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The textile arts had always fascinated Aziraphale. Humans were remarkably clever beings that he loved, as was his job as an angel of the Lord, but it went deeper than that. He loved seeing what they were capable of creating, the new things they figured out to do with fibers, the art that they created out of threads and yarns.
Weavings and tapestries, each different from the last, all so beautiful. All so human .
As much as he loved the grand intricacies that these forms of art offered, the thing that humans did with yarn that Aziraphale loved above all else was hand knit clothing. These days you could go to a store and buy a sweater for next to nothing, but there was something about the deliberate act of creating an entire article of clothing stitch by stitch that he found enchanting. He had seen people wear hand knit sweaters that were made by a loved one and he could feel the warmth radiating off them, warmth that didn’t come from just fabric itself but by the tenderness that had been woven in with each and every stitch. There was something romantic about it and deep down Aziraphale was nothing if not Soft.
He loved things that were warm and cozy and comfortable. He bought plenty of sweaters and scarves and blankets and largely ignored Crowley when he made fun of him for not just pulling them out of thin air. Things made with real materials had a simple warmth to them that a miracled sweater lacked. They were still technically warm but there was something under the surface that felt cool and distant, something that reminded Aziraphale of the sterile hallways of heaven. A feeling that might not have been physically cold but brought a certain sting with them.
Even fixing clothes with magic took that warmth away. Cloth wasn’t as soft, wasn’t as warm if he had to fix tears or stains with his divine energy. Crowley humored him most of the time and would miracle away any snags that Aziraphale pouted about. He would still feel it of course, feel the touch of something not of this earth, but as opposed to the feeling of Heaven or Hell, all he would feel was Crowley and that was something warm in and of itself.
Ever the sensualist, local yarn shops were a favorite of Aziraphale. He would visit them just to touch and feel all the different yarns that were available. Savoring the different textures, running his hands over the skeins. Wools, silks, and cottons. All a different feeling. All a different sensation that made his fingers buzz.
He would close his eyes and inhale, taking in the earthy scent of a natural wool or the clean smell of cotton. It made him hum with pleasure. He never bought anything though, merely browsed for a few minutes and left, much to the irritation of the owner.
Knitting seemed like soothing hobby. Aziraphale liked the idea of taking these raw materials and turning them into something that could be worn or given as a gift. It seemed like something that, as bookshop owner who drank too much cocoa and wore frumpy sweaters, he should do, he just never got around to it.
Having more or less “retired” to a quiet cottage in the South Downs with Crowley, he found that now was as good a time as any to pick up the craft. He had noticed that Crowley consistently complained when there was a chill in the air and figured that a sweater would be the perfect gift to give him, but it also gave Aziraphale an excuse to finally try his hand at knitting.
He wanted this gift to be a surprise so he waited until Crowley announced that he was going on a trip to do some tempting and sinister whatnot, which Aziraphale knew was a cover for the fact that Crowley was going to a folk music festival and was too embarrassed to admit it. He would be gone for a few days and Aziraphale figured that would be enough time for him to learn an entire hobby and finish a sweater. How hard could it be?
The day Crowley left, Aziraphale made his way to the yarn shop a few miles away, enjoying the walk and pleasant weather. Once there, he purchased all the materials he would need according to the shopkeeper, who was delighted that Aziraphale had finally decided to purchase something instead of just fondling her merchandise for awhile and leaving with a polite wave. She sent him away with several skeins of yarn, a couple pairs of needles, and a how-to book that seemed to have simple enough instructions.
This would prove to be a false assumption on Aziraphale’s part.
It was early evening by the time he made his way back to the cottage, caught up in listening to the advice the shopkeeper was giving him. He started a fire to ward off the chill in the air, plopped down on the sofa, and read the how-to book cover to cover.
Twice.
On his third pass at the book he became more confused than the first. It was a simple process. There were very helpful illustrations that went along with it and yet he could not wrap his mind around it. It’s just a series of knots essentially. It couldn’t be this complicated.
He decided that his best bet at learning was to just buckle up and do it.
He got up to make himself a cup of cocoa and throw another log in the fire. When he got back to the couch he grabbed his bag of goodies and pulled out the needles. They were connected by a cord that allowed for “knitting in the round” as the shopkeeper had told him. It seemed very modern to Aziraphale, who was used to the picture of two separate needles being held in the hands of patient looking grandmothers. But, Aziraphale reasoned, he was very “with” the times and quick to pick up on modern advancements.
This was a lie. Circular needles were invented in the early 1900s.
The yarn he had picked out was a cream color made of wool, pretreated so it wouldn’t shrink when washed. It was soft but not as soft as silk, pleasant but not a high maintenance as other yarns could be. It wasn’t really Crowley’s style, who preferred things to be sleek yet flashy, but it was a gift from Aziraphale so he figured it should be something that came from his heart. Also the shopkeeper said that black was not an easy color to work with for beginners, that might have had something to do with it, too.
He manifested some glasses on his face, liking how it made him feel more quaint, and looked over the pattern for a simple sweater he found in his book. He looked at the pattern and back to the needles and yarn, a displeased look making its way across his face, starting with a frown and ending with a set of furrowed eyebrows.
Perhaps starting with a sweater had been a mistake. The pattern claimed to be simple but was admittedly not so. It started at the collar and worked its way down and there was some confusing bits about increasing and shaping and putting stitches “on hold” and it was all dreadfully confusing, but Aziraphale was an angel who had walked this planet for a few millennia. He was there for the beginning of civilization and had prevented the apocalypse. He could certainly figure out knitting on his own.
He could not.
He struggled to figure out how to cast on the required number of stitches. There were twists and turns and loops and overs and unders and Aziraphale became frustrated. Knitting was supposed to be pleasurable, to be calming and soothing and a collection of other words that meant “enjoyable.”
It was not.
It was frustrating and complicated and a collection of other words that meant “difficult.” He certainly made a valiant effort and managed to cast on a number that was close to the one in the pattern, give or take twenty, but the knitting part itself was even more confusing.
“Place the right hand needle through the front of the stitch on the right needle,” he muttered unhappily under his breath, making an attempt at a knit stitch, “wrap the yarn around the needle, pull the needle back through the loop, slide the stitch off the left needle…” He made an affronted noise when the yarn didn’t do as it was told. He tried again, moving slowly and deliberately and made something that a person who didn’t know what knitting was would call a stitch.
“Ah HA!” He cried out in triumph before the stitch decided to slip off his needle and undo itself.
Aziraphale walked away and sullenly made another cup of cocoa.
Eventually he managed to get a few rows done, but they looked awful. There were holes in it and places where the stitches were loose and it was nothing like the images in the book.
He huffed and glared at the offending work, not enough to will it to look better because that would defeat the entire purpose. Despite this growing irritation, he refused to use any divine intervention. He wanted to make this for Crowley, not cheat and give him something that Crowley could magic up himself just as easily. He wanted to make this by hand and he wasn’t going to give up because it wasn’t working out.
He continued. His angelic bull-headedness was the only thing he had working for him. The pattern lay forgotten as he became determined to make at least one row look right. Slowly, he got the hang of it, stitches looser in some places than others but only dropping the occasional stitch.
In the front, wrap the yarn, pull it through, slide it off.
A focus consumed him in a way that completely blocked out the rest of the world. It was meditative. He became hypnotized by the clicks and clacks of the needles as the yarn slid through his fingers.
In, wrap, pull, slide, in, wrap, pull, slide.
The four motions became all he knew, the only deviation being when one skein ran out and he needed to start a new one before returning back to the same four motions. He thought of Crowley, how much he cared for him, how he wanted to get this right as some sort of Grand Gesture. Wanted to see him wear something that he made. For Crowley to feel the warmth that Aziraphale created. The stitches began to smooth out and the holes became less frequent.
The sun rose and subsequently set in the sky multiple times before Aziraphale was knocked out of his stupor when there was a loud crash of thunder overhead. When did it start raining? He looked at the clock and saw that it had only been a few hours since he started but then he surveyed the rest of the room and noticed a touch more of dust than had been there earlier and there was no warmth from the fireplace. Days then, a couple at least.
“Oh… fiddlesticks.” The sleeve was now well over 6 feet long. Just a 6 foot long tube that looked like it had been run through a taffy machine. There were less holes at the end than the beginning and Aziraphale felt vaguely proud but still disappointed. There was no way Crowley would appreciate this. It was embarrassing, really. He was an angel, he should be able to figure something out as simple as knitting.
Not knowing what else to do, he spent a few minutes figuring out how to bind it off of the needles and then sloppily weaved in the loose threads, some still sticking out randomly no matter what he did.
He was sitting there sulking, scowling at the offending garment in his lap when he heard the cottage door open. He panicked; he didn’t want Crowley to see this atrocity. Aziraphale would try knitting again in a few decades and get it right then or maybe just give up and never think of this again, Crowley manifested all his clothes anyways, he never would have appreciated a hand knit sweater. He would be polite enough about it but really think the angel was being silly. Like that time with the crepes, which he still hasn’t lived down. Cheeks flushing at the absurdity of him ever thinking this was ever a good idea, Aziraphale desperately looked around before trying to stuff the garment under the sofa cushions and hide it from sight. He was only half successful.
“Angel, I’m home!” Crowley’s sing-song voice came from the door.
Aziraphale rushed to meet him, not wanting Crowley to come into the living room and see the what-was-formally-going-to-be-a-sweater.
He rounded the corner and pretended not to be out of breath from his hurrying. Crowley was standing by the door, shaking off his jacket that had rain on it. Aziraphale’s worries were forgotten and he smiled brightly at the demon. “How was your trip? Get up to any good temptations, my dear?” He took a few steps forward and found himself wrapped up in a pair of arms.
“None as tempting as you.” Crowley smiled before bringing their lips together in a chaste kiss.
Aziraphale hummed in agreement as he raised his hands to frame Crowley’s face and deepened the kiss to something less chaste. Crowley’s hands settled on his waist to steady himself as Aziraphale started moving his lips lower to his neck. He was startled when the skin he found there was cooler than usual and Aziraphale pulled back, suddenly remembering that it was a dark and stormy night and Crowley had gotten caught in the rain.
“Oh dear! Seems like the rain has given you a chill. Let me make you some tea.”
Crowley made a noise of protest, his lips chasing after the angel as Aziraphale left the circle of his arms, “I'm a demon, I can just-” But it was too late, Aziraphale was already in the kitchen, pulling out two cups as the water began to boil. Crowley sighed fondley and wandered into the living room, talking over his shoulder.
“Did I ever tell you how much I love the rain?”
“You’ve mentioned it once or twice.” Aziraphale called from the kitchen. Crowley mentioned it every time it rained.
“Reminds me of when we first met. I know it’s awfully sentimental of me but-” his voice cut off.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale did his best to not sound panicked at the sudden silence. He failed.
Tea forgotten, he hurried back into the living room and found Crowley standing by the couch, holding the tube of fabric in his hands.
“What’s this?” Crowley didn’t turn to look at Aziraphale, just stood there stroking the back of his hand over the material.
Aziraphale’s cheeks began to flush, “Oh, well, you see, it was a first attempt, I hadn’t meant for you to find it. There I was thinking about how cold it can get and now, I know you can just miracle a sweater but I had been meaning to try knitting anyways and I might have gotten carried away-” Aziraphale was rambling and had no intention of stopping.
Meanwhile, Crowley had pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head so that he could better look at the-thing-that-was-not-a-sweater. His wide eyes looked over the stitches in amazement. It was softer than anything he had ever touched and radiated a warmth that made the sun obsolete.
“-and you know how it is when I get focused on things,” the angel continued, not noticing the soft look on Crowley’s face.
“You made this… for me?”
Aziraphale stopped short and gave a defeated sigh, seeing no sense in denying it. “I- Yes.” He looked at his feet, stepping from one foot to the other. There was a thump as the technically-could-be-called-a-bad-scarf hit the ground and Aziraphale’s head shot up.
With a roll of his shoulders, Crowley’s body shimmered and stretched and then suddenly Aziraphale was looking at a 10-foot snake, bunched up on the floor of his living room. Confusion colored Aziraphale’s face as Crowley looked at him, his wide yellow eyes as pleased as a serpent’s could be. It wasn’t unusual for Crowley to shift into his snake form but normally it was to bask in the sun or cause trouble at the local pet shop.
Then realization dawned on him as Crowley nosed his way into the opening of the tube, it being the perfect size for his serpentine body.
The anxiety in Aziraphale began to ease as he watched Crowley worm his way into the-what-could-now-be-called-a-sweater.
Crowley made it a few feet but then the fabric bunched up and Crowley seemed stuck. He lifted his head and Aziraphale’s heart swelled with amused fondness at seeing the Serpent of Eden looking very much like a sock puppet. The fabric covered his head and he turned his head this way and that way, searching for a way out. After a few moments of watching Crowley wiggle in confusion, Azriaphale bent over and found the other end of the tube. He straighten it out and peered in and was met with two glowing yellow eyes peering back at him.
Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Hello, dear.”
Having a clear path, Crowley snaked his way through until his head finally popped out. He flicked his tongue over Aziraphale’s nose by way of greeting, which Aziraphale pretended to be annoyed by.
He was not.
Aziraphale straightened the sweater a bit and then stood up, looking over Crowley. The sweater covered most of his body, a few feet of his tail peaking out. The cream against his black and red scales made a nice contrast. It was snug enough that he didn’t just slide through it when he moved but it wasn’t constricting. A perfect fit.
“You know,” Aziraphale said proudly, as if this was his intention all along, “I must say that looks quite fetching on you.”
Crowley turned his head to look over himself and wiggled experimentally. The material was soft against his scales and warming in a way that made Crowley buzz. Aziraphale didn’t have much of a fashion sense but in this case he was right. It did look very good on him, dropped stitches and all.
Wanting to show his appreciation, Crowley slithered over to Aziraphale and began coiling around him, wandering up like a creeping vine. Aziraphale watched his progression and lifted his arms so that Crowley wound under his armpits, having learned the lesson several times over about making sure your arms were free when a snake decides to wrap around you or else you risk losing your balance and falling over.
Crowley’s head slid over Aziraphale’s shoulder and he turned so that he could look him in the eyes. His long body squeezed Aziraphale for a moment in a full body hug. “It’sss marveloussss,” he hissed fondly into his ear, tongue tickling the angel’s cheek by means of kiss. Aziraphale scrunched up his nose at the sensation, trying to hide the pleased smile gracing his lips.
Aziraphale absently patted the sweater, “I’m glad you think so.” He settled them both on the couch, Crowley still in his snake form, Aziraphale gently stroking his back over the sweater. Neither one of them letting the cold weather outside reach them.