Crowley could admit that, on the whole, things probably could have gone better. Technically could have gone worse, too, but that's never reassuring either. They've both cleaned up, though, both healed and slowly carried on. The second full moon had gone... better. Better in that nobody had been hurt, and Crowley had spent the duration sitting outside Aziraphale's room reading. He's not sure if it helped or not, but it made him feel better to still be doing something -- and once it had all quietened done he'd moved inside to continue reading. Aziraphale had seemed to appreciate it, at least. Appreciated the warm presence of his company,
Now, though, now was time for Crowley to make good on his promises. Aziraphale his more himself once more, and Crowley brings him a box of chocolates as he said he would. He finds somewhere that seems good enough to please Aziraphale food-wise, and they have a table to themselves. The food isn't quite Michelin Star, but that doesn't strictly matter. The wine is fine, and he lets Aziraphale eat his desert.
There's a fireplace nearby that, he suspects, is lit in the colder months. He doesn't need it right now, Aziraphale's smile is warm enough.
"Good?" he prompts softly, watching the last of the dessert vanish away. Something with chocolate and raspberry, he thinks, he'd mostly ordered it because Aziraphale couldn't choose between it and something else.
For the longest time, there had been a knot. A nasty little thing that sat right in his chest, heavy underneath his ribs, and he had gotten used to it. He had gotten used to the weight, to the presence of it, and the constant discomfort of its existence. He had, he truly had, and Aziraphale had told himself that he was fine.
Always.
It was fine, it was fine, it was fine.
Then Crowley had untangled it with his words, with a repeated request for the both of them to simply just be together. Just because they could and because they wanted to. Nothing else, no other reasoning, and there didn't need to be anything else. Just that, just them. Of course, Aziraphale hadn't given him a proper answer then as Crowley did not properly ask, but he'd still felt that weight underneath his ribs start to lighten. It lightened underneath the memory of being called "love", of gentle spidery fingers pressed against his ears, and the promise that the proper time would come.
Eventually Crowley would ask and he would answer. Happily, if he might add.
Today, he thinks, is going to be that day. Chocolates had been provided as promised as was a really rather nice dinner. Just like he had asked for. It reminds him, just a bit, of the dinner that they had had on the day they had gotten bonded together. Crowley had ordered dessert for his sake on that evening as well.
He smiles around the tines of the fork, pulling it away clean and setting it to rest at the edge of the plate. There is only a small sliver of it left.
"Oh, yes. It was lovely," he tells him as he pushes the plate towards Crowley in a silent request for him to finish it. Now that eating is an unavoidable aspect of his life, he thinks that Crowley should end a meal like this on a sweet note.
Crowley scrunches his nose up, shakes his head a little.
"That was for you, angel," he protests, taking a sip of his wine. "Not a bad place, either, should come here again."
He sets down his drink, leans back in his chair and drapes one arm over the back of it. Under the table, he stretches out his legs and crosses them at the ankles. They brush against Aziraphale's, and he studiously pretends not to notice.
"Bet it's real cosy in the colder months," he continues, "wonder if they do a nice lunch? Been a long time since we had a fancy lunch."
Normally, Aziraphale wouldn't hesitate at the refusal. Mostly because any time he has offered Crowley some of his meal, it has only been out of politeness and the knowledge that Crowley would gently refuse. A common little dance between them. The difference is, Aziraphale thinks, that food has a different meaning when they're no longer just eating for the fun of it.
When one is effectively mortal.
"Humour me," he pushes, sliding the plate a little closer to Crowley for emphasis. There is less than a bite left and he wants Crowley to take it. He thinks it matters. Just like he thinks it matters that he doesn't pull away from the press of a leg against his own underneath the table.
He picks up his own glass, which is surprisingly nearly finished already. "I would imagine they did. When I glanced at the menu, they listed a nice little spread of entrees for the lunch hours. I'm quite interested in giving them a try," he remarks.
More than that, he is also interested in having Crowley try. There's a fun in trying to pin down his tastes in food now that he's eating more frequently, both from the things they cook together and what Crowley orders.
Then, he adds, "We have a fireplace in the cottage too. It needs a little cleaning, but I'd love to see it lit up once it gets cold."
A fireplace in the cottage. Mmmm. Crowley scrunches his face up a little, thinking of the flames consuming Aziraphale's bookshop, but that was -- different. It was different. If they had a fireplace going they'd keep an eye on things. Probably.
"Might be nice, get the fireplace going."
There's a hint of uncertainty to it, but he draws the dessert plate closer anyway and eats the last little piece left. It's sweet, just as he expected, and strong. Raspberries, he thinks, that's what's strong. Sharp.
"Not a bad little place, that. Not like we need a lot of space."
Between them, they don't have very much in the way of belongings. Aziraphale, he supposes, might eventually want more space to start storing books. If they're here long enough. Would they be here long enough? Would they need to think about things like that?
Immediately, Aziraphale's expression brightens as he watches Crowley adhere to his request to finish out the remainder of his dessert. He doesn't seem to favour it much, which isn't unexpected, but Aziraphale is happy to see him eat it nonetheless. A good meal should be finished out with something sweet.
That's simply how it is!
"Oh, I know. I've started to grow really fond of it," he admits. It is rather sparse in terms of decorations or fun pieces, but it is a good size with a good layout. Cosy, but not cramped. Living there and living with Crowley has been a surprisingly comfortable affair. Well, aside from the unpleasantness of the full moon, that is.
He thinks he should start considering decorating it. They've been there long enough and there is no telling how long they might be in it still. Might as well make it seem a bit more like a home. He smiles a little at the thought, at the idea that the place he shares with Crowley could be thought of as such.
"We could push the chairs in towards the fireplace once we light it. Or should we get one of those rugs? The fluffy ones that you sit on?" he asks, considering the idea of it. It's always like that in those holiday pin-ups, sitting around the fireplace on a fuzzy white rug.
A fluffy rug? Crowley sets down the small fork, imagining this rug-and-possibly-chairs set-up. Close to the fire. Mmmm. He thinks of the flames taking over his Bentley, and for a second can still feel the heat licking at him.
Is a rug more flammable than the chairs? A fluffy one probably is, right? Maybe it'll be fine as long as they have... screen thing up. Fire screen. Fire guard? That's it, probably.
"Could move the chairs first," he suggests, "see how it feels. Make sure it all... you know, works. Chimney isn't blocked and all that."
All things to do before splashing out on a fluffy rug. He leans back in his chair again, turning over the thought.
"You like it, though?"
The cottage. He sounds as if he does, but Crowley is fishing really -- fishing for Aziraphale to confirm he's happy. That he does like the place, does like living there with Crowley. That there's nothing more he's yearning for, for now at least.
There is a brief pause as Aziraphale considers the point made about the state of the chimney. He hadn't thought about it all, had forgotten entirely that these things need maintenance—everything, everything needed so maintenance! It is unbelievable how many things need a certain amount of upkeep. He imagines that there would surely be someone he could phone to hire to clean it out if need be.
A chimney was no place for either of them to be crawling into all willy-nilly.
He takes the last sip of his wine, pinching his fingers at the stem of the glass as he sets it down. "The cottage, you mean? I must admit that I do," he confirms easily. Honestly, if not for the whole monthly debacle, he might have thought about sharing a bedroom with Crowley so he could turn his own room into something of a miniature library.
"Could use a bit more personality though."
Or a lot. He is, otherwise, quite happy where he is.
"Could probably fix it up," he agrees. "Lick of paint, something like that. You done, then?"
With the food and wine, with their evening at the restaurant. He tilts his head questioningly, offers a loft of his eyebrows. If so, he'll pay up and they can get moving. Maybe have another drink back at the cottage, personality issues aside, and enjoy a little privacy. Maybe think about what they can do with it to make it more... theirs, together.
As far as dinner is concerned, Aziraphale has already had his fill. A nice meal, nice wine, and even nicer company. He offers a nod towards Crowley, picking up his napkin to dab at his mouth. "I am, yes. Thank you," he tells him as soon as he places it down on the table, neatly folding it.
He takes his time with it, still still thinking about what their home might need. He agrees that some paint might do it a world of good, but it wouldn't help it look any less sparse than it is. He taps his fingers against the back of the chair as he stands.
"What about something for the walls? A painting or two and perhaps some shelves?"
Crowley thinks about that, pushing to his feet and setting some money down on the table to cover the meal.
"Painting might be nice. Shelves be good, so you got somewhere to put your books."
Since that is the presumed use of these shelves, allowing Aziraphale to build a budding book collection. What else would they use it for after all? Little cat ornaments?
He folds the rest of his money away, moves up beside Aziraphale and begins to walk slowly toward the exit.
"Drinks cabinet?" he suggests. Something practical, bit of furniture to fill the space. Plus, they do both like a drink.
Aziraphale isn't far behind him. He pushes his chair back into place against the table, hoping to lessen some of the work of the waitstaff, before falling into step with Crowley on his way out the door. He walks a little closer than he used to, but still not too-too close.
"Your books as well," he remarks as if that were an important point. He did need a place to put his magical texts and tomes from his schooling and personally, Aziraphale thought the idea of sharing a space for their books was a little bit on the romantic side.
"A cabinet would look nice in the den," he agrees easily. He's already thinking about what type they might get and where they might position it for best effect. "I'd like to have the sort that allows you to hang your wine glasses upside down for storage."
He taps a finger against his chin.
"Doubtful we could go wrong with a phonograph either."
It might really liven things up to have some music in the house.
Phonograph! There's an idea. Crowley's eyebrows loft and he glances sideways at Aziraphale.
"There's a thought, wonder what sort of music we could get here?"
Hopefully something more palatable than The Sound of Music, at least. Something with a little life in it. He's not really paid much attention so far. A nice little drinks cabinet, a phonograph, that'd really make it more... well, homely. Even if it does something strange to his chest to think of this place as home.
Day by day, the city and everything within it has grown more and more festive until it feels positively bursting with holiday cheer. It feels alive with lights, shiny ornaments, and garland. It just feels so much like the Christmas that Aziraphale is used to that he frequently has to stop himself from referring to it as such. It isn't and he knows it isn't, they call it Modranicht and it has nothing to do with the son of God or religion at all, but so much of it feels familiar.
In particular, the tradition of exchanging gifts.
Aziraphale finds that part to be a little exciting, which could be attributed to a certain amount of homesickness that he has been developing the longer he finds himself trapped here, but mostly he appreciated the idea that he could spend this time with Crowley. He didn't always turn up around this time of year to see him, but when he did, Aziraphale liked to put a little something together for the two of them to celebrate including a small wrapped gift.
He didn't intend to do it any differently this year for their first Modranicht.
After they had both eaten and Crowley had poured them a moderate amount of wine in matching glasses, Aziraphale sets two neatly wrapped gifts onto the coffee table before settling into the couch himself.
Ah, right, the capitalism part of the celebrations. Crowley blinks at the gifts, sets aside the glass of wine he's been nursing and gets up to rummage out the set of presents he had waiting.
After a moment, he sets down two rectangular parcels next to the others -- one is the most interesting sounding history book on Aefenglom he could find, the other a little writing set with some nice pens, paper and a journal. The wrapping was absolutely not done by him, but it looks nice. They curled the ribbon and everything.
"There you go," he prompts, and sits back down to pick up his wine again. "Funny how similar it all is, isn't it? Can't escape the gift buying frenzy even all the way out here. I wonder if they've ever done black Friday sales?"
There's a thought! Maybe he could suggest it. Be a little bit of fun. He flickers an amused smile, already imagining Aziraphale's frustration over it.
There is no need to imagine anything as Aziraphale's face is already starting to scrunch up in disgust at the mere idea of introducing the concept of competitive shopping for yearly sales to the people of this city. It is one of the few things that they are absolutely better off without!
Aziraphale is also acutely aware that he is glad not to be running a shop at present.
"No," he says simply, ending the discussion of the matter right there.
Then he gestures to the gifts, encouraging Crowley to open up one of his first. He had picked out a very lovely and possibly overly thick tartan-patterned scarf to help keep Crowley warm—because he truly did seem to struggle—and a deluxe shaving kit tucked away in a very fashionable wooden box.
"I think it's nice. Feels a bit like home, don't you think? Still spending this sort of holiday together just as we always have," he comments, smiling against his wine glass before taking a sip.
Crowley doesn't think it does at all, despite the seasonal theme and the shopping.
They're together, it's true, but things have changed. They aren't in a bookshop in Soho, there are no distant headlights or sirens skimming a shop floor. There's no reports to hell, no rude notes from heaven, and more than that --
There's them. They're different, powers diminished and Aziraphale... changing.
The two of them, bound.
Crowley pretends to give it thought, a noncommittal tilt of his head as he picks up one of the packages. It feels soft, and he has immediate suspicions that are quickly proven right as he works it open.
"Tartan?" he prompts, mostly to get a rise out of Aziraphale, but he's shaking it out anyway and immediately wrapping it around his neck. The ends trail down his chest and he grins, flicking it over his shoulder and lounging back in his seat.
At this point, any point of familiarity feels like a positive to Aziraphale. For as far away from their actual home as they are and for as different as things are here, it is consistently nice to find things that mirror each other between both places. There are not that many, at least not as far as Aziraphale has found, but there are enough to take solace in.
Just as he takes pleasure in watching Crowley pull apart the wrapping to his first gift. He does attempt to look neutral about it, pretending to be more focused in the glass in his hand, but the quiet rumble of a purr in his throat betrays him. It starts up just as soon as Crowley puts the scarf around his neck, delighted to see him wearing it so soon.
"It's stylish!" he protests, but mostly for token effort. He knows about Crowley's incorrect opinions on the subject and he doesn't intend to let that stop him from continuing to try to get it on his person.
Crowley's protest is equally a token effort, smile painted easily onto his face. He gestures for Aziraphale to open one in turn, relaxing back in the chair and picking up his wine again. The scarf stays put, neatly nestled around his neck even if it's hardly cold indoors. The purr he can hear rumbling through Aziraphale is satisfying. He wants to feed it, and maybe later curl up with him and feel the rumble of it through his broad chest.
Crowley, as far as Aziraphale's humble and very correct opinion goes, always looks good with a splash of a lighter colour against his dark attire. It suits him, he thinks. Just a little pop of something to catch the eye. He considers furthering the point by outright telling him that he looks nice in it, but he decides against it in the end.
There would be time to say something about it later. For now, he would rather take a look at what gifts Crowley had brought him this year.
"Yes, let me—" he begins. He stops a little short of a full sentence, hand lifting to his throat to feel the rumble that he'd heard vibrate through his words. He hadn't even noticed when he had started, which he finds to be frustrating. It feels like just another thing on the long list of things that he could barely control about himself now.
"Excuse me," he says, clearing his throat and forcing himself to stop making any embarrassing noises.
Then he picks apart the wrapping from around what appears to be a fairly complete journal set. He doesn't bother to hide the delight on his face, expression lighting up as he already thinks about the ways he could put it to good use.
"What a wonderful thought! I cannot remember the last time I kept a journal, but I do believe now would be the proper time for it," Aziraphale says. He has so much excess time now and it would likely be beneficial to start keeping some sort of record.
"Plenty to write about, too. Could publish a memoir some day with everything we get up to. It'd be a best seller, angel."
Well, based on content alone. Crowley isn't quite sure how compelling Aziraphale's written word is, these days, but that's what an editor is for anyway. Besides, principle of the thing. He twitches a smile, thinking of the purr of pleasure and the way the angel had tried to suppress it. Not that he's supposed to comment too much on it, apparently, but he does find it rather endearing. A good tell, too, Aziraphale never had a particularly good poker face but it's all far worse now.
The idea of writing a memoir gets a laugh out of Aziraphale. He has thought about it several times over the years, but he has long since drawn the conclusion that he would be better off trying to turn it into a semi-autobiographical fantasy. He would only need to make a few minor tweaks here and there, wouldn't he? It would barely even need any padding to make a sizable series!
Although, he does wonder if he has the time for such a thing.
"Perhaps, not everything. Some things are best left to the imagination," he remarks playfully.
They could do without some of their more depressing failures and he would think some of the more private aspects to their relationship would be better left private.
With a gentle nudge, he pushes the other gift towards Crowley to open.
Crowley sets aside his glass of wine and leans to pick up the other parcel. It's heavier, solid feeling unlike the scarf situation. He leans back and rests it in his lap, beginning to pick his way through the wrapping paper in a leisurely fashion. The feel of wood under his fingers is curious, and when he drags the box free he takes a moment to inspect it before opening it up.
His eyebrows shoot up, surprise, then drop into a frown of curiosity. It's a good set -- probably cost a little.
"This is nice, angel."
He digs through the shaving kit thoughtfully then glances up, wrinkles his nose.
It is indeed a good, quality set. Leagues away from that awful, cheap thing that he had stored in their medicine cabinet currently. He had made a very particular point of putting out the money to make sure that he had gotten Crowley something that was more suitable for his face.
"No! No, nothing like that," Aziraphale answers immediately.
He wouldn't say that it is anything like a hint at all. It is more of a situation in which he now has a vested interest in the quality and condition of Crowley's face. Although, he did suppose it might not be in his best interest to put it like that. Mortality never feels like a comfortable topic to broach.
Admittedly, he doesn't like to hear about it either.
"Since we do have some more coin in our pocket, I thought it might do you well to have something nicer."
He lifts one hand to rub at his chin and cheek thoughtfully, as if assessing the potential stubble situation, then closes the box and carefully sets it back on the coffee table. Gift safely out of the way, he turns back to Aziraphale and scoots right up on the sofa beside him. One hand reaches for for the angel's, now much larger and heavier. His pads feel soft, sensitive, and Crowley turns the palm downward he can brush his lips along the back of it. His claws are hidden away, but Crowley knows at a moments notice they could shoot out and shred his skin.
He isn't afraid.
"Thank you," he says, and turns Aziraphale's hand back over to press another kiss to one of his pads this time.
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Septeril Date
Now, though, now was time for Crowley to make good on his promises. Aziraphale his more himself once more, and Crowley brings him a box of chocolates as he said he would. He finds somewhere that seems good enough to please Aziraphale food-wise, and they have a table to themselves. The food isn't quite Michelin Star, but that doesn't strictly matter. The wine is fine, and he lets Aziraphale eat his desert.
There's a fireplace nearby that, he suspects, is lit in the colder months. He doesn't need it right now, Aziraphale's smile is warm enough.
"Good?" he prompts softly, watching the last of the dessert vanish away. Something with chocolate and raspberry, he thinks, he'd mostly ordered it because Aziraphale couldn't choose between it and something else.
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Always.
It was fine, it was fine, it was fine.
Then Crowley had untangled it with his words, with a repeated request for the both of them to simply just be together. Just because they could and because they wanted to. Nothing else, no other reasoning, and there didn't need to be anything else. Just that, just them. Of course, Aziraphale hadn't given him a proper answer then as Crowley did not properly ask, but he'd still felt that weight underneath his ribs start to lighten. It lightened underneath the memory of being called "love", of gentle spidery fingers pressed against his ears, and the promise that the proper time would come.
Eventually Crowley would ask and he would answer. Happily, if he might add.
Today, he thinks, is going to be that day. Chocolates had been provided as promised as was a really rather nice dinner. Just like he had asked for. It reminds him, just a bit, of the dinner that they had had on the day they had gotten bonded together. Crowley had ordered dessert for his sake on that evening as well.
He smiles around the tines of the fork, pulling it away clean and setting it to rest at the edge of the plate. There is only a small sliver of it left.
"Oh, yes. It was lovely," he tells him as he pushes the plate towards Crowley in a silent request for him to finish it. Now that eating is an unavoidable aspect of his life, he thinks that Crowley should end a meal like this on a sweet note.
"Thank you."
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"That was for you, angel," he protests, taking a sip of his wine. "Not a bad place, either, should come here again."
He sets down his drink, leans back in his chair and drapes one arm over the back of it. Under the table, he stretches out his legs and crosses them at the ankles. They brush against Aziraphale's, and he studiously pretends not to notice.
"Bet it's real cosy in the colder months," he continues, "wonder if they do a nice lunch? Been a long time since we had a fancy lunch."
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When one is effectively mortal.
"Humour me," he pushes, sliding the plate a little closer to Crowley for emphasis. There is less than a bite left and he wants Crowley to take it. He thinks it matters. Just like he thinks it matters that he doesn't pull away from the press of a leg against his own underneath the table.
He picks up his own glass, which is surprisingly nearly finished already. "I would imagine they did. When I glanced at the menu, they listed a nice little spread of entrees for the lunch hours. I'm quite interested in giving them a try," he remarks.
More than that, he is also interested in having Crowley try. There's a fun in trying to pin down his tastes in food now that he's eating more frequently, both from the things they cook together and what Crowley orders.
Then, he adds, "We have a fireplace in the cottage too. It needs a little cleaning, but I'd love to see it lit up once it gets cold."
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"Might be nice, get the fireplace going."
There's a hint of uncertainty to it, but he draws the dessert plate closer anyway and eats the last little piece left. It's sweet, just as he expected, and strong. Raspberries, he thinks, that's what's strong. Sharp.
"Not a bad little place, that. Not like we need a lot of space."
Between them, they don't have very much in the way of belongings. Aziraphale, he supposes, might eventually want more space to start storing books. If they're here long enough. Would they be here long enough? Would they need to think about things like that?
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That's simply how it is!
"Oh, I know. I've started to grow really fond of it," he admits. It is rather sparse in terms of decorations or fun pieces, but it is a good size with a good layout. Cosy, but not cramped. Living there and living with Crowley has been a surprisingly comfortable affair. Well, aside from the unpleasantness of the full moon, that is.
He thinks he should start considering decorating it. They've been there long enough and there is no telling how long they might be in it still. Might as well make it seem a bit more like a home. He smiles a little at the thought, at the idea that the place he shares with Crowley could be thought of as such.
"We could push the chairs in towards the fireplace once we light it. Or should we get one of those rugs? The fluffy ones that you sit on?" he asks, considering the idea of it. It's always like that in those holiday pin-ups, sitting around the fireplace on a fuzzy white rug.
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Is a rug more flammable than the chairs? A fluffy one probably is, right? Maybe it'll be fine as long as they have... screen thing up. Fire screen. Fire guard? That's it, probably.
"Could move the chairs first," he suggests, "see how it feels. Make sure it all... you know, works. Chimney isn't blocked and all that."
All things to do before splashing out on a fluffy rug. He leans back in his chair again, turning over the thought.
"You like it, though?"
The cottage. He sounds as if he does, but Crowley is fishing really -- fishing for Aziraphale to confirm he's happy. That he does like the place, does like living there with Crowley. That there's nothing more he's yearning for, for now at least.
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A chimney was no place for either of them to be crawling into all willy-nilly.
He takes the last sip of his wine, pinching his fingers at the stem of the glass as he sets it down. "The cottage, you mean? I must admit that I do," he confirms easily. Honestly, if not for the whole monthly debacle, he might have thought about sharing a bedroom with Crowley so he could turn his own room into something of a miniature library.
"Could use a bit more personality though."
Or a lot. He is, otherwise, quite happy where he is.
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"Could probably fix it up," he agrees. "Lick of paint, something like that. You done, then?"
With the food and wine, with their evening at the restaurant. He tilts his head questioningly, offers a loft of his eyebrows. If so, he'll pay up and they can get moving. Maybe have another drink back at the cottage, personality issues aside, and enjoy a little privacy. Maybe think about what they can do with it to make it more... theirs, together.
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He takes his time with it, still still thinking about what their home might need. He agrees that some paint might do it a world of good, but it wouldn't help it look any less sparse than it is. He taps his fingers against the back of the chair as he stands.
"What about something for the walls? A painting or two and perhaps some shelves?"
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"Painting might be nice. Shelves be good, so you got somewhere to put your books."
Since that is the presumed use of these shelves, allowing Aziraphale to build a budding book collection. What else would they use it for after all? Little cat ornaments?
He folds the rest of his money away, moves up beside Aziraphale and begins to walk slowly toward the exit.
"Drinks cabinet?" he suggests. Something practical, bit of furniture to fill the space. Plus, they do both like a drink.
excuse you, little cat ornaments are legit
"Your books as well," he remarks as if that were an important point. He did need a place to put his magical texts and tomes from his schooling and personally, Aziraphale thought the idea of sharing a space for their books was a little bit on the romantic side.
"A cabinet would look nice in the den," he agrees easily. He's already thinking about what type they might get and where they might position it for best effect. "I'd like to have the sort that allows you to hang your wine glasses upside down for storage."
He taps a finger against his chin.
"Doubtful we could go wrong with a phonograph either."
It might really liven things up to have some music in the house.
tbh i own some
"There's a thought, wonder what sort of music we could get here?"
Hopefully something more palatable than The Sound of Music, at least. Something with a little life in it. He's not really paid much attention so far. A nice little drinks cabinet, a phonograph, that'd really make it more... well, homely. Even if it does something strange to his chest to think of this place as home.
i wanna see them
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Modranicht Celebration
In particular, the tradition of exchanging gifts.
Aziraphale finds that part to be a little exciting, which could be attributed to a certain amount of homesickness that he has been developing the longer he finds himself trapped here, but mostly he appreciated the idea that he could spend this time with Crowley. He didn't always turn up around this time of year to see him, but when he did, Aziraphale liked to put a little something together for the two of them to celebrate including a small wrapped gift.
He didn't intend to do it any differently this year for their first Modranicht.
After they had both eaten and Crowley had poured them a moderate amount of wine in matching glasses, Aziraphale sets two neatly wrapped gifts onto the coffee table before settling into the couch himself.
"For you."
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After a moment, he sets down two rectangular parcels next to the others -- one is the most interesting sounding history book on Aefenglom he could find, the other a little writing set with some nice pens, paper and a journal. The wrapping was absolutely not done by him, but it looks nice. They curled the ribbon and everything.
"There you go," he prompts, and sits back down to pick up his wine again. "Funny how similar it all is, isn't it? Can't escape the gift buying frenzy even all the way out here. I wonder if they've ever done black Friday sales?"
There's a thought! Maybe he could suggest it. Be a little bit of fun. He flickers an amused smile, already imagining Aziraphale's frustration over it.
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Aziraphale is also acutely aware that he is glad not to be running a shop at present.
"No," he says simply, ending the discussion of the matter right there.
Then he gestures to the gifts, encouraging Crowley to open up one of his first. He had picked out a very lovely and possibly overly thick tartan-patterned scarf to help keep Crowley warm—because he truly did seem to struggle—and a deluxe shaving kit tucked away in a very fashionable wooden box.
"I think it's nice. Feels a bit like home, don't you think? Still spending this sort of holiday together just as we always have," he comments, smiling against his wine glass before taking a sip.
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Crowley doesn't think it does at all, despite the seasonal theme and the shopping.
They're together, it's true, but things have changed. They aren't in a bookshop in Soho, there are no distant headlights or sirens skimming a shop floor. There's no reports to hell, no rude notes from heaven, and more than that --
There's them. They're different, powers diminished and Aziraphale... changing.
The two of them, bound.
Crowley pretends to give it thought, a noncommittal tilt of his head as he picks up one of the packages. It feels soft, and he has immediate suspicions that are quickly proven right as he works it open.
"Tartan?" he prompts, mostly to get a rise out of Aziraphale, but he's shaking it out anyway and immediately wrapping it around his neck. The ends trail down his chest and he grins, flicking it over his shoulder and lounging back in his seat.
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Just as he takes pleasure in watching Crowley pull apart the wrapping to his first gift. He does attempt to look neutral about it, pretending to be more focused in the glass in his hand, but the quiet rumble of a purr in his throat betrays him. It starts up just as soon as Crowley puts the scarf around his neck, delighted to see him wearing it so soon.
"It's stylish!" he protests, but mostly for token effort. He knows about Crowley's incorrect opinions on the subject and he doesn't intend to let that stop him from continuing to try to get it on his person.
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Crowley's protest is equally a token effort, smile painted easily onto his face. He gestures for Aziraphale to open one in turn, relaxing back in the chair and picking up his wine again. The scarf stays put, neatly nestled around his neck even if it's hardly cold indoors. The purr he can hear rumbling through Aziraphale is satisfying. He wants to feed it, and maybe later curl up with him and feel the rumble of it through his broad chest.
"Go on then," he insists, "your turn."
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There would be time to say something about it later. For now, he would rather take a look at what gifts Crowley had brought him this year.
"Yes, let me—" he begins. He stops a little short of a full sentence, hand lifting to his throat to feel the rumble that he'd heard vibrate through his words. He hadn't even noticed when he had started, which he finds to be frustrating. It feels like just another thing on the long list of things that he could barely control about himself now.
"Excuse me," he says, clearing his throat and forcing himself to stop making any embarrassing noises.
Then he picks apart the wrapping from around what appears to be a fairly complete journal set. He doesn't bother to hide the delight on his face, expression lighting up as he already thinks about the ways he could put it to good use.
"What a wonderful thought! I cannot remember the last time I kept a journal, but I do believe now would be the proper time for it," Aziraphale says. He has so much excess time now and it would likely be beneficial to start keeping some sort of record.
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Well, based on content alone. Crowley isn't quite sure how compelling Aziraphale's written word is, these days, but that's what an editor is for anyway. Besides, principle of the thing. He twitches a smile, thinking of the purr of pleasure and the way the angel had tried to suppress it. Not that he's supposed to comment too much on it, apparently, but he does find it rather endearing. A good tell, too, Aziraphale never had a particularly good poker face but it's all far worse now.
Which works in Crowley's favour, of course.
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Although, he does wonder if he has the time for such a thing.
"Perhaps, not everything. Some things are best left to the imagination," he remarks playfully.
They could do without some of their more depressing failures and he would think some of the more private aspects to their relationship would be better left private.
With a gentle nudge, he pushes the other gift towards Crowley to open.
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His eyebrows shoot up, surprise, then drop into a frown of curiosity. It's a good set -- probably cost a little.
"This is nice, angel."
He digs through the shaving kit thoughtfully then glances up, wrinkles his nose.
"Isn't some sort of hint, is it?"
About shaving.
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"No! No, nothing like that," Aziraphale answers immediately.
He wouldn't say that it is anything like a hint at all. It is more of a situation in which he now has a vested interest in the quality and condition of Crowley's face. Although, he did suppose it might not be in his best interest to put it like that. Mortality never feels like a comfortable topic to broach.
Admittedly, he doesn't like to hear about it either.
"Since we do have some more coin in our pocket, I thought it might do you well to have something nicer."
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He lifts one hand to rub at his chin and cheek thoughtfully, as if assessing the potential stubble situation, then closes the box and carefully sets it back on the coffee table. Gift safely out of the way, he turns back to Aziraphale and scoots right up on the sofa beside him. One hand reaches for for the angel's, now much larger and heavier. His pads feel soft, sensitive, and Crowley turns the palm downward he can brush his lips along the back of it. His claws are hidden away, but Crowley knows at a moments notice they could shoot out and shred his skin.
He isn't afraid.
"Thank you," he says, and turns Aziraphale's hand back over to press another kiss to one of his pads this time.
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