Chapter Text
Crowley was not, by principle, a jealous creature. Oh, sure, he’d talked the concept of jealousy up[1] to Down Below sometime shortly after there were enough humans for anyone to be jealous of anyone else, but that was all talk. Crowley knew the truth. While it could lead to some terrible things, jealousy itself was more revealing of the fact that an individual cared enough about something to be scared of losing it than anything else. It was a weakness. It was soft.
So no, Crowley did not take up knitting simply because he was jealous of a gift somebody gave his angel. He certainly didn’t do it because he wanted to see that bright face of joy turned towards him, just about as often as he could. Nothing like that at all. No, it was purely selfish, which you could tell because… well, he’d think something up later.
The seed of not-jealousy took root during their second winter in Sudfield. Aziraphale and Crowley had been walking through town, the angel’s mittened hand wrapped tightly around Crowley’s elbow. The little town looked absolutely marvelous, with twinkling lights hung about storefronts and a general warm energy as families, lovers and friends finished up their holiday shopping. A few shoppers slipped on icy patches on particularly steep parts of sidewalks, but Crowley made sure it was only enough to embarrassing and not cause long term harm. Anything more would earn him a sharp look from Aziraphale, and would of its own accord be much less fun.
Fat snowflakes fell from the sky, settling in the angel’s fluffy white hair[2]. The angel looked absolutely darling, Crowley couldn’t help but think, like a lamb, or a dandelion. He was certainly warm enough to be the envy of midsummer strolls.
Despite his impressive ability to generate warmth, he seemed to be largely exothermic. The end result was quite pitiful, which Crowley had a feeling was exactly what the angel was going for. He clung to Crowley tightly, his ears, nose, and cheeks tinged a perfect rosy pink. Puffs of breath drew from between his lips like low slung clouds.
“Tempt you to some cocoa?” Crowley suggested, nodding to their favorite little cafe.
Aziraphale beamed at him, doing his little pleased wiggle, and it was settled.
The bell above the door dinged as they entered. The young woman behind the counter grinned up at the two of them. “Mr. Fell!” she called, waving over. “And Crowley.” She nodded at him as they walked up. Crowley returned the cool nod. She’d gotten a haircut recently. Seemed as though she finally convinced her hairdresser to just take the bloody clippers to it, already. It looked fetching, and it showed off the flower tattoo she had under her ear.
“Ah, thank you, Dahlia,” Aziraphale said as she settled them into a nice table near a window. “Tell me, how is your father doing?”
“Oh,” Dahlia said, beaming as she clutched her notepad to her chest. “He’s doing much better, thanks for asking! Went to the doctor for a checkup and they said it was all but gone. Couldn’t explain why, but we aren’t complaining. It's been tough, but, well.” She sighed — Crowley could feel that she’d shared more than she meant to, but that sort of thing just happened around the angel.
“Ah, and what will you two gents be having today? The usual?”
Aziraphale nodded, smiling. “That would be lovely.”
Dahlia scurried off to place their order. Crowley turned to face the angel.
“A miraculous recovery? Do you not even rest for the holidays?”
Crowley expected him to make some snipe about how The holidays are the very time I’m meant to be encouraging the most miracles, thank you very much, but the angel very much did not take that direction.
“Oh, please. As though I don’t know perfectly well who tempted her barber to give her a properly short cut like she’s been wanting for months.”
Crowley meant to correct him from ‘barber’ to ‘hairdresser,’ but it did seem like a silly distinction at this point. Anyway, his face was burning too much to do much other than slouch disdainfully into his chair. The angel only chuckled at him.
They barely had time to begin talking again when Dahlia bustled back to their table. “Cocoa with hazelnut,” she said, sliding the cup to Aziraphale’s side of the table, “And one black coffee.”
Crowley flicked out his forked tongue to the hot beverage, and Dahlia bit back a laugh[3].
“Oh,” she hurried on before they could say anything. “Actually, I have something for you. Just a mo’,” and she was gone once more.
Crowley and Aziraphale shared a look. Crowley quirked an eyebrow, and Aziraphale shrugged.
After a few seconds Dahlia was back, two boxes in her hands. They were both wrapped in plain brown paper. One had a gold ribbon tied around it, and one had a red bow.
She slid the gold one in front of Aziraphale and the red one in front of Crowley.
“Oh… my dear!” Aziraphale gasped. “Why, you didn’t have to!”
“Open it,” Dahlia urged, biting her cheek in a show of nerves that Crowley found just a bit too familiar.
Crowley watched Aziraphale carefully slip the ribbon free, opening the package while ripping the paper as little as possible. Inside was a small cardboard box, and when Aziraphale opened the top he gasped.
“What, what is it?” Crowley asked, straightening up in an attempt to see while trying very hard to look casual. It didn’t work on either account.
Aziraphale pulled out a green ribbed scarf, blue eyes transfixed. “Did you knit this yourself?”
Dahlia blushed. “Yeah. Well, my family bought the supplies as a thank you, but I’m the one who knitted it.”
“You’re very talented,” Aziraphale complimented.
Dahlia smiled, then glanced at Crowley’s present. The desire she had for him to open it was palpable. He made no move to. He may have relaxed a bit since taking work leave from Down There, but he was still opposed to public displays of emotion or gratitude. He sipped his coffee, ignoring Aziraphale as he rolled his eyes.
Dahlia’s face fell a bit, but she covered it up quickly. “Well, I hope you both like them. It’s from all of us.”
Over her shoulder, the man at the register — her brother, Devin or Damion[4] — waved slightly. “Let me know when you need a top off,” she added, nodding at their drinks.
She turned to go, and Aziraphale shot Crowley a look. The demon stubbornly refused to make sense of it, still silently nursing his coffee.
Aziraphale rolled his eyes at Crowley, exacerbated, then said, “Hold on a moment, dear.” Dahlia turned again. “We got something for you as well.”
Now it was her turn to look shocked. “Oh, you shouldn’t have—”
“Nonsense,” Aziraphale cut her off, patting his pockets. “Now, I know I put it somewhere.” No. Absolutely not. Crowley groaned with embarassment— the angel had miracled something small into his palm. He was going to do a trick. The angel skillfully ignored him, looking up at Dahlia with a puzzled face. “I say, what’s that behind your ear?”
“My ear?” Dahlia echoed, too slow to stop Aziraphale from reaching forward towards her. He mimed pulling a ring from behind her ear.
“Oh!” she said as Aziraphale pressed it into her hand. Crowley squinted. It looked like it had a little opal set in the middle. Tch. He’d given the bloody angel who designed those inspiration from his galaxies. “Oh, I can’t take this—”
“It’s a promise ring,” Aziraphale explained poorly. Dahlia gave it a very confused look, then glanced nervously to an unhelpful Crowley. “No, no,” Aiziraphale huffed. “It’s for Amelie. It’s been about two years now, hasn’t it?[5]
Dahlia beamed. She grasped the ring tightly now, holding it to her chest. “Oh, thank you!” she gushed.
When they were finished they left a very large tip, like always, and headed back into the street. It was early afternoon now, the air not so much biting cold as it was pleasantly chilled.
Aziraphale had that scarf wrapped around his neck. Green wasn’t his color, Crowley thought bitterly, trying to ignore how adorable the angel was all bundled like that. Wrapped up like a present.
“Didn’t know you liked scarves,” Crowley drawled, trying and failing to seem like he’d been thinking about anything other than that for the past twenty minutes.
“Hmm?” Aziraphale asked. He was gazing up at the sky.
“You don’t wear them often, s’all.”
“Ah.” Aziraphale seemed thoughtful. He puffed a little breath out in front of him, watching it rise. “Well, I suppose mass manufactured scarves don’t hold much appeal for me. They’re itchy, they feel like… metal. No emotion attached at all.” He made a little face.
Crowley watched him run a finger over the ribbing. His nails weren’t perfect for once, Crowley realized. He wondered if he needed a new manicurist. Maybe he’d let Crowley do them himself. His hands itched at the idea of it, holding the angel’s soft palms between his hands, filing, polishing, soaking. A nice clear top coat. Maybe he could even convince the angel to try a soft cream polish…
“But when they’re handmade, it’s so very different. It’s like the intention of the maker is stitched into every row, like— Oh!” He stopped suddenly, his eyes lighting up delightfully as he spun to face Crowley. “Silly me. I keep forgetting!”
When they first moved into their cottage, they’d found a handmade quilt which had led into an important conversation — a combination of Crowley admitting and Aziraphale realizing that the demon could still feel love. Love from any source other than the Boss Upstairs, at least. That was a fact Crowley hadn’t pushed Aziraphale to understand, though — no need to make the angel pity him any more.
“Here,” Aziraphale said, offering an end for Crowley to touch.
Begrudgingly, Crowley ran a finger over it. He quirked an eyebrow. It was less potent than the quilt had been, but there was a definite warmth to it. Not just because of the soft wool it was made of. No, every few stitches buzzed with a sort of gentle affection and appreciation for the angel. The feeling seemed to concentrate on the edges.
She needed to focus more there, the demon realized. He’d been a Maker, Before. He knew the difference between the focus and care given to one star of trillions versus the exact positioning and coloring of a unique galaxy. The edges must have been especially difficult, then.
Without thinking, he tilted his head towards it, lifting up his sunglasses to get a better look. He could see it now, the single thread of yarn that ran in and out of itself over and over again, knotting together so specifically, over and over again until it became strong in itself. Until it became itself. It could have been any number of things, but this is what it was now. He was struck once more by the cleverness of humans, even in little ways like this.
Then he realized Aziraphale was watching him, that unbearably warm, amused look on his face, and Crowley let his glasses drop. He let go of the scarf, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Ngh. Gross,” he muttered.
Aziraphale chuckled, looping his arm around the demon’s elbow once more. Crowley didn’t bother pretending to protest.
After a pleasant moment of walking, Crowley spoke again. Always with those blasted questions, bubbling up. “Why’d you give her that ring?”
Aziraphale blinked. “Dahlia? Well, I thought it would be an appropriately kind gesture after the effort she put into our gifts. A little nudge for her relationship is practically a blessing, if you think about it.”
“Yeah, I get that,” Crowley said, “But why the ring? If they’re so good for each other, then they’re good for each other. Doesn’t matter if there’s some silly trinket to prove it. You could've just..." He shrugged. "Placed a suggestion. Encouraged her to talk to her partner about their feelings, or whatever. Don't have to get rings and stuff involved."
“Yes, dear, I know your feelings on the institution of marriage and such,” Aziraphale sighed. Who said anything about marriage? He patted the demon’s arm. “But not everyone has the same undying faith that you do in other’s affections.”
Crowley snorted, but Aziraphale continued. “Those trinkets, be it a ring or something else, can help remind humans that they’re loved. Even if that loved one isn't around.”
He glanced into a little jewelry shop as they passed it by. “It’s a nice gesture. That’s all.”
“Hmph.” Crowley watched as a flake of snow landed on the angel’s scarf. He brushed it away.
“You know,” Aziraphale said offhandedly, watching his breath rise towards the clouds, “the closer a person is to the one they make something for, the stronger the feeling of love is attached to it is.”
That much was obvious. Crowley glanced at the angel. Aziraphale was giving him a somewhat pointed look. Crowley sneered, hiding his blush. What, did the angel want him to make something? Crowley, the Wily Serpent, the Original Tempter, rocking in an armchair, knitting up a little scarf for his sweet hubby. Laughable. Detestable. Inconceivable.
Aziraphale patted his arm. The waves of affection and amusement were palpable, but Crowley couldn’t really be bothered by it. The two walked the streets of Sudfield a bit longer, enjoying the peaceful evening air. Crowley certainly did not notice the craft shop on the corner, and made no plans to come back during the week to collect supplies.
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Footnotes
1Or down? They were very particular about language Down There [return to text]
2Aziraphale had gushed over the lovely weather, saying how fluffy and cozy it made everything without actually sticking to the ground. “I couldn’t have miricaled it this lovely if I tried.” Crowley could have. He may or may not have done it just to see the delighted look on his angel’s face, but he still did as any decent demon would and pretended to be irritated with it all the same. [return to text]
3 Dahlia didn’t know he was a demon, of course. They’d simply been talking about tattoos and piercings one day and she’d noticed it, and asked him when he’d had it split. That led to several unsettling internet searches into the history and methods of tongue bifurcation, and a long night of the angel rubbing little circles on his back as Crowley tried to get the imagined sensation out of his mouth. [return to text]
4 She had an older brother and a younger one, one named Damion and the other named Devin. Their family had a thing for names starting with D. [return to text]
5 Serendipitous timing, really, that these two young women would realize their affection for each other just as the two meddling occultish beings moved in up the way. [return to text]