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.
A few months have passed since the two of them have decided to very officially, as it were, be in a romantic relationship, but Aziraphale is still not entirely used to the physical aspect of it. It's still a little novel and bewildering and occasionally he even finds himself amazed that either of them could even casually do such a thing. Oh, just whenever they wanted!
There was hardly anything to stop them!
It feels a little unreal at times. Especially when they have kept any possibility of touching to a minimum over the incredible amount of years they've known one another. Well, that, and—
He cannot help but be self-conscious of the body that has been changing without his permission. Yet, Crowley doesn't seem to hesitate when he reaches out for him.
"Ah, well—" he attempts, but stops mid-sentence as Crowley places a second kiss against his hand. The tenderness of it makes his face feel hot. "I should be saying that to you, I believe."
"Not yet," he murmurs, "still got something else to open yet."
The history book, after all, is still wrapped and sitting on the table. Crowley presumes he's being thanked for his nice writing purchases, after all, when there's more to it than just that. He leans back, gives Aziraphale's hand a last reassuring squeeze before letting go and leaning to pick up the package.
"Here you are," he says, and hands it over before leaning to grab up his wine again -- settling into the couch comfortably and watching Aziraphale's expression. His emotions have always played quite openly over his face, but now that he can't hide the twitch of his ears on top of that it's all the more obvious. Crowley knows he feels uneasy about it, that Aziraphale feels uneasy about the whole transformation and losing control -- he'd feel the same, in truth, had it happened to him. Yet there is something terribly endearing about it, and underneath it all it's still his angel. Still fussy, still prideful, still himself.
Aziraphale certainly didn't want to come off as greedy or possibly over-eager, as neither were truly a good look, but he does feel that Crowley had pulled away far too quickly. He could have lingered, could have kissed him somewhere other than his deformed hands, and yet he is already trying to pick up where they left off with the unwrapping of gifts. His ears flick twice before flattening against his hair in irritation.
"Yes, uhm—" he starts, taking the offered gift. He holds it between his fingers for a little too long before setting it down against his lap, one hand resting against the top. He thinks about saying something, about complaining, but it's a holiday. Things were supposed to be nice on holidays.
Another moment passes before Aziraphale decides that it's more important to be nice on a holiday than to voice his feelings. Carefully, he starts to pick open the wrapping paper to reveal the book within.
The way Aziraphale's ears flicker and flatten, however, isn't. Crowley's brief feeling of pleasure fades, his interest in Aziraphale's reaction to the history book he bought fades, and all at once he's trying to analyse what he did wrong.
"Angel?" he prompts gently, trying to guess at exactly what he's done wrong. Obviously something -- he really cannot guess what, though. Isn't gift giving all part of the experience? Was the kissing part wrong, somehow? Aziraphale had seemed to enjoy it, though, he's always been a little self-conscious but he'd seemed to like it.
Aziraphale's resolve to not say anything for the sake of keeping things pleasant turns out to be paper thin. He wants to say something about it, has already thought about exactly what he would say if given the chance, and the slight questioning from Crowley is certainly a good enough opportunity to do so.
After all, if he is asking, then why should he not tell him? Was that not in its own way also a manner of keeping things pleasant?
"You didn't have to only kiss my hand."
The answer comes out a little more haughty than he had intended, almost sounding offended. It's true and he is, but he didn't wish to sound that way. He didn't want to be too obvious that he is a bit offended that Crowley would shy away from the chance of a little more affection where it is freely offered. He presses his palm against the half unwrapped book, almost as if saving his place in the process of unwrapping, but he doesn't look over to Crowley.
The confusion is immediately obvious in Crowley's expression.
Didn't... have to only kiss... Aziraphale's hand?
Well, yes, he knows he didn't.
"Err," he manages, nose scrunching a little in thought. "No?"
Perhaps if he leads Aziraphale into talking a little more, he might understand exactly what the problem is. He... wants him to do something else to his hands? Or, wants him to kiss something else that isn't his hands? Crowley is pretty open to both, in all honesty, he thought they might just... finish... the capitalism bit first? Is that wrong?
As far as Aziraphale is concerned, the capitalism aspect is far less important than physical intimacy. Gifts could be opened at any time, any time at all, but the mood wouldn't always be right. That's the more important and more fragile aspect here!
One of his ears flicks again despite its flattened state. He thought himself to be fairly clear about it, but obviously Crowley didn't understand him. Or he did understand him and hadn't wanted to, which is definitely worse.
"What do you mean 'no'?" he asks, turning then to look at Crowley.
Crowley has the slow, sinking sensation that he's falling into some kind of verbal trap. The problem is, he's not entirely sure the right way out of it.
"I didn't... have to?" he repeats, just to be clear. That was what he said, yes? 'You didn't have to'? Which no, he didn't?
It's going to be the wrong thing to say, he's sure of it, but at least he'll have tried.
There were a lot of things that could have been said, a lot of things that Aziraphale would have likely accepted as well, but this? Not quite. Actually, it's a rather annoying answer.
"I see," he says, very stiffly. He taps his fingers against the cover of the book, almost thoughtfully.
Definitely the wrong thing to say, then. Crowley's face scrunches again, trying to process this. On balance, he's quite certain that he has no idea what he should be saying to correct it -- so probably the only way out is through. May as well.
"Sorry, but are you actually angry with me for kissing your hand?"
Just to be clear, which part is the problem? Because Crowley has no idea. He thought they were having a nice time! Maybe they'd finish exchanging gifts, have another glass of wine, curl up together and enjoy the seasonal ambience! Somehow, it's all gone completely off the rails.
Admittedly, that isn't uncommon for them but it's still frustrating.
The question gets Aziraphale to pause, nearly snapping him out of his mood as he's forced to consider what sort of impression that Crowley might have from his end. Was that what it looked like? Did he think that was the issue?
"What?" he asks, ears immediately perking up and alert as if that might help him hear anything said better. Then, he shakes his head. "No, no, no. Of course not! Don't be daft."
That was never the problem at all. Not even slightly.
"I wanted a proper kiss as well!" he blurts out, answering a little too quickly and gracelessly.
Crowley scrunches up his face, confused as he processes this confession. Incredulousness wars with a mild sort of exasperation. Did Aziraphale think he just wasn't going to? That the hand kissing part was the end of it?
"Well I was going to get to that!" he protests, "I thought we'd just... you know, finish with these first and have another drink or something."
Then they had the whole rest of the night to just kiss all he wanted, without anything else on the to do list! Which Crowley is very amenable to, although now slightly less in the mood than he was.
Aziraphale did, in fact, think that the hand kissing part was going to be the end of it. It felt like the logical direction and he was-slash-is very opposed to that sort of thing. He didn't want to appear pushy or overeager or some equally unfortunate third option, but now that physical intimacy is on the table, Aziraphale found that he would like to regularly partake.
He's just also wary of it because he has never forgotten the body he has at current.
"You see—" Aziraphale starts once he realises he's been quiet for a little too long. Of course, the issue now is that he barely knows what to say. How could he explain this?
He clears his throat.
"Well, I don't mean to sound impatient or, or, or brutish about it. I just—"
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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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There was hardly anything to stop them!
It feels a little unreal at times. Especially when they have kept any possibility of touching to a minimum over the incredible amount of years they've known one another. Well, that, and—
He cannot help but be self-conscious of the body that has been changing without his permission. Yet, Crowley doesn't seem to hesitate when he reaches out for him.
"Ah, well—" he attempts, but stops mid-sentence as Crowley places a second kiss against his hand. The tenderness of it makes his face feel hot. "I should be saying that to you, I believe."
Thank you, that is.
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The history book, after all, is still wrapped and sitting on the table. Crowley presumes he's being thanked for his nice writing purchases, after all, when there's more to it than just that. He leans back, gives Aziraphale's hand a last reassuring squeeze before letting go and leaning to pick up the package.
"Here you are," he says, and hands it over before leaning to grab up his wine again -- settling into the couch comfortably and watching Aziraphale's expression. His emotions have always played quite openly over his face, but now that he can't hide the twitch of his ears on top of that it's all the more obvious. Crowley knows he feels uneasy about it, that Aziraphale feels uneasy about the whole transformation and losing control -- he'd feel the same, in truth, had it happened to him. Yet there is something terribly endearing about it, and underneath it all it's still his angel. Still fussy, still prideful, still himself.
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Aziraphale certainly didn't want to come off as greedy or possibly over-eager, as neither were truly a good look, but he does feel that Crowley had pulled away far too quickly. He could have lingered, could have kissed him somewhere other than his deformed hands, and yet he is already trying to pick up where they left off with the unwrapping of gifts. His ears flick twice before flattening against his hair in irritation.
"Yes, uhm—" he starts, taking the offered gift. He holds it between his fingers for a little too long before setting it down against his lap, one hand resting against the top. He thinks about saying something, about complaining, but it's a holiday. Things were supposed to be nice on holidays.
Another moment passes before Aziraphale decides that it's more important to be nice on a holiday than to voice his feelings. Carefully, he starts to pick open the wrapping paper to reveal the book within.
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The way Aziraphale's ears flicker and flatten, however, isn't. Crowley's brief feeling of pleasure fades, his interest in Aziraphale's reaction to the history book he bought fades, and all at once he's trying to analyse what he did wrong.
"Angel?" he prompts gently, trying to guess at exactly what he's done wrong. Obviously something -- he really cannot guess what, though. Isn't gift giving all part of the experience? Was the kissing part wrong, somehow? Aziraphale had seemed to enjoy it, though, he's always been a little self-conscious but he'd seemed to like it.
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After all, if he is asking, then why should he not tell him? Was that not in its own way also a manner of keeping things pleasant?
"You didn't have to only kiss my hand."
The answer comes out a little more haughty than he had intended, almost sounding offended. It's true and he is, but he didn't wish to sound that way. He didn't want to be too obvious that he is a bit offended that Crowley would shy away from the chance of a little more affection where it is freely offered. He presses his palm against the half unwrapped book, almost as if saving his place in the process of unwrapping, but he doesn't look over to Crowley.
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Didn't... have to only kiss... Aziraphale's hand?
Well, yes, he knows he didn't.
"Err," he manages, nose scrunching a little in thought. "No?"
Perhaps if he leads Aziraphale into talking a little more, he might understand exactly what the problem is. He... wants him to do something else to his hands? Or, wants him to kiss something else that isn't his hands? Crowley is pretty open to both, in all honesty, he thought they might just... finish... the capitalism bit first? Is that wrong?
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One of his ears flicks again despite its flattened state. He thought himself to be fairly clear about it, but obviously Crowley didn't understand him. Or he did understand him and hadn't wanted to, which is definitely worse.
"What do you mean 'no'?" he asks, turning then to look at Crowley.
Which is it?
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"I didn't... have to?" he repeats, just to be clear. That was what he said, yes? 'You didn't have to'? Which no, he didn't?
It's going to be the wrong thing to say, he's sure of it, but at least he'll have tried.
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There were a lot of things that could have been said, a lot of things that Aziraphale would have likely accepted as well, but this? Not quite. Actually, it's a rather annoying answer.
"I see," he says, very stiffly. He taps his fingers against the cover of the book, almost thoughtfully.
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"Sorry, but are you actually angry with me for kissing your hand?"
Just to be clear, which part is the problem? Because Crowley has no idea. He thought they were having a nice time! Maybe they'd finish exchanging gifts, have another glass of wine, curl up together and enjoy the seasonal ambience! Somehow, it's all gone completely off the rails.
Admittedly, that isn't uncommon for them but it's still frustrating.
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"What?" he asks, ears immediately perking up and alert as if that might help him hear anything said better. Then, he shakes his head. "No, no, no. Of course not! Don't be daft."
That was never the problem at all. Not even slightly.
"I wanted a proper kiss as well!" he blurts out, answering a little too quickly and gracelessly.
He could have worded that better, surely.
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What?
Crowley scrunches up his face, confused as he processes this confession. Incredulousness wars with a mild sort of exasperation. Did Aziraphale think he just wasn't going to? That the hand kissing part was the end of it?
"Well I was going to get to that!" he protests, "I thought we'd just... you know, finish with these first and have another drink or something."
Then they had the whole rest of the night to just kiss all he wanted, without anything else on the to do list! Which Crowley is very amenable to, although now slightly less in the mood than he was.
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How awkward.
Aziraphale did, in fact, think that the hand kissing part was going to be the end of it. It felt like the logical direction and he was-slash-is very opposed to that sort of thing. He didn't want to appear pushy or overeager or some equally unfortunate third option, but now that physical intimacy is on the table, Aziraphale found that he would like to regularly partake.
He's just also wary of it because he has never forgotten the body he has at current.
"You see—" Aziraphale starts once he realises he's been quiet for a little too long. Of course, the issue now is that he barely knows what to say. How could he explain this?
He clears his throat.
"Well, I don't mean to sound impatient or, or, or brutish about it. I just—"
No, no, he can't say that. That's far too much.
"I'm sorry."
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