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Aziraphale takes a deep breath, a smile on his face, his whole being practically glowing. It’s disgusting. Crowley glances away so he can’t be pulled further into the entrancing vision in front of him. But he looks back as soon as his best friend begins speaking.
“Oh, isn’t it glorious? The crisp temperatures, the smell of falling leaves. Jumpers and cider. And pumpkins.” At this final word, Aziraphale breaks his beatific pose—hands clasped in front of his chest, the sun hitting behind him at just the right angle to give him a halo—Hela,[1] did this angel have no shame—to crouch down and pick up a pumpkin in front of him. He holds it under his arm and throws another smile at Crowley, which has Crowley sighing and rolling his eyes to once again protest this whole silly endeavor. How he’d let himself get roped into this inane activity, he’ll never know.[2]
“Seriously, angel?” Crowley asks, sliding his sunglasses down just far enough to allow Aziraphale to see the disbelief in his eyes. “Autumn is terrible. Now winter, that’s the best season. Everyone harried and worried about money. Slushy rain and wet socks. Furnaces that stall or overheat. People stuck in their houses wearing terrible jumpers, forced to interact with family members they hate. Shoveling snow, if you live in a place that has that. Yeah, winter is a good one …” He lets himself grow nostalgic, remembering his favorite winters past.
“Oh pish. I’ve seen you light up like a child when seeing Christmas light displays. The closest you get to Scrooge is as him on Christmas morning, buying up roasted meat for the poor children of this world,” Aziraphale argues with a fond eye roll.[4]
“That’s not– Ngh– I do n–. Stop it right now, or I’ll shove you into the back of the Bentley and take you right back to your bookshop, no cider and certainly no pumpkins.”
Aziraphale’s mouth drops open, and Hades help him, Crowley can’t tell how real or manufactured the look is. The angel often does an amazing impression of being completely innocent, but there are times that his naivety is real.
“You wouldn’t dare. You’re too–”
“Bless it,[5] angel, if you say nice–”
Aziraphale shoots him an exasperated look. “Of course not. I was going to say you’re too invested in teasing me for my every autumnal exclamation today to back out now.” He raises an eyebrow in challenge.
Dear Persephone, he’s right. From the moment Aziraphale had asked for a ride to the autumn festival/pumpkin patch monstrosity,[6] Crowley had been coming up with ways to tease him for his love of the season and all its trappings.[8]
Crowley acquiesces with a flop of his hand that he knows Aziraphale will read as both “Fine, fine, you caught me, I want to tease you,” and “Fine, let’s go look at these gourds you’re so interested in. Did you by any chance spend too much time in the New World back when it was still new?”[9]
Aziraphale beams, gently placing the pumpkin back on the ground and dusting off his hands and jumper.
“Did you buy that jumper just for today?” Crowley asks as they begin strolling through the pumpkin patch/festival/field of torture. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in one before.”
Aziraphale somehow smiles even more brightly. Crowley is glad he’s wearing his sunglasses.[10] The angel pats the fuzzy, cabled, oatmeal affair covering his upper body. “Do you like it? I saw it in a window display and it just called to me. And it was right after the weather began to turn, and I just had to try it on. And then it was so soft and warm, I couldn’t not buy it. It’s like being wrapped in a hug.[11] I thought today would be the perfect time to debut it. It might get regular rotation with my jacket this autumn and winter.”
“Mm hm,” Crowley responds, quite brilliantly. “Oh look, the cider booth.”
“Oh! Cider? That sounds lov–”
“I’ll just get one for you, shall I?”
He hopes Aziraphale will find another squash to coo over, but he feels his presence next to him as soon as he’s queued up, but he’s cheerfully quiet. They wait in comfortable silence for the people in front of them to get their ciders, Aziraphale’s wide eyes taking in every aspect of the event, and Crowley softens. He enjoys teasing his best friend—doesn’t think their friendship would have survived without it, and truthfully Aziraphale can give as good as he gets, so he doesn’t feel guilty for it[12]—but he also does genuinely enjoy seeing Aziraphale enjoying himself. That smile can have Crowley walking on air for days, even when it isn’t directed at him. It’s the reason he asks the angel out to lunch so often, despite himself being the type to drink his meal rather than eat it. There’s nothing better than watching Aziraphale eat. Or find a new book to fall in love with. Or … yes, even enjoy this absolutely awful season they currently find themselves living in.
They finally make it to the front of the queue, where Crowley asks for one cider, extra cinnamon, for Aziraphale, and one mulled wine[13] for himself.
They start strolling again, and Crowley lets the angel choose the direction, following along, like he always does, as he always will do.
“I don’t understand it.”
“No surprise there, angel. You may be smart, but sometimes daily life confuses you.”
“Oh hush, you,” Aziraphale admonishes with no heat, patting Crowley’s arm, which has unknowingly been tucked into by Aziraphale’s non-cider-holding hand. That’s been happening a lot lately, but Crowley’s not about to call attention to it, lest it stop. “What I meant was, you said mere months ago that—and I quote—‘I like spooky.’ At the old satanic hospital in Tadfield, if you remember.”
“If I remember? As if I could forget any part of that God-forsaken[14] week.”
“Well, anyway. That’s beside the point. The point is, you like spooky.” Here, Aziraphale punctuates his words with more arm pats. “And autumn is when Samhain[16] occurs. You can’t have spooky without autumn.
Crowley rolls his eyes. “Most spooky these days is over-manufactured swill sold to the masses for profit. It’s torture porn or silly ghosts. None of it frightens me.”[17]
“Torture porn?” Aziraphale asks, a disgusted and confused wrinkle in his brow.
“Yeah, porn is a term current humans use to mean anything over-indulged in, but it has nothing to do with sexual acts. Well, most of it. Like, torture porn, food porn, space porn.” Aziraphale looks more disturbed the longer Crowley speaks, so he waves it away. “Never mind. I’m just saying, none of that manufactured spooky does anything for me.”
They come to a booth with caramel popcorn, and without even looking at his angel, Crowley signals for a bag, handing it over to Aziraphale as he counts out the correct number of coins. Aziraphale sighs happily and begins munching on it immediately.
“You’re just a stick-in-the-mud,” he says, going back to their conversation.
“Excuse me? I’m the stick-in-the-mud, Mr. I’ve-worn-the-same-jacket-for-one-hundred-and-eighty-years?”
“You’d do well to remember your car is ninety years old.”
“Practically new compared to your old smelly coat.”
Aziraphale’s jaw-drop this time is definitely not feigned. “You take that back. You said it looked good on me.”
“Yeah, in 1840.”
Aziraphale looks truly hurt. “It’s my favorite,” he says quietly, and Crowley relents. He can’t not, when he’s up against that face.
“It’s a nice coat, angel. But it’s good seeing you in something else for once.”
“Thank you, my dear. But the point is, you have no room to call me a stick-in-the-mud. Autumn is wonderful, and you can’t take that away from me.”
Crowley tries and fails to hide his smile. “How’s the popcorn?”
“Perfect!” Aziraphale says, the glow coming back to him. “This is all perfect. The weather could not be more beautiful or autumnal. I can smell spices and caramel and corn husks. The pumpkins look a particularly brilliant shade of orange this year. There are happy people all around. It’s lovely.”
Crowley looks around, seeing a particularly fiendish child twirling his unaware sister’s hair around a candied apple—who he silently cheers on—a small toddler screaming their head off when their parental figure offers them a pumpkin, a couple fighting near the corn maze. The stench of city and human beings is far too strong to be drowned by the sweets and spices, though it does fight for dominance with the moldering leaves blanketing the ground. And though the weather is nice now, he can see a storm building in the distance. They’d do well to hurry through the rest of the festival before they get caught in a chilly downpour.
But He won’t suggest this. He’ll follow his angel as he coos at the children posing for pictures with goofy scarecrows, as he bounces over to the candied apple vendor for a (non-twisted-in-hair) treat, as he begs with his soulful eyes for a hayride. He’ll follow his angel to the end of the world. He’s already done so, and he’d do it all over again if he had to. He’ll let them get caught in the freezing, miserable rain because Aziraphale is too taken with the pumpkin carving contest to notice the darkening clouds, though he will miracle them dry as soon as he’s able. He’ll follow his angel back into his shop, lugging the bag of things Aziraphale didn’t have enough arms to carry himself, and too big of eyes and stomach to not buy.
Aziraphale will light a fire, make two cups of whiskey-spiked chai, and wiggle his way into his favorite chair in the back room. Crowley will follow, landing on the sofa that has molded to his angles and long legs. They’ll talk about Poe and Mary Shelley. Crowley will talk Aziraphale into watching Young Frankenstein. Then Aziraphale will beg to be allowed to read aloud “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar,”[19] and Crowley will concede it’s just a little spooky. Though only just a little.
And though he won’t say it out loud, Crowley will think that maybe, just maybe, autumn isn’t so bad, when you’ve got your favorite person by your side.
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Footnotes
[1] Crowley, tired of trying to figure out which entity to use when he experiences feelings, has recently started using made-up gods instead, starting with the gods of the underworlds. He hasn’t found one that works yet, but he’s willing to try them all if necessary. [return]
[2] It certainly has nothing to do with the strategically sweet and pleading face that had greeted him when he’d entered the bookshop to pick up his favorite angel[3] for lunch. [return]
[3] The only angel he even deigns to like, in point of fact. [return]
[4] Let the reader note that, in fact, the closest Crowley gets to Scrooge is when David Tennant voices Scrooge McDuck on the DuckTales revival, including a great Christmas episode that employs meta jokes that reference Doctor Who, another popular show David Tennant played a part in. This author suggests you check out both shows if you have not yet done so. She’ll wait for you to get back. Okay, back now? Good. That was fun, wasn’t it? [return]
[5] Sometimes Crowley forgets and falls back on old curses and blesses. He’s been using them for millennia, after all. [return]
[6] Complete with corn maze, cider, too many games involving gourds, and a—he can’t believe he’s even thinking of it—a hayride. Really, humans are far better than he is at inventing pure misery.[7] [return]
[7] Let the author again note how amazing she thinks autumn is. That being said, hayrides are itchy, dusty, and bumpy, and you’re stuck sitting far too close to excitedly screeching children. She doesn’t blame Crowley for hating them. [return]
[8] Just wait until Aziraphale turns the tables at Christmas. [return]
[9] It was only new to the dumb, egotistical Europeans, though. It was plenty old to the native peoples of that continent by the time the Europeans showed up. [return]
[10] To shade his eyes from the terrible angelic brilliance, of course. It has nothing to do with hiding his reaction to said smile. [return]
[11] Crowley would love to be wrapped in a– nope. Nope. That thought will not see the light of day. [return]
[12] Not that demons ever feel guilty. Crowley makes a single exception for back in the beginning and the thing with the humans and the apple. But they don’t talk about that. [return]
[13] Which the vendor is surprised to find she has, despite winter still being a good few months away. [return]
[14] Yeah, he means that appellation there. Do you hear that, God?[15] [return]
[15] Yes, She hears that. The author (and Crowley) would do well to remember that the game She plays is complicated and ineffable, thank you very much. [return]
[16] Pronounced saah-wn. Not Sam-hain, like they said on Supernatural that one time, which shows how little research TV writers sometimes do. This author is not stupidly obsessed with this fact. At. All. [return]
[17] Except the current U.S. president. Now that shit’s scary.[18] [return]
[18] Head office tried to give him a commendation for that whole debacle, but he noped right out of that one.[return]