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The candles stand tall in the center of the table, ready and waiting in their antique holders. Crowley watches closely as Aziraphale leans forward to light first one candle, then the other, both wicks leaping into flickering life.
Crowley is not, these days, particularly fond of fire. Not since he came into a burning bookshop and thought the world ending, and then scarcely a day later stepped once again into an inferno meant for destruction; of a life, equivalent to a world entire, and certainly the heart of Crowley’s own world. Of course, in the end both worlds — the planetary and the personal — survived the experience, and the shop now stands as intact as Aziraphale himself. Still, Crowley has no love for flames.
These candles, though, here on their table… these candles carry flames not of destruction, but of peace. These flames, they can welcome into their hearts and home without fear. This fire is theirs, and that and the reason for its kindling makes all the difference.
Candles lit, the angel sets the match aside on the tray waiting close at hand, leaving that flame to burn itself out in its own time. Crowley joins him in circling the candlesticks with both hands, gathering the light and all that it represents into themselves before covering their eyes for the blessing.
Aziraphale takes the lead, as usual. But tonight, they sing the words in harmony. And when they uncover their eyes again and take in the sight of their table, the warm glow of candlelight and the sense of peace and rest and wholeness settling gently over and around them and the cottage, it is Crowley who reaches first for Aziraphale’s hand with murmured words of greeting.
Shabbat shalom, they wish each other, and shalom aleichem. And, already, it is.