Chapter Text
For the last ten or so years, Crowley has felt an odd sort of affinity with Aziraphale’s waistcoat. The part along the front center, especially. It was there where the fabric betrayed its age. The worn and frayed threads told stories of frequent visitations from round fingers working and unworking the buttons.
Aziraphale was an angel with a threadbare waistcoat.
Crowley was a demon with a threadbare heart.
It had seen a lot of use, his heart. It showed it’s wear around the edges, where a familiar feeling had worried it’s way across it, wearing down the edges like anxious fingers with a lucky coin.
“Angel?” he asked one night as he lay with his head in Aziraphale’s lap while the angel read and carded his fingers through Crowley’s hair.
“Hmm?” Aziraphale intoned, his attention still largely focused on the words on the page in front of him.
With his head in Aziraphale’s lap he could see up close just how battered the fabric actually was. “Your waistcoat. Why don’t you replace it?”
Aziraphale’s fingers stilled in his hair. “Oh, you know me,” he answered. “I do get so attached to these old things.”
“Then why not miracle it?” Crowley pressed. “Make it better? Make it new.”
“Oh, my dear, while I could certainly make it new I could never make it better. It’s perfect just as it is.
"It’s falling apart, Angel,” Crowley pointed out.
“Yes, well it is my favorite. Besides, with proper care, it’ll hold up. It’s like an old book, one that has been read many times. The wear and tear is just a sign that it’s been well-loved. I’d take an old book over a new one any day.”
Well-loved, Crowley mused. Could the same be said for his tattered heart? It had been quite painful, at first, loving and not knowing if he was loved in return. For his heart loved Aziraphale with all that it was. And it loved well.
He wouldn’t trade it, he realized as Aziraphale’s fingers resumed their movement through his hair. Even if he hadn’t ended up here, even if he had kept loving Aziraphale by himself for another six millennia more, it was worth it.
What good would Aziraphale’s waistcoat be if it were kept perfect and preserved but never worn?
And what good would his heart do him if it were kept in the dark and the cold, never loving Aziraphale?
No good at all, Crowley decided, smiling softly to himself.