letters, and even mailers had a tendency to end up several houses away on at least a weekly basis. The humans on their street were getting quite annoyed with the post. Aziraphale understood that was Crowley's point, but he couldn't see this ending well. Sooner or later, the humans were going to figure it out. Humans were clever like that.
Mail tucked under one arm, Aziraphale stepped outside the cottage. The winter air smelled of smoke from nearby chimneys and that unmistakable scent that spoke of imminent snow. It almost diminished the annoyance of returning mail to the proper neighbors on the way to the tea shop. Almost.
In the great tradition of villages everywhere when news broke of impending snow, the locals were hurrying about buying “necessities.” Aziraphale had learned long ago that, for some reason, humans believed what they really needed to survive a snow was a collection of bread, eggs, and milk. He wasn't sure why those were not routinely purchased as part of the visit to the grocer's; Crowley dutifully purchased them as part of their weekly shopping every Wednesday. Perhaps there were things you learned after 6,000 years that humans had yet to pick up on?
Now that he was thinking about it, maybe he should get bread. Crowley would likely do what he did every time they got a fresh snow – retreat to his room and nap for days. Aziraphale felt a twinge of something he wanted to say was annoyance. If he was being honest with himself, it was disappointment and loneliness. He had spent centuries watching humans spend time together when snow came and had expected Crowley would want to engage in those experiences now that they were, well, semi-retired. While he certainly wasn't expecting rides in a horse-drawn carriage – he respected Crowley's feelings on horses – he didn't see why curling up in front of a fire with warm snacks and drinks while the snow swirled outside was out of the question. Yet in the three years they'd been in their cottage, it was always the same. Once he learned snow was on the way, Crowley would retreat to his room, burrow under a pile of blankets, and sleep through it all as if it was something he couldn't be bothered with.
Well. There was nothing to be done about Crowley. The demon would do what he wanted. Aziraphale, at least, could have his snacks and warm drinks and fire, even if he spent it with a good book instead.
The bell over the door of the tea shop jingled as he entered. It was followed immediately by the best smells of winter – cinnamon and baking pastries and a wood fire.
“Ah, Mr. Fell.” Behind the counter, Mrs. Covington held a finger in the air as if she had just been blessed with a brilliant idea. A grin lit up her face. “I know what you're here for. Give me just a second. I've got Anthony's order in the back.”
“Anthony?” Aziraphale said. That had to be Crowley, but he could think of no reason that Crowley would have called in an order to the tea shop. Perhaps he'd done it before the weather forecast had been finalized?
Mrs. Covington looked stricken. “Oh dear. I've ruined a surprise, haven't I?”
“Probably not,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley doesn't really like surprises.” He wanted to chalk that up to the surprise of being gifted with a basket full of Antichrist, but Crowley had been twitchy about surprises before. Not wanting the Keeper of Treats to be upset, he added diplomatically, “I thought he'd placed the order under AJ.”
“Ah,” Mrs. Covington relaxed. “No. Although he was a bit distracted when he called it in last night, right before we closed. He went on a bit about the storm and how-”
“You!”
It was a basic human reaction to turn towards such a loud, angry interruption. Despite being not human, Aziraphale felt himself reacting like one. He twisted towards the loud human entering the coffee shop. He was rewarded by seeing the man point viciously at him. Aziraphale sighed. Not this again. He let his Customer Face start to form and gave a cool nod to the man. “Mr. Mason.”
“Don't Mr. Mason me,” Mr. Mason growled. With a dramatic flourish, he threw something onto Mrs. Covington's clean counter. “You want to explain this?”
“James!” Mrs. Covington snatched the object from the counter. “People eat here, you know?”
“Stay out of this, Gloria,” Mr. Mason snapped. “This is between me and him.”
“Then keep it off my counter,” Mrs. Covington shot back. With two fingers, she held out the object to them.
Aziraphale took it. By now, they were the center of attention, so he took a few moments to make a show of studying the object. It looked like a harmonica, although he wasn't sure why it was streaked with some sort of grease. He felt his own scowl form. If that got under his nails... “I don't know what you think a harmonica has to do with me. I certainly don't play.” Sniffing, Aziraphale grabbed a napkin from the dispenser and wrapped the harmonica in it, then grabbed another and began to clean his hands. “I also take much better care of my things.”
“Your, your....that man who lives with you!” Mr. Mason sputtered angrily.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale snorted. “My partner has many musical talents, Mr. Mason, but I can truthfully say harmonica is not among them.” He could really not imagine that Crowley had suddenly taken up an interest, either, let alone that he'd tell Mr. Mason about it. Crowley referred to Mr. Mason as his 'nemesis.'
“Abigail was whistling.” Mr. Mason sounded as if this was the end of the world. “And when I investigated, I found that.”
“I'm sorry,” Aziraphale said, “But who is Abigail?”
“You know damn well who Abigail is,” Mr. Mason said.
“I really don't.” Aziraphale told him.
“His car,” Mrs. Covington said helpfully.
“She's not a car,” Mr. Mason was indignant. “She's a 1934 Mercedes Benz 500K.” He jabbed a finger at the harmonica. “And I know he strapped that to her engine.”
“Why would Crowley attach a harmonica to your car?” Aziraphale asked, despite already knowing the answer was some combination of 'I need to do some occasional Demonic Deeds, Angel' and Crowley still fuming that Mr. Mason said something unkind about the Bentley.
“Because he's jealous, that's why.” Mr. Mason crossed his arms and managed to look almost as haughty as Aziraphale. “He knows Abigail is superior to that piece of junk he drives and is trying to sabotage her.”
“It has been awhile since I read a dictionary,” Aziraphale allowed a bit of what Crowley called his Insufferable Voice creep into his tone, “But if I recall correctly, sabotage requires the causing of damage. Did the harmonica damage your car?”
There was a pause before Mason managed a, “Well....no.”
“And of course, a fine, upstanding citizen such as yourself, who has never done anything wrong, would not make such a public accusation against your neighbor without proof,” Aziraphale continued. “Could you please explain to me why you think Crowley took a break from his very hectic work schedule to attach a harmonica to your car?”
“Who else could have done it?” Mr. Mason demanded.
“I'm afraid I don't have an answer to that,” Aziraphale said, “But I'm sure there's more than one suspect. This is, after all, hardly the work of a mastermind. It's the work of someone who thinks gluing coins to the pavement is clever. I'm sure there are a dozen neighborhood children who could have been bored and thought something like this would be funny.”
Mr. Mason was silent.
“Of course,” Aziraphale added, allowing his tone to take on a bit of Judgmental Disappointment, “None of that explains why you felt the need to accost me about this. If you believe you have a quarrel with Crowley, take it up with him. I have better things to do with my time.” He turned to block Mr. Mason with his shoulder and offered Mrs. Covington a smile. “Now, dear,” his voice took on a pleasant, soft tone, “How much do I owe you?”
~*~
Crowley met him at the door. The demon froze, his sunglasses halfway to his face. Slowly, he lowered them to his side and stared at Aziraphale over the tops of no less than four scarves. His eyes moved to the box in Aziraphale's hands. It was the sort of moment that called for some sort of clever remark.
Crowley said, “I thought you were reading.” Clever, it was not.
Aziraphale arched an eyebrow at him. “I thought you were sleeping.”
Crowley shuffled his feet in the way that he did when he was embarrassed but also secretly up to something sweet. “No.” There was silence a beat. “Is that my order?”
“Mrs. Covington sent it home with me,” Aziraphale confirmed.
“The cocoa mix, too?” Crowley asked, an almost hopeful tinge coming into his voice.
Aziraphale held up a paper bag.
“Thank damnation,” Crowley said. “We can go back inside.” As if there was nothing odd about what had just happened, he retreated into their cottage.
“Are you wearing three coats?” Aziraphale asked, following him into the tiny hall. He did not know about modern fashion, but he couldn't imagine wearing three coats was now in style.
“They're calling for snow,” Crowley said, as if that explained everything. He began unwrapping his scarves. “How did you find out about your surprise? I thought I was rather clever about it.”
“You were. I had no idea.” Aziraphale said. “I went to get some treats for the storm and your order was waiting.”
Crowley let out a little noise that was almost a laugh. “Thwarted by a craving for scones.” He finished hanging up his outerwear, then took the box from Aziraphale and disappeared into the reception room.
Aziraphale moved to follow him. He paused in the doorway. The front reception room had been cold and dark when he left. While he was out, Crowley had breathed life into it. A fire burned in the fireplace. The lamps were lit to warm the space. The couch had been moved to the center of the room and positioned to take advantage of the view of both the fire and the window. It was piled with what looked to be Crowley's favorite blankets. Four books were neatly stacked beside the couch, within easy reach, while a fifth had been dropped haphazardly on top of the blankets. The side tables were pushed together against one wall and held the electric kettle, mugs, plates, and...were those marshmallows? There was a jar of marshmallows.
“This is for me.” He sounded like a bit of an idiot. Of course Crowley had set this up for him. He hadn't vocalized his little cozy snow day fantasy, but somehow Crowley figured it out....
“It's for us,” Crowley corrected. “I ordered some of my favorite flavors of those mini-scones, too.” He reached under one of the side tables to where he'd left a small machine. At the press of a button, the machine began playing music.
“You even have a phonograph,” Aziraphale noted. He couldn't hide the bit of breathless surprise from his voice. It was almost as if Crowley had reached into his mind and recreated what he'd found.
“That's a CD player, Angel,” Crowley sounded amused. “It's 1993. People listen to CDs now.”
“But,” Aziraphale found himself commenting on the least surprising bit of the scene, “That's jazz.”
“Yeah. You can get all sorts of music on CD. It's not limited to new releases.” Crowley said.
It was safer to talk about music than to ask why did you do this? or say I feel so incredibly loved right now. Those sorts of things would send Crowley blushing, shuffling his feet, and looking uncomfortable. Not wanting to make things awkward, Aziraphale kept the topic on the safe issue of Crowley's music player. He studied the machine a moment before asking, “And does it play records?”
“Nope. It only plays CDs. If you want to listen to music you own, you first need to buy it all over again.” Crowley balanced the box from the tea shop between the edge of the side tables and his arm as he began arranging mini-scones on a glass plate. “You have to hand it to humans. They're constantly coming up with all these new gadgets that are great for sinning. With CDs, there's envy for not having the latest technology, and gluttony and greed in repurchasing everything, and even pride in having the newest and best before your friends. The technology market is a boon for Hell. Course, no one at the office understands how any of it works. They're really sleeping on the opportunities.”
“Fascinating.” Aziraphale might mention something about these CD players the next time he had to turn in a memorandum. Letting Heaven know about the sinful nature of the latest human musical inventions would make it look like he had been hard at work on things other than his To Be Read pile. “Do you know what's really remarkable? It's actually playing jazz and not car music.”
“Car music?” Crowley asked.
“All your cassettes,” Aziraphale said. “They don't play what they claim to. You may be surprised at this, Crowley, but I am aware that Fat Bottom Girls was not written by anyone in the Baroque or Classical periods.”
“Oh. Yeah. The CDs are kept in the cottage.” Crowley shrugged as if that explained it.
Aziraphale decided he didn't want to know. He contented himself with looking through the stack of books. Crowley had selected a variety of options, each one promising to be interesting.
“We have cocoa and tea,” Crowley finished arranging scones. “And if you'd like something harder, I've got the ingredients for Smoking Bishop. I can mix some up and you can pretend to be scandalized that we're drinking at such an early hour.”
“You know how to make Smoking Bishop?” Aziraphale asked. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had the mulled wine. It had fallen out of favor with the humans ages ago.
“Just because I slept through most of the 19th Century doesn't mean I missed out on everything.” The demon opened the cocoa mix and dumped it into the electric kettle. “I always make sure to catch up on the important things when I wake up, you know.”
Aziraphale watched as Crowley tapped a button on the kettle. He was mostly sure that was not an appropriate form of cocoa preparation, but bit back any remark on that topic. Crowley seemed to think that was how cocoa was made. It would probably turn out fine. Instead, he stuck to the prior topic of conversation. “You missed out on the Gavotte.”
“No one misses the Gavotte but you.” Crowley gave him an exasperated look that was tinged with fondness.
“It's going to come back in style.” Aziraphale helped himself to a mini-scone and glanced into the box. A-ha. He pulled free the small package of cream and helped himself to a generous serving. These really were divine. He remembered when they'd first talked about moving out of town. He had foolishly worried the food wouldn't be nearly as good. Those worries had been for nothing.
A lot of his worries had been for nothing. He hadn't told Crowley, but he had spent more than one night unable to focus on his reading because of the niggling little concerns that they wouldn't be able to combine their lives. They'd known each other for millennia, but, well, it was different when you lived with someone. There were all sorts of things that never presented as problems when you had an Arrangement but that could become disasters when you had a partnership. You could love someone deeply and still find their little habits ridiculous and grating. And there had been – what was the expression – pathbumps? - yes, pathbumps. There had been pathbumps in the early days. They'd found a way, though. Crowley stopped losing his mind when Aziraphale forgot that coasters existed, and Aziraphale made an effort to put his plates in the sink instead of leaving them scattered about their home. Crowley tried to keep Aziraphale out of his demonic deeds (or whatever other mischief Crowley felt compelled to do), and Aziraphale never expected Crowley to participate in the God-related activities of their new community. They found ways to communicate and compromise – whether it was on the telly or the furniture or even how to spend a snow day.
Aziraphale licked the remaining crumbs from his fingers. His free hand snagged the book that had been left on the blankets. “What is A Spy For All Seasons?”
“Ah. That one is mine. It's a James Bond knock-off,” Crowley said. “But if you want to try it-”
“No. I am quite happy with the selection you pulled for me,” he said quickly. Crowley had many positive traits, but his taste in reading material had never been one of them. Aziraphale was still not sure how someone who had such exquisite taste in food and drink could have the worst taste in books. But that, he supposed, was Crowley. He had always been a walking contradiction. Aziraphale selected a book from the stack that was meant for him and settled onto the couch. Outside the window, it was beginning to snow.
As if he'd been waiting for his cue, Crowley asked, “Cocoa?”
“In a bit.” Aziraphale patted the spot beside him.
There was a flourish of movement as Crowley got himself comfortable. Blankets were arranged. Pillows were positioned. A demon was draped onto the couch and partially against him. And then Crowley gave him one of those little smiles that spoke volumes as he opened his own book and settled in.
Aziraphale supposed that, technically, this wasn't much different than what he usually did. After all, he had dedicated reading time every day. This time of year, though, reading was often a solitary activity. Crowley might sit near him for half an hour and flip through a magazine, but the demon would then need to find something to do. In the warmer months, they could spend that time together in the back garden; Crowley could discipline the flowers and the veg patch while Aziraphale read. Now that it was colder, he'd missed being able to share his reading time with Crowley. Being able to curl up with the person who meant the most to him and to share one of his favorite activities felt almost special.
He should have been reading, but Aziraphale found his attention kept drifting to the person he was reading with. Crowley was engaged in his own book, his forehead making the cute wrinkles it did when he was thinking. It was everything Aziraphale could do not to lean over and kiss them. He forced himself to try to pay attention to his book. He only managed to make it through one chapter before breaking the silence. “Is your book exciting?”
“Eh,” Crowley shrugged. “The main character isn't as cool as James Bond. He doesn't have any taste in cars. But it's early. Maybe he'll learn.” He shot Aziraphale a smug grin. “I believe you literary types would call that character development. How's yours?”
“Mine is about humans trying to understand Egypt,” Aziraphale offered. “They're making a lot of educated guesses, but about a third of them are just flat out wrong.”
“That's pretty good for modern humans,” Crowley said. “Although I wish they'd spend less time on trying to learn about pharaohs, though, and more time trying to recreate some of those meals.”
Oh. The meals. They didn't make meals like that anymore.... “I suspect the best recipes have been lost,” Aziraphale agreed. “Do you know, Crowley, after several civilizations ended and no one preserved the instructions for those meals that everyone loved, I started writing them down?”
“Really?” Crowley perked up.
“Oh, yes. The humans, I suppose, just assumed everyone would remember because those dishes were so prevalent, but after a generation or so, everyone forgot,” Aziraphale explained.
“That's mortality for you,” Crowley agreed.
“It was such a shame. I'd get these cravings, and no one would know what I was talking about when, a hundred years earlier, you could find that particular snack anywhere. Well, once I realized what was happening, I began collecting the good recipes. I've got a notebook of them in my library. Of course, it's been easier these past few centuries, now that paper is so readily available, but I've got a few from as early as our days in Rome.”
“I was thinking about taking a cooking class,” Crowley became thoughtful. “I never really bothered to learn since I always lived in the middle of cities, with more restaurants than I could try in a human lifespan. Now that we're out here, we don't have as many options. Might as well get some real use of that kitchen-diner we've got. Want to go with me?”
“To your cooking class?” Aziraphale asked.
“I mean, if I sign up,” Crowley said quickly. “I'm still thinking about it.”
Aziraphale knew that he himself would never be good at cooking. But maybe it would give Crowley something to do in the colder months, and he could read while Crowley made snacks or tried to recreate centuries-old favorites.... Aziraphale supposed he could make a fool of himself while Crowley learned to cook if it meant something like that. “It could be fun. If you decide to go, I'll come along.”
They settled back into companionable silence. Aziraphale felt Crowley snuggle a bit closer and paused to kiss the top of the demon's head before returning to his book. Outside, the snow seemed to dance in the streetlights, the only life in a silent wintery landscape. Every so often, Crowley's fingers would brush along his arm. Aziraphale found himself leaning more and more against Crowley, until they'd shifted positions so he was propped against the demon.
“Have you ever roasted chestnuts?” Crowley broke the silence.
“Hm?” Aziraphale felt his eyes flick over the top of his book.
“Like the song,” Crowley elaborated. “They're always playing it in the stores this time of year. Something like 'chestnuts roasting in a roaring fire.'”
“I believe they roast on an open fire,” Aziraphale corrected.
“How does that even work?” Crowley wondered aloud. “Wouldn't they just burn up?”
“I assume some sort of cookware is involved,” Aziraphale mused. He hadn't really given it much thought. Holiday songs tended to be either silly or the sorts of things his colleagues were extremely passionate about. Neither category held his interest for long.
“They don't mention cookware, though,” Crowley was still stuck on roasting chestnuts.
“The lyricist probably assumed it was understood,” Aziraphale opined. “Is there a point to this, dear?”
“It's a clue.” Crowley held up A Spy For All Seasons. “In the book. And now the blessed song is stuck in my head and I'm wondering what roasted chestnuts taste like. Never tried them, myself.”
“Something for the next snow day?” Aziraphale suggested.
Crowley contemplated that a moment, then nodded. “It's a date.” Whatever existential crisis he'd been having about chestnuts was now averted, and he returned to his novel like it was the most natural thing.
The mention of the next snow day, however, was now stuck in Aziraphale's mind. After pondering it a good five minutes, Aziraphale took his turn in breaking the silence. “Crowley?”
“Hm?”
“Why do you hate it when it snows?”
“Just do,” Crowley replied, letting out a little yawn.
It was a fair answer. And it was a nice afternoon. Aziraphale told himself to let it go. People irrationally hated things all the time. He didn't, of course. His dislikes were completely rational, but he was an angel. There was no rule that demons couldn't be irrational. It was hard, however, to let things go when Crowley's shoulder still felt stiff under his head. He'd tensed it when Aziraphale mentioned the snow... “It feels like more than that,” Aziraphale remarked.
Crowley sighed. “It's stupid, Angel.”
“It upsets you enough that you usually go to sleep to avoid it,” Aziraphale observed.
Crowley was silent. Just when Aziraphale had decided to return to his book and stop pushing, the demon confessed. “When it's cold, reptiles' bodies become really slow, but their minds are conscious. Seems awful, when you think about it. Being awake but not able do anything. When it snows, there's this little voice in the back of my mind that wonders if I'll, I don't know, accidentally shift into snake form and then not be able to change back because I'm too cold.” He winced. “I told you it was stupid.”
No. It wasn't. It was all of Crowley's fears, rolled up into one. He wasn't sure why snow was the trigger, but there had been plenty of times over the centuries that he and Crowley had been separated. There easily could have been times when Crowley felt compelled to change forms for one reason or another. Aziraphale knew he hated doing it. He also knew that Crowley viewed his recently discovered free will as one of the most precious things he had. Being stuck in another form and being unable to move, well, it was a metaphor, wasn't it? It was the loss of free will and everything that came with it – all the Earth things and human things Crowley enjoyed, the life Crowley built....Crowley's relationship with him. Aziraphale lifted his head and shifted so he could look at Crowley. “You aren't stupid,” he said, “And if I don't think less of you for strapping harmonicas to cars, I'm certainly not going to think less of you for disliking snow.”
Crowley's brow wrinkled even as his shoulders relaxed. “How did you know about the harmonica?”
“Mr. Mason confronted me about it when I was at the tea shop,” Aziraphale said.
Crowley's confusion intensified. “He thinks you strapped a harmonica to an engine? You don't like to touch dirt and that's much easier to clean than engine oil.”
“Oh, he knows you did it, but he's a bit intimidated by you,” Aziraphale opined, “And thought I'd be easier to bully.”
Crowley snorted. “What an idiot.” There was a pause. “You think he's intimidated by me?” Crowley's voice sounded hopeful.
“You can be very intimidating when you want to be,” Aziraphale reassured him. “Not to me, of course. I've seen you lose an argument to a duck while drunk. But you can intimidate humans when you try.”
“Not as well as you can,” Crowley sounded a bit envious.
“Yes, well, I've just had more practice,” Aziraphale lied. “All those years with customers.”
“Do you miss it?” Crowley asked. “Owning a book shop?”
“I miss having easy access to all my books,” Aziraphale said, his mind flitting to the many tomes in storage. “But I don't miss the threat of customers taking them away.”
“I've been thinking about that,” Crowley said. “We've already got the garage at the back of the garden. If we put in for planning permission to add a story, we could move the books in storage into that space. There won't be room for you to add more reading nooks, but we could put rows of shelves in – like a university library – and we should be able to fit the rest of your books. Then, if you'd need one that we didn't have in the cottage, you could just walk across the back garden and retrieve it.”
“Do you even know how planning permission works?” Aziraphale felt his eyebrows rise. “Getting the council to agree to let us extend over the garage is not going to be easy.”
“You remember the part where we can do miracles, right?” Crowley pointed out. “A little demonic nudge here and there, and we can get your book storage. And you know they'll be safe there; I keep the Bentley in the garage. There's no safer place in England.”
That was true. And it would be so much better if, whenever he needed a book, he didn't need to ask Crowley to drive him across the county to retrieve it.... “I take it you have some plans?”
“I know a guy,” Crowley said. He stretched. “I'm going to get some cocoa. You want some?”
“Sounds delightful.” Aziraphale replied. “Could you be a dear and bring me some of those scones, as well?”
Crowley moved to obey. “By the way,” he busied himself with the kettle, “I'm sorry about Mason. I didn't expect he'd bother you over my little payback.”
Aziraphale shrugged. Petty tricks were part of the package with Crowley. He'd accepted that long ago. That said, now there was an opening, perhaps he could direct Crowley's little war with Mr. Mason in a less disruptive direction.... “You know, Crowley, the best revenge is success. Why don't you enter the Bentley in one of those car shows he's always taking his car to? Your car is in perfect condition and has all original parts. I might not know much about cars, but I would wager judges would award the Bentley top marks.”
“I went to one of those things years back,” Crowley told him. “The Bentley did win, but it was – I don't know – awkward. I didn't know anyone and it felt like I was sort of just standing around in the background.”
“If you want some company, I'm not opposed to going with you so long as I can bring some books,” Aziraphale remarked.
Crowley handed him his cocoa. “Really?” He sounded suspicious.
“You go to the estate sales of book collectors with me,” Aziraphale reminded him.
Crowley thought about that, then nodded. “Fair point.” He snagged his own mug and returned to his seat. “I suppose it's like that story, where the couple sells things they love to buy the other presents. Except we just agree to put up with the other's interests.”
It took Aziraphale a moment to identify the story Crowley meant. When he did, he had to laugh. “I think our way is better. For one, I don't have to sell any books to show you I love you, and you don't have to sell the Bentley.”
“Don't joke about things like that.” Crowley looked scandalized.
Aziraphale leaned forward and kissed him on the nose. “In all seriousness, Crowley, getting to spend time with you is a gift. You could not have given me a better present than this afternoon.”
“Yeah?” Crowley looked pleased, despite his face starting to color. Even though Aziraphale couldn't see the demon's feet, he heard them shuffle against the blanket. “I mean, uh, I'm glad you like it, Angel.” He cleared his throat and held up his mug for a toast. “Uh, to reading?”
“To a wonderful afternoon with my wonderful partner.” Aziraphale clinked his mug against Crowley's. “And to reading.”
Cosy!
Date: 2022-12-25 11:45 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2022-12-26 06:17 am (UTC)and mr mason has the fear of aziraphale put in him
a triumph. thank you.
(no subject)
Date: 2022-12-28 02:33 am (UTC)(This is Ouida, I don’t have an account lol)
(no subject)
Date: 2023-01-09 04:17 am (UTC)“He wanted to chalk that up to the surprise of being gifted with a basket full of Antichrist” Lol that oughta do it
““It has been awhile since I read a dictionary,” But probably not THAT long, if we’re being honest, right?
A harmonica on a car is one of Crowley’s best XD
The description of how Crowley has set up the room—most romantic snow day EVER.
“I've seen you lose an argument to a duck while drunk.” HA
This was soooo cozy. Relationship goals. And with book omens, too! The last sentence is the best :D