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Shortly after they move into the cottage down south, Crowley takes up knitting. If he was asked why, he would probably hiss something about idle hands, but the real reason is, well. It's the reason he does most things: Aziraphale. So when he finally presents his first big project and the angel wrinkles his nose after barely giving it a cursory glance, he can practically feel his heart drop to his ankles.
"It's red," Aziraphale says with an edge of disappointment.
"Never mind," Crowley mutters, moving to snatch it back. "Just wanted you to wear something that was made after 1952."
But Aziraphale holds firm. "I didn't say I wouldn't try it on, silly boy." He starts unbuttoning his waistcoat. "Turn around, if you please."
Crowley sputters. "I-- you don't have to-- and even if you did, I've seen you naked, angel!"
Aziraphale doesn't move except to twirl his finger in the air.
Crowley turns around and says, under his breath, "Ridiculous."
After what feels like a full hour (although Crowley's watch says it was less than 30 seconds), Aziraphale hums contentedly. "All right."
Crowley turns back to Aziraphale adjusting one sleeve of his new cardigan with a delicate tug. Other than a slight puckering on one shoulder, it seems to fit. Crowley studies Aziraphale's face very closely, but he can't quite tell if he likes it.
Aziraphale looks down and touches one of the cloth-covered buttons. "These are nice."
Without breathing, Crowley says, "'s easier than doing the whole thing in tartan."
Aziraphale walks over, puts one hand on Crowley's cheek, and smiles. "Thank you, my dear," he says, and kisses the other side of Crowley's face. "I love it."
Crowley feels his ears go as red as the jumper, and exhales.