Work Text:
The rich amber honey pooling in their shared bowl is as sweet as it is sticky. The sliced apple is, too (sweet, not sticky), crisp and juicy, but with a slight edge of tartness that adds character to the flavor.
It’s fitting enough, Crowley thinks wryly, as new year symbolism goes. Life is sweet, especially with Aziraphale in it, and he hopes with all his extraneous heart that this will continue to be the case in the coming year. But neither of them has ever been one for total, unmitigated sweetness. A little zest, a little tang, a little bite… honey needs something to counterbalance it.
Catching the eye of the angel on the other side of the table, Crowley grins. It’s one of the many things he appreciates about his and Aziraphale’s relationship. The way each of their sharp edges — and they both have them, many of them — compensates for the other’s soft spots. And vice versa. They balance well.
“Y’hi ratzon milfanecha… shet'chadesh aleinu shana tova u'metuka,” Aziraphale murmurs, eyebrows raised. May it be Your will, G-d and G-d of our ancestors[1] , that You will renew for us a good and sweet year. He reaches into their basket for a fresh apple — this one uncut — dips it in the bowl, then holds it out, dripping honey down the side. “Another, dear?”
“I’m supposed to be the one tempting people with fruit,” Crowley comments. He takes the apple and swallows it whole, snake instincts coming to the fore.
Aziraphale makes a face; it’s the same look he would give upon seeing someone downing wine of an exceptionally good vintage without showing proper appreciation. “Can you even taste it like that?”
“Sure I can. Well enough.”
“Hm. If you say so.”
“Tastes like…” Crowley adopts an exaggeratedly thoughtful expression, “...apple. And… umm, what’s that other flavor there…”
Aziraphale snorts.
“...honey!”
“Yes, zeeskeit? Are you trying out a new endearment? To each their own, of course, but I must say, I think I prefer ‘angel.””
Crowley sputters wordlessly at that, which earns him a smug, angelic beam. Trust Aziraphale to one-up him in bastardry.
They’ll be celebrating the secular anniversary of Creation in a few weeks, on October 21st. Today, though, is the first of Tishrei: the birthday of humanity and the new year of the world according to the older, Hebrew calendar.
Humanity. The world.
Rosh Hashanah means more than ever, Crowley finds, since the summer when Earth and its denizens didn’t end. L’shana tova, they say each time — To a good year — and it sounds very like To the world.
He hears a sigh from across the table, pensive but not sad, and looks up again. There’s a bit of dampness in the corners of the angel’s eyes, and it occurs to Crowley that their thoughts may have been drifting in tandem.
“I’m glad it’s still here,” Aziraphale says softly, confirming the suspicion with his seeming non sequitur.
Crowley doesn’t need to ask what it is referring to.
“So am I,” he answers, equally quietly. “Tizkeh l'shanim rabot.” May you have many years.
“Ne’imot v’tovot,” Aziraphale finishes the blessing. Pleasant and good.
“Shana tova, angel,” Crowley adds, and reaches again for the honey.
Footnote
1 Technically, neither of them has ancestors. They say it anyway, out of courtesy and tradition. Besides, if they can claim Avraham and Sarah as parents in shul — which they do, though it always makes Crowley’s lips twitch, remembering times gone by and the afternoons spent talking in the shade outside their tent — then they can acknowledge other ancestors as well. [return to text]