Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bell chimed merrily as Aziraphale cautiously stepped into the store.

One point in its favor, he supposed.

He took quick stock of the place, noting a neat display of embroidery kits, a rack of knitting patterns on one wall, and, of course, the shelves of yarn that took up the whole back half of the shop. Idle Hands Craft Supply wasn’t the biggest store he’d looked at in the past week, but it did seem to have a wide range of supplies for its size. Which wasn’t a bad thing, he supposed. His old shop had carried sewing supplies as well as yarn, after all, and he’d loved that place dearly. But dear old Agnes had finally retired, and the beloved Threads of Fate Yarn Shoppe went with her, which left Aziraphale to find a new place to buy his yarn.

This was his sixth store, the third trip that weekend, and he wasn’t especially hopeful. Really, he probably would have written Idle Hands off for being so new if his friend Tracy hadn’t pushed him to at least go look at the place.

“I think you’ll be surprised,” she had insisted, while Aziraphale was stirring a custard they were making and couldn’t escape her. “It’s a lovely little shop, and the owner’s a sweetheart.”

“I don’t care if they’re made entirely of sugar if the shop isn’t right,” he had said warningly. “You have to understand, Tracy, I’ve been going to Agnes for over a decade! I know what I like, and I have high standards for a yarn supplier.”

Tracy had rolled her eyes. “Az, love, you’re not deciding on dinner or buying a house. It’s a craft shop. They have yarn, they have scissors, they have a whole aisle of knitting needles—”

“Aha, and there’s the problem!” Aziraphale wagged the whisk at her. “Do they have ‘a whole aisle’ of crochet hooks?”

“There is no reason on this green earth why you would ever need more crochet hooks.”

“It’s the principle of it,” Aziraphale had complained. “I like to have a relationship with my yarn supplier. I can’t do that if all they know how to talk about is knitting.”

Tracy had gotten a particular look in her eye then that he should have found concerning, but Aziraphale had been too distracted by the bottom of their custard burning to give it proper attention. He had just sighed and let her push him into promising to add Idle Hands to his list, and to call her once he’d gone to let her know how he liked it.

He didn’t suppose there was anything immediately wrong with the place. And he would give it a fair shot. But he had his list of necessities, and if they weren’t met, it wouldn’t matter if Tracy had built the place herself, he’d cross it off the list just like the others.

He was just starting towards the small display of crochet hooks, figuring he’d get the most important part of his checklist over with first, when a door behind the checkout counter clicked open. A tall man leaned out, wearing a black apron with the store’s logo embroidered on the pocket over a grey t-shirt. His hair was a bright coppery red, held back by a rubber band and a pair of sunglasses shoved onto his forehead, and Aziraphale felt his mouth go oddly dry when he smiled.

“Hi,” the man said, his grin a little lopsided. “Welcome to Idle Hands. Can I help you find anything?”

“Oh—oh, um, no.” Aziraphale squeezed his hands together behind his back, cursing Tracy and her schemes. Of course it wasn’t about the yarn. It was always some kind of matchmaking with her, and he’d walked right into this one. “I’m, er. Just browsing.” 

The man nodded. “Just let me know if you need help with anything. I might be in the back, just shout. My name’s Crowley.”

“Aziraphale.” He shook the offered hand, doing his best to ignore the pretty golden shade of Crowley’s eyes while still making polite eye contact.

“Nice to meet you, Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “Just, er. Seriously, I’m not doing anything that can’t be interrupted. Feel free to. Y’know. Interrupt.”

Aziraphale nodded, entranced by the faint pink stain across Crowley’s cheeks and worried that he might have an obvious one of his own. “Yes, I’ll—I’ll do that. Thank you.”

Crowley grinned again before going back into the room behind the counter, and Aziraphale gave himself exactly one moment to admire the way the loose section of his hair brushed the back of his neck before he spun himself toward the shelves at the back of the store.

“You are looking for yarn, you old fool, not a date,” he muttered to himself as he went to the nearest aisle and pulled his checklist and pencil out of the pocket of his cardigan. Even if the owner—and Crowley had to be the owner Tracy had mentioned, there couldn’t possibly be someone else here who was more tempting than him— was immensely attractive, Aziraphale wasn’t looking for romance.

Or, he hadn’t been. He wasn’t quite positive about that, now.

He dug into his checklist, his exceeding thoroughness proving to be as much an excuse to stay longer as an actual necessity. He kept getting distracted by the activity up by the counter. Crowley had brought a large box out of the back room and started unpacking it, inventorying and putting things on their shelves, and he was humming while he worked. Aziraphale thought he recognized the tune, somehow, but he couldn’t place it. What he could recognize was how efficiently Crowley worked. He could easily see he had the same kind of devotion Aziraphale put into his own shop.

The shelves of yarn themselves were more evidence of the care put into the place. Each shelf held a row of wire baskets full of skeins of yarn, organized and neatly labeled by type and weight, and shelved in eye-catching color arrangements. Clipped to nearly every label was a little square of fabric knitted from that yarn, and Aziraphale couldn’t help reaching out to touch the samples, trying out the various textures of the yarns as he passed.

He was just getting to the wools when the bell above the door rang again.

“You’re late,” he heard Crowley call.

“Sorry, Crowley!” a young, American voice responded, and a moment later a teenager with purple streaked hair ran past him toward the back of the store, calling a polite, if rushed, ‘hello’ as they went. A minute later they came back, tying an Idle Hands apron on. They headed straight for the front of the store, where Crowley set them to work doing the unpacking he’d been working on. Aziraphale only had a moment to mourn the loss of Crowley’s humming before the man himself came up next to him.

“Are you finding what you need?” he asked. “You’ve been back here for a while.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale stood up from the shelf he’d been crouched down to look at and shoved his checklist into his pocket, suddenly embarrassed by it. “I’m sorry, I’m—I didn’t mean to take so long.”

“No! No, I mean—.” Crowley bounced on his feet a little, hands shoved in his jeans pockets. “Didn’t mean to rush you, I just, y’know. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, unable to hide his relief. “That’s kind of you.”

“Not really,” Crowley said. “‘S what you’re supposed to do for customers, isn’t it?”

“I suppose. I have a bad habit of making my patrons come and find me if they really need help, but that’s just me being stubborn, honestly.”

That made Crowley laugh, a delightful sound that had Aziraphale’s chest fluttering. “Gosh, I get that. Honestly, most of the time I shove customers at Warlock, if they’re in.” He nodded toward the register, and the teenager whom he had very clearly not shoved Aziraphale at.

When he pointed this out, Crowley looked away and scratched at the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. Ngk.”

They stood in silence for a long moment. It occurred to Aziraphale, suddenly, that neither of them had anything else to say, but that neither of them wanted to leave. And wasn’t that a pleasant thought, meeting someone new he wanted to talk to, who was interested right back?

“Actually,” Aziraphale said, fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve, “I think I could use some help.”

Crowley brightened immediately. “Yeah? What can I do for you?”

“I’m, er,” Aziraphale stalled. “Looking for yarn.” Yes, wonderfully impressive, that, as he stood in a store full of yarn. He had been so caught up in the idea of having more to talk about with Crowely that he’d forgotten he wasn’t actually looking for anything and would have to invent something.

“Have you got a project in mind?” Crowley asked gently.

“Yes,” Aziraphale decided.

The corner of Crowley’s lips twitched when Aziraphale didn’t elaborate. “What kind of project is it?”

“It’s a, um.” Aziraphale’s mind flashed to the basket of unfinished crochet work behind the bookshop counter. “A scarf. That’s what it is, a scarf.”

“Oh, that’s a great choice! Do you have the pattern with you?”

“...no.”

“That’s alright. I bet we can find something.”

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale said. “I was worried I might, er. Pick the wrong thing.”

“I don’t think you can pick the wrong thing. Pretty straightforward, scarves. They’re not usually picky about their yarn. But,” he said, turning in a circle to look at the yarn around them. “I think we’ll have better luck the next aisle over. C’mon, let’s take a look.”

“What’s in the next aisle?” Aziraphale hurried to follow. Then he saw the label on the shelf. “Oh.”

“These are acrylics. Just a nice basic kind of yarn.” Crowley continued on, talking about what kind of project acrylics were good for and the various brands they had, but Aziraphale looked sadly back at the aisle they’d left behind. There was nothing wrong with acrylics, but he had standards, and he much preferred real fibers to synthetics. And it had been such a nice selection of wools…

Before he could suggest they go back, though, Crowley was already holding out an armful of skeins in various shades of cream and brown. “How do you like these?” he asked. “Wait, that’s—ngk, what am I doing, that’s not helpful, that’s just…” The yarns were quickly tossed back into their appropriate baskets, and before Aziraphale could blink they had been replaced with a handful of the knitted samples.

“They’re so you can see what the yarn’ll look like when it’s actually used,” Crowley explained. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell based on just how the bundle looks.”

“They’re very nice,” Aziraphale said, taking a swatch of a nice thick blanket yarn. “This seems a bit too heavy for a scarf, don’t you think?”

“Ah, yeah, good eye. Here.” Crowely took the sample and clipped it back to its shelf, not even needing to check the label to know where to put it. He had probably made the swatches himself. “One of these three should be good, though. Do you like any of them?”

Aziraphale took a moment to examine each of the swatches, testing the stretch and the softness and quietly admiring how neat and even the stitches were. He might not know how to knit himself, but he could recognize a talented fiber artist, whatever their medium. Idly, he wondered if Crowley could crochet. The thought that he might not didn’t make him want to turn up his nose at the shop and leave, though. Instead, he found himself wondering if he might let Aziraphale teach him.

If he didn’t already know, of course. And if he was even interested in crocheting. Or in Aziraphale.

After a minute or two and a bit of back and forth over the yarn options, Aziraphale made his choice, and Crowley gestured him towards the selection of colors they had. He picked up a nice tan shade to show him, and Aziraphale let his lips curl into a smile. “Does my color scheme seem that predictable?” he asked.

Crowley’s face turned very red very quickly. “Erk—no, no of course not that’s… it’s just, with your cardigan, and your—I dunno, it just looked like… like something you would like.” He trailed off, saying the last bit to his shoes. Warmth bloomed in Aziraphale’s chest, and he gently took the yarn from Crowely.

“I do like it,” he admitted. “It’s quite a nice color. But I think I have enough of it already.” He still had yarn left over from the cardigan he was wearing that day, not to mention at least three other half used balls sitting somewhere in his flat.

“Maybe a blue?” Crowley suggested. “A nice greyish blue would match your—” He cut himself off in a series of vowelless sputters. Aziraphale’s ears started to burn and he hid a smile behind his hand.

“Blue sounds lovely,” he managed, and a moment later he had a skein of a pretty silvery yarn in hand.

Crowley walked him up to the register. To the encouragement of Aziraphale’s blush, he shooed Warlock away from the counter to check Aziraphale out himself, but even so, their time together was coming to a close. Aziraphale was already trying to work out how long it would take him to finish a scarf with the new yarn so he would have a valid reason to come back. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t justify coming to buy more yarn constantly. Even if he only bought one skein at a time, if he stopped by Idle Hands every time he wanted to see Crowley, he’d eat through his savings in a matter of months. Not to mention how awkward it would get once it became obvious he wasn’t there for the yarn.

“Are you sure you don’t need anything else?” Crowley asked when Aziraphale had paid and his new yarn was tucked away in a bag.

“I’m not sure, actually,” Aziraphale said vaguely. “I suppose I should look at the pattern once I’m home and check.”

Crowley nodded. “If you do wind up needing something else, just come back and… actually. Here.” Crowley ducked behind the counter, and came back with a notepad which he started scribbling on. “Obviously come back if you need anything else, please please do, but also, if you don’t need anything, I do this knitting group thing, here at the shop. On Wednesday nights? It’s not many people but there’s a few other beginners and, I just, I know how frustrating learning to knit can be if you’re going at it alone and maybe you’d want to come? So I can—so we can teach you? And have somebody to help you when you get stuck?” He tore off the page, date and time and the shop’s address scrawled on it, and handed it to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale would have been embarrassed about his mouth hanging open if he’d had any brain power available. As it was, his train of thought had scattered into a hundred different directions, and he couldn’t seem to latch onto anything except he wants to see me again! and oh good lord he thinks I’m a knitter.

Thankfully, one of those thoughts won out before his lack of a response could make Crowely do more than start to fidget, and he blurted out a “Yes, please.”

The way Crowley lit up sealed his decision before he could second guess it. “Great!” he grinned, bouncing on his feet again. “I’ll see you Wednesday? Unless you can’t make it this week, that’s fine, I’ll see you whenever, whatever Wednesday you want, or—”

“This Wednesday,” Aziraphale said firmly, and Crowely’s anxious chatter melted into a soft smile.

“This Wednesday,” he repeated. “I’ll see you then, Aziraphale.”

“I look forward to it,” he beamed back. He took his bag from Crowley, ears burning when their fingers slipped against each other. He turned when he got to the door, unable to resist giving a little wave. His heart leaped when Crowley waved back, shy and blushing, and he walked out of the shop with a delighted spring in his step.

It lasted until he reached the bus stop, and his thoughts had a chance to catch up to him. His smile faltered when he realized the mess he’d set himself up for. Lying wasn’t exactly the best way to start off a relationship, but then again…

“It’s not as if I’m not a beginner knitter,” Aziraphale said to himself, fiddling with the hem of his cardigan. And he likely would appreciate having help to learn, if he had ever intended to.

But that was all a problem for Wednesday. He could go in and come clean, explain that actually he crocheted, and was quite good at it, and that there had been a silly misunderstanding, no harm done.

Or he could go home and find a beginners knit scarf pattern, and let Crowley hold his hand—metaphorically, of course—through learning how to do it. Surely that couldn’t result in much harm done.

He googled scarf patterns on his phone on the bus ride home, forgetting entirely to call Tracy and update her on his assessment of Idle Hands. Not that it particularly mattered. He wouldn’t be looking at any other stores—even if he hadn’t actually gotten around to checking their selection of crochet hooks.

Chapter Text

Crowley was about to bounce out of his skin. He had neatened up the store for an hour after Warlock’s shift ended, rearranged the kids’ paper craft kits four different ways, and swept and mopped the floor twice. He’d had to dig out the wet floor signs when he remembered the shop wasn’t actually closed yet, and that if a customer came in while he was so distracted with thoughts of slate blue eyes and shy smiles he likely wouldn’t notice in time to warn them of the slipping hazard.

The only thing that had saved the back room from getting the same treatment had been Anathema and Newt coming in early to help him set up for Knitting Night. Anathema might have been his best friend, but he didn’t want to let on how anxious he was. She’d start getting ideas, and she didn’t need any more of those. He was still reeling from the whole “having a baby” one. So he left Anathema to set up the snack table and Newt to rearrange the seats so she could put her feet up on a spare chair, and went out to reorganize the fine art supplies.

The first of his usual Wednesday night group started arriving while he was sorting the paintbrushes by handle length, and suddenly he couldn’t stand to be in sight of the door anymore and slipped into the back again. He was too nervous, caught between wanting each new arrival to be Aziraphale and being absolutely sure it wouldn’t be.

Christ, what a state he’d found himself in.

He’d known there was something about Aziraphale when he’d first walked into the shop, though he couldn’t have put his thumb on what if he’d been asked. It was just a little spark, a little oh, just enough to make him stammer a little and to go offer assistance himself when he noticed Aziraphale had been gone for a while.

And then he’d seen Aziraphale inspecting the yarn like it was a puzzle to be solved, and the urge to be the one who helped him solve it had been too strong to ignore. Strong enough for him to nearly make a complete fool of himself, throwing yarn at Aziraphale like some kind of mad… well, mad hat-knitter, if he took the allusion to its conclusion. But Aziraphale had smiled, and made him laugh, and before he knew it Crowley had been falling headfirst into a terrible, head spinning crush.

He almost hadn’t worked up the nerve to tell Aziraphale about the knitting group. It wasn’t until he was ringing him up that Crowley had found the courage to do it, faced with the fact that if Aziraphale got frustrated or tired of his scarf he would never come back to buy more supplies, and Crowely would never get to see him again.

Of course, there was no guarantee he’d see him tonight, either. He might decide not to come. He might have an unexpected conflict, or an emergency, or something better to do than sit in a room full of strangers and have a man who was barely more than that teach him to knit.

How he got himself into these situations, Crowley would never understand.

His model train of thought, cursed to go ever round and round the same loop of track, finally braked when a balled up paper napkin hit his shoulder.

“Crowley.” Anathema glared at him from the snack table, where she was setting up a pitcher of lemonade and crumpling up another napkin for replacement ammo. “Stop. Pacing .”

“I’m not pacing,” Crowley lied, leaning up against the doorframe and pretending he’d been there, stationary, the whole time.

“You are,” Anathema insisted. “And it’s driving Newt up the wall, so come eat a cookie and calm the fuck down.”

“Are you nervous about something, Crowley?” Newt asked kindly. He was already several rows deep into a new project, a newborn sized sweater with an ambitious zigzag across the front. He had only started knitting a few weeks ago, but it had clicked immediately, and before any of them knew it he was off to the races.

“Nope,” Crowley said, popping the p. “I’m fine. All good.”

Anathema snorted and leaned over to stage whisper in her husband’s ear. “He’s waiting for someone.”

Crowley gaped. He hadn’t told her about Aziraphale. He hadn’t told anyone. He pointed an accusing finger at her. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?” Anathema asked sweetly.

“If you can guess I’m waiting for someone you can guess what.”

“Who are we waiting for?” Deirdre breezed in, carrying a seran wrapped plate and a crocheted bag she’d made a few months ago over her arm.

“Dunno. Someone Crowley’s nervous about—”

“So! No Adam tonight?” Crowley asked loudly, voice a little shrill.

“No, not tonight. It’s one of his friends’ birthdays, Arthur’s taking them to the movies.”

“Lovely! What an excellent plan! I’d love to hear more about—”

“Okay, okay, I’m done,” Anathema promised, chucking another napkin at Crowley to make him stop. “Untwist your knickers and come help me translate this pattern into human language.”

Crowley grumbled and muttered under his breath about meddling best friends, but went over to take a look. It turned out to be a good distraction. Anathema was trying to make a gorgeous vintage blanket she’d found in an old family keepsake book, something her aunts and great aunts had been crocheting to be their childrens’ baby blankets for decades. The photos Anathema had shown him were stunning, but the pattern she’d gotten her hands on was several generations old and written by a less than helpful ancestor. It was like trying to read an old recipe, with outdated language, a lot of assumptions about what the reader should already know by default, and the occasional personal note that was probably helpful to Anathema’s great-great-aunt, but only confused her and Crowley a century or so later.

It didn’t help that Crowley wasn’t all that good with crochet to begin with. He knew enough to help customers find what they needed and to help someone like Deirdre, who already knew the basics and was only making very simple things, but trying to visualize Anathema’s blanket to figure out if she was even doing it right was proving beyond his abilities. They kept at it, though; Anathema was nothing if not stubborn, and she had a deadline fast approaching. She was determined to finish the blanket by the time the baby arrived, and even if Crowely wasn’t at all sure that was feasible, he was doing his best to help where he could.

Trying to comprehend Anathema’s pattern proved such a good distraction that he hardly noticed the next few people coming in, letting them all settle in on their own. It wasn’t until Anathema poked him in the ribs with her crochet hook that he looked up and saw the man he’d been waiting for standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“Aziraphale!” he cried, jumping up to meet him, fully aware he was grinning like a fool and wholly unable to stop it. “You made it! I’m so glad you came.”

He felt giddy when Aziraphale blushed and smiled at him. “I’m glad I did, too. I can’t say I wasn’t a bit nervous.”

“Me too,” Crowley blurted. “I mean—ngk—just. Er. Come on in?”

Only a few people stopped their work and chatter to look when Aziraphale came in, which Crowley was immensely grateful for. It wasn’t like they didn’t have new people on the regular. People brought friends, brought spouses—in Deirdre’s case, brought kids. Aziraphale was just another of those usual additions.

Anathema, of course, was one of the people watching. Crowley glared at her behind Aziraphale’s back.

That was the wrong move, apparently. Anathema’s expression changed from curious to full of trouble, and before Crowley could frantically gesture for her to not even think about it she opened her mouth and called for him.

“Hey Crowley? I need some help with this.”

Crowley tried to glare even harder than he had been, but with Aziraphale right there his immediate payback options were severely limited. The last thing he wanted to do was make Aziraphale think he wasn’t helpful or polite or—dare he say it— good, and ignoring someone who had asked for help wasn’t a good look. Not when Aziraphale didn’t know Anathema, and how much of a nuisance she enjoyed being.

“Yep,” Crowley said, problem-customer customer-service smile plastered on. “I’ll be right over.”

He got Aziraphale situated next to Deirdre, hoping her motherly demeanor would make him feel welcome and the distance from his best friend would make it more difficult for her to meddle, then excused himself to go tackle the Anathema problem.

“What is wrong with you,” he hissed when he was sitting next to her and reasonably sure that Aziraphale was distracted by introducing himself to Deirdre and the others on that side of the room.

“Why didn’t you tell me about him?” Anathema asked, cutting right to the chase. “Crowley, you’re acting like a fourteen year old with a crush, you really like this guy. Why haven’t I heard about him?”

“Am I that obvious?” Crowley asked, sudden panic overtaking his irritation with her.

Anathema waved him off. “Don’t worry, he’s in the same boat. Stay on topic.”

“What do you mean he’s in the—no. I can’t cope with your…” He wiggled his fingers at her. “That. And anyway, I only met him Sunday. I wasn’t even sure he was going to come today. It didn’t make sense to tell you if there was a chance I’d never see him again.”

Anathema’s eyes were wide behind her glasses. “You met him on Sunday and you’re this gone on him already?”

“Shh!” Crowley glanced over at Aziraphale, and was reassured to see that he was admiring Deirdre’s project and not paying attention to him and Anathema. “I’m not gone on him,” he whispered. “I’m not some Romeo, I’m not going to upend my life for one conversation with a man. Woman. Whatever, I’m not a Juliet either, it’s just that I may have only spoken to him a little, but all of that little has been really, really nice.” He sighed, feeling terribly soft inside while he watched Aziraphale laugh at something Deirdre had said. Some hijink of Adam’s, probably. “I just think I like him a lot, Anathema.”

“I can tell.” Anathema squeezed his arm reassuringly. “So, the question is, how do you want me to help?”

“By staying as far away from him as possible,” Crowely answered automatically. Anathema snorted.

“Oh come on, let me help. You know I’m good at this kind of thing.”

“I know.” Crowley sighed. “Can I have him sit near you later? Only if I have to, I think he’s good with Deirdre for now, but… I do not want you to meddle, but I do want him to have a good time tonight. And I think he’ll like you. For some fucking reason.”

“You want me to make sure he wants to come back next week?”

“Please?”

“Done. But if you don’t start him knitting soon I may be a moot point, so get over there.”

“Good point.” Crowley stood, eyes stuck on the seat next to Aziraphale. Somehow it seemed that the exact timing and angle of the way he sat might determine the course of his future.

Fuck. He really was acting like a high schooler.

This might be more of a mess than he had expected.

Aziraphale had very nearly not made it to the shop at all, he’d been so anxious. Only an emergency pep talk from Tracy on the bus ride over had kept him from turning right back around and going home to regret his retreat in peace.

But seeing Crowley light up when he got there made it all worth it. He just looked so happy, jumping up to come meet him at the door and usher him inside. His giddiness was contagious, and by the time Crowley had him situated on a wobbly loveseat that made up part of the room’s circle of mismatched seating, Aziraphale’s nerves had left him, to be replaced by a rush of anticipation.

He could do this. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had crushes before, or crushes that turned into a relationship. And thus far, it seemed fairly likely that his interest was reciprocated.

Plus, he had studied for this. There had been research.

Crowley brought him to a seat next to a kind looking blond woman who immediately seemed to take him under her wing. She introduced herself as Deirdre Young, knitting group regular and perpetual food provider, and then pointed him toward the snack table to get some of the brandy snaps she had made.

“It was a bit selfish, actually,” Deirdre confided when Aziraphale exclaimed at how kind it was for her to bring them treats. “Usually my son comes with me, and he’ll eat half of whatever I make practically before it’s out of the oven, so I try to stick to healthy snacks. But since he’s not here tonight, I took the chance to make something a little more decadent.”

Aziraphale thought he was going to like Deirdre a lot.

While he waited for Crowley to come back from helping the young woman on the other side of the room, Aziraphale pulled his supplies out and tried not to fidget with it. Deirdre helped, complimenting his yarn and showing him her own project, a simple striped scarf she was making for her husband. Aziraphale had a moment of doubt when he realized there were a few people crocheting around the room, including the woman Crowley was currently helping. But Deirdre kept him chatting, and he didn’t have enough time to get too deep into his own thoughts before Crowley came over a moment later.

“Sorry for abandoning you,” he said with a grin as he settled onto the other side of the love seat. “Did you bring the pattern for your scarf?”

“I did,” Aziraphale said, smoothing out the page he’d printed out. Finding it hadn’t been especially hard, though he had quickly realized how lucky he was to have blurted out “scarf” when Crowley asked him what he was making and not “hat,” which had been right on the tip of his tongue as well. It turned out that knitted hats and crocheted ones were entirely different beasts. He had been more than a little distressed to learn that, unlike crocheting in the round, which was quite simple once you got started, knitting in the round required extra needles. And really, how was he supposed to handle four needles when he was still coping with the switch to two!

So it had taken a bit of extra research, after that discovery, to make sure the pattern he’d found didn’t have any such surprises, but eventually he had decided that it seemed manageable for a complete novice, and didn’t look too horrendous in the end. He’d then had to go and beg a pair of knitting needles off of Tracy, who had only agreed after an hour and a half of nagging him to just go buy a pair from Crowley and stop being ridiculous.

But he had all of his supplies in hand, and the contents of a few introductory knitting videos in his mind, all of which combined should, if luck was still on his side, result in a very nice evening where he did not make a fool of himself.

He nearly threw that hope out the window when Crowley commented on his yarn already being in a ball, instead of still in the skein bundle it had been in when he bought it.

“Ah. Yes, well,” Aziraphale said, stalling while he tried to invent a reason for why he’d thought to roll it into a ball that wasn’t ‘I’ve been crocheting for years and you couldn’t pay me to work with yarn still in its skein’ or ‘I spent the last three days thinking nonstop about the yarn you picked for me and rolled it up to have an excuse to look at it for a while.’ Nothing especially convincing came to mind. “It just, erm. Seemed the thing to do?”

Crowley grinned at him, and the knot of anxiety in Aziraphale’s chest lessened. “It is, yeah! Always easier to work out of a ball than a skein. Way less likely for your yarn to get all tangled.”

“Quite,” Aziraphale said, feeling just slightly lightheaded.

After checking that he had the right size needles for his yarn, Crowley took the scarf pattern from him and scanned it briefly before nodding and giving him that pulse-quickening lopsided smile. “Good choice,” he said, and the praise made Aziraphale’s chest feel warmer than it had any right to. “I think we can get you started on the pattern pretty fast, once you’ve had a little time to practice the stitches. The last thing I want to happen is for you to start the scarf too soon and get frustrated.”

Aziraphale blushed. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

“Merg,” Crowley said. “‘S just… whatever. Here, I’ll show you how to cast on.” Crowley reached into his apron and dug out a small ball of what was probably leftover scrap yarn and a single knitting needle, then frowned and started rummaging through the pockets. “Where’s my… I know I had them both earlier…”

“Um. Dear…” Crowley looked up, and Aziraphale pointed to his hair, muffling a laugh behind a cough. Crowley cursed when he reached up and felt the knitting needle stuck through his bun.

“I… honestly do not know when that got there. That’s embarrassing.”

“Not to worry,” Aziraphale chuckled, patting his knee reassuringly. 

Crowley made a new one of his sounds, this one all vowels with not a consonant to be seen. It was becoming very endearing.

“Alright, so,” he said after a moment to regain his power of language. “We’ve got everything together, so to start casting on, we’re going to start with a slip knot.”

Aziraphale tried not to fidget while Crowley showed him how to tie the yarn into a loop, pretending he couldn’t tie a slip knot in his sleep. This was going to be the real challenge, it seemed: not the learning to knit, but pretending he didn’t already know things he’d long since learned from crocheting. Crowley was astoundingly patient, so much so that Aziraphale almost regretted the knitting research he’d done. It was clear that Crowley would never mock him or think him a fool for not understanding something immediately. He honestly felt a little silly for ever thinking he would.

Once they both had the first loop of yarn on their needles, Crowley showed him how to wrap the yarn around his fingers so that he could start working the first row of stitches onto the needle. Aziraphale nodded along and did as Crowley did, feeling quite confident about it until he looked down and found that the loop that had been around his index finger suddenly wasn’t there.

“Wait.” Aziraphale’s brows furrowed as he stared down at his hand. He tried to start over, only to find that he didn’t remember how the loop had gotten around that finger in the first place, much less how to keep it here.

The unexpected warmth of Crowley leaning over his shoulder startled him into looking up, only to find his face inches away from his. His breath caught, and he sent up a thanks to the universe for the fact that Crowley was looking down at his work and not up at him. He didn’t think he would be able to breathe at all if those golden eyes were meeting his from so close.

“I think I see what you’ve done,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale tore his gaze away from Crowley’s eyes to see what he was pointing out. “Here, you have to keep the yarn taut, or…” Aziraphale tried again, watching as Crowley effortlessly casted on with his own yarn, only for his to fall off again. He made a little noise of frustration.

“Don’t worry, you’ve got this, just—here.”

Crowley set his knitting down in his lap, and then—oh, and then he was taking Aziraphale’s needle, but he didn’t take them away to show him or get it done himself. Instead his hand settled on Aziraphale’s wrist, the yarn held in the nimble fingers of his other hand, and carefully wrapped the yarn into position for him. “There we go. Now you’re going to tilt your hand down so we get those loops, yeah?” Aziraphale nodded, scared if he did more he would break the moment. Crowley gently turned Aziraphale’s hand over, pulling the yarn taut across his palm, and Aziraphale shivered. Crowley’s fingers trailed over the inside of his wrist, just for a moment, and then he was gone, arms pulled into his lap. Aziraphale finally looked up to see that he was flushed beet red. “There you go. Think you, erm. Think you got it, now.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, voice feeling hoarse. He cleared his throat. “I think I have got it, now.”

Crowley rubbed the back of his neck, then decided to take his hair down and retie it. “D’you, uh. Would you mind if I sit here? For a bit?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Of course, my dear, why would I?”

“Ah, dunno. Just checking.”

Emboldened by the request, Aziraphale reached out and squeezed Crowley’s knee. “I would like it very much if you sat with me. For a bit.”

Crowley grinned, crooked and sweet. A lock of hair slipped across his forehead, and when he redid his bun this time it was much calmer—and more effective, catching all the stray whisps he’d missed before. Aziraphale wondered what his hair would look like all down, or braided, or pinned back at one side. The curls were such a temptation to touch.

He turned back to his needle, half full of wonky loops, and for now satisfied himself with running his fingers over the yarn, instead.

Chapter Text

The next half hour was a strange sort of perfect. Knitting Night was always a welcome bit of calm in Crowley’s week, a chance for some leisurely conversation and a little time to work on his own projects. He still got interrupted quite frequently, of course, but it wasn’t as frantic as when he had to quickly put his needles down because a customer had come into the shop. And he got to have full conversations with people, which there was never time or energy for during open hours.

He’d already had about three times the amount of conversation with Aziraphale as he’d had before. They didn’t show any signs of slowing down. Anathema shot him occasional grins with way too much teeth for his liking, but he hadn’t introduced them yet. That would come if and when he had to step away for more than a few minutes, which he had avoided so far.

He briefly considered pulling out the pair of gloves he’d been working on himself, but decided he preferred having his full attention on Aziraphale—and Anathema, and Theresa when she needed help with her yarn tangling, and everyone else, of course, but he always got to come back to the loveseat with Aziraphale. He thought he was doing a pretty good job of not seeming like he was hovering over Aziraphale’s shoulder too much, while still being able to catch the beginner’s mistakes he was making before they could cause him undue frustration. Which solidified his decision to keep his gloves away—as tempting as it was to try and impress Aziraphale with some fancy needlework, there was always the chance it might intimidate him instead, or discourage him from his much simpler scarf.

That was the last thing Crowley wanted. By the time Aziraphale was fully cast on and beginning to get the hang of his first row, he had his heart set on giving him the best learning-to-knit experience he possibly could.

He was pulled away briefly to help Deirdre recount her stitches, and then Newt called him over. He didn’t need help with his knitting, however.

“You don’t happen to have another skein of this, do you?” he asked sheepishly, holding up the lingering remains of what Crowley was nearly sure had started the night as an almost new ball of navy yarn.

Anathema elbowed him gently in the ribs. “We do not need more of that yarn. The kid’s already got two full sets of clothing out of it.”

“I’m not going to finish the hem with just this,” Newt said forlornly. “It’ll be too short if I finish now. And the ribbing won’t be done.”

“Newt, love of my life, babies wear onesies for a reason, it doesn’t matter if it’s too short, they’ll be all swaddled up underneath.”

Crowley cleared his throat before they could devolve into full out bickering. There was only so much his heart could take in one night, he didn’t need any extra cute. “Tell you what. We’ll find another of the navy, and after Newt’s done I’ll take it. She’s right, mate, the kid really doesn’t need four hats of the same color.”

“That’s fair.” Newt brightened. “I haven’t made anything yellow yet, though.”

“Nothing pastel, it’ll be stained before it even makes it on the baby,” Anathema called as they went out into the shop proper.

Crowley steered Newt towards the section of baby yarns and tossed him a lovely butter yellow skein he’d seen him eyeing before. “She’s making her blanket out of white and cream,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Use whatever color you like.”

He checked Newt out efficiently, ushered him back into the group, and then slipped into the office behind the register to sneak a look at his hair in the mirror. It had been styled very deliberately that morning, but apparently even the prospect of seeing Aziraphale that night hadn’t been enough to keep him from fussing with it during the day. He retied the bun, wishing he had any product to do something more interesting with it. Ah well. At least there wasn’t a knitting needle in it anymore.

He straightened his apron—not his preferred look for attracting attention, but worth it for all the notions in the pockets—and retucked his shirt, then gave himself just a moment for a good deep breath, and then strode back to his spot at Aziraphale’s side with all the confidence he could muster.

Aziraphale had been very pleased with himself when he finished his first largely successful row of stitches. They weren’t pretty, but they existed, which was more than he had hoped for in the midst of struggling to cast on. He’d even started adjusting to the constant stress of making sure his stitches stayed on the needle, which apparently was all important to the whole thing not unraveling. He’d had to resist gazing wistfully at Deirdre with her lap full of loose, unattached crochet chain when he learned that lesson. But he’d started to get it, and felt he was almost beginning to appreciate the repetitive movement of it, the same way he enjoyed the easy back and forth and through motions of crochet.

Then, of course, it had to get bloody complicated again. Crowley thought, in his dear kindness and optimism, that Aziraphale was ready to try purling.

“It’s almost the same motion, just coming in from the other side,” he had explained, and deftly demonstrated on his own yarn. After a bit of twisting and jabbing—his stitches seemed to be either insistent on slipping off or on hugging the needle like Crowley’s jeans hugged his legs—he’d managed to mimic Crowley’s example, and a few semi-successes later Crowley had left him to finish a row of purls while he helped some of the other group members.

It went about as well as the time he’d tried dance lessons with Tracy last May.

“How’re you doing, Aziraphale?” Crowley asked when he came back.

Aziraphale slumped, finally admitting defeat. “I just can’t seem to make it work. There’s never any yarn to pull through.”

“Let me see,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale handed over his work, noticing all the split yarn strands and uneven stitches as he did.

Crowley was far too kind to comment on it, of course, and handed it back after just a quick glance over. “It looks good,” he said, ignoring Aziraphale’s quiet scoff. “Let me see you do it? Maybe I’ll be able to see what’s going wrong.”

He only had to watch Aziraphale try for a moment before he made a sound of realization and reached out to adjust his work. “Here it is. Really easy mistake, too. Check where your yarn’s coming from.”

He barely resisted a sarcastic the ball, obviously, and instead used his finger to wiggle the line of yarn where it trailed below his stitches.

“Cool. So we’re going to move it here, in front of your work, like this. Try it now.”

Hoping the brief brush of Crowley’s hands adjusting his knitting wouldn’t make his palms start to sweat like it he felt it might, Aziraphale attempted the motion again.

“There it is!”

“Is it?” Aziraphale squinted at it.

“Yeah, you got it. Keep—hang on, I’ll be right back.” And as fast as he’d returned, Crowley was back up to go help someone across the room. He was really wonderfully attentive. Aziraphale tried again, got a few stitches, and was just starting to feel like he had it when, suddenly, it stopped working. He’d only been glaring down at his lap for a moment when Crowley appeared at his side. Perhaps he had a sixth sense for knitters in distress.

“It’s not working,” Aziraphale complained. He demonstrated without being asked, and Crowley immediately reached out to show him the problem.

“The working yarn’s gotta be in front of the work.”

“It is!” he cried.

“No no, before you start. Here, check and make sure.”

“It was in front,” Aziraphale insisted.

“Might’ve been,” Crowley said amicably, and Aziraphale threw him a look, then glared back at his work.

“Have to keep the loops on the needle. Have to have the yarn in front,” Aziraphale grumbled. “Bloody knitting."

Crowley’s lips twitched. “Alright there, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale scowled. “I’ll get used to it.”

Crowley laughed, then, loud and delighted. Aziraphale’s chest thumped. “You will. You’re doing really well.”

Aziraphale’s chest thumped harder. He still didn’t know Crowely well enough to tell if he was being honest or just kindly encouraging, but he did know he wanted to do whatever he could to earn more of that praise and be sure it was genuinely warranted. He considered his knitting swatch, with all the split yarn and wonky stitches and at least two stray loops that had slipped off the needle without him noticing. His very early crochet had looked like that, once—he still had his very first hat, left to hang forever on the coatrack once he’d started making better ones. If he could teach himself to crochet properly on his own, surely he could learn to knit decently, as well.

There was going to be more research in his future. By next week, he was going to have started his scarf, and whatever it took, it was going to be as impressive as heaven itself.

Chapter Text

A week and a bit later, Crowley found himself in the clothing aisle of a very quaint and upsettingly expensive children’s store, holding a basket full of tiny shirts and packs of socks. Anathema was picking through a shelf of miniscule leggings, consulting a hand scrawled list before making each choice.

Crowley had been the one to suggest the list—or, to be accurate, hint heavily and unsubtly after very narrowly dissuading her from buying a baby bath towel of a very similar design to the one Crowley was making for her. They hadn’t gone so far as a registry, but there was a google doc shared between everyone who’d gotten an invite to the baby shower. Anathema was not to buy anything herself that wasn’t explicitly on that list. As practical as she was, Anathema still had a boatload of family money, and she wasn’t going to skimp on things for her incoming kid. Thus the bougie baby store. And the growing stack of flat pack furniture boxes in the spare room that Crowley expected to be commandeered to help with at any moment.

“Green or purple?” Anathema asked, holding up two pairs of cotton leggings.

Crowley considered. “Do you want to have a dinosaur kid or a constellation kid?”

“I can’t pronounce dinosaur names.”

“Go purple. Start ‘em on the right track. And the star pattern’s nicer.”

Anathema thought it over for another moment before handing over the starry purple leggings and moving on to the next section.

“I think you’ve already hit your onesie quota.”

“I can get one more long sleeve one.”

“Anathema, you do realize you will still be able to go shopping once the baby is here? We’re not prepping for the apocalypse, you don’t have to have everything immediately on hand this early.”

Anathema only hummed, but she moved past the onesies without picking any. Crowley had just picked up one with a terrible pun to snicker at when she changed the subject, as abrupt as ever. “How’s operation Aziraphale going?”

Crowley jumped so hard he flung the onesie a few feet in the air and only just fumbled to catch it. “Don’t call it that. That makes it sound… weird.”

“Sure. Answer the question.”

“I don’t know.” He sighed. “I mean, you’ve seen everything that’s happened. I haven’t seen him outside of Knitting Night.”

“He seems to be catching on quick. He was going to town on his scarf the other day.”

“He is, it’s great. But…”

Anathema squinted at him for a moment. “Here.” She thrust her hand out for the shopping basket. “I’m going to go pay. Order me a latte at the place downstairs?”

Crowley relinquished the basket with a silent nod, and shoved his hands into his pockets as he walked out of the store, shoulders hunching. He was grateful for the moment she had given him to sort his thoughts out, but they weren’t all fun thoughts.

The barista had just called out an order for “Antony” when Anathema reached him at the end of the mall corridor. He didn’t correct the name, just took the drinks and went to the booth Anathema had dropped into, canvas shopping bag tucked next to her.

They sat in silence for a moment as they both sipped, Anathema very deliberately going through the shopping bag so as not to look at him. He’d only taken one taste of his mocha before he set it down and burst out, “I don’t know what to do now.”

Anathema immediately put down the bag and her latte. “What do you mean ‘now?’”

“He’s got it! I hardly had to help him at all this week, once he got started. I felt like I was hovering.”

“You were. But he didn’t mind.”

Crowley groaned and dropped his head into his hand. “My plan is out. I can’t spend a whole evening teaching him to knit when he’s already at this level.”

“He’s still going to need help.”

“It’s not the same. I need something to do. Otherwise I’m going to start talking too much and get rambly. Or try to do something clever on an impulse and fuck everything up.”

Anathema hummed thoughtfully. “You’re trying to impress him, yeah? Why not show off a little? I’ve seen what you can do with a knitting needle.”

“I don’t want to scare him off. I can’t hold his hand through purling anymore—” oh, how he wished he’d be able to really hold his hand through purling at all ”—but he’s still a beginner. I don’t want him thinking his scarf isn’t good enough, if I’m sat smack next to him making gloves or socks or something.”

Anathema silently nudged his coffee cup towards him. He took a drink, grumbling, but the hot coffee and the smell of chocolate and the forced moment of quiet did make him feel calmer. Damn her and her witchy ways. He’d been friends with her too long. She knew him far too well.

She further proved it by saying, “I think you may be overthinking it a little,” which he would have snapped at her for a moment ago. Instead he just glared and sipped his mocha again.

Anathema splayed her hands out on the table. “Look. You’ve got this guy you like—a pretty good guy, from what I can find out—and you’ve managed to lock yourself in for a few hours of his time every week. You know how long it took me to get more than a three sentence conversation with Newt?”

“Yes, but Newt was scared of you.”

“And now he’s not, and we talk each others’ ears off all day. And Aziraphale’s not scared of you now, and you’re already talking with each other comfortably, so you’re already miles ahead.”

But Crowley also wasn’t Anathema, and he didn’t have her stores of stubbornness—or, he did, but it came with a non-negotiable side of slow building panic.

His head dropped into his hands. “What did you do, though? For a bloody all-important fourth sentence?”

Anathema smiled, full of soft memory. “I jammed my neighbor’s door a little so she’d be slower and we’d be alone in the elevator one morning. He was on the eighth floor and I was on the sixth, so I had all that time to small talk him into chatting with me.”

“You jammed somebody’s door closed?”

“It was just a little sticky, she was fine. She always just barely made the elevator he and I were on, I only needed a few extra seconds.”

“You are the most terrifying creature of habit I have ever met.”

“You just need a little push like that. Find something to impress him with that’s not knitting, and you’ll be able to have a relationship with him outside of knitting. Or do you want to be his knitting instructor forever?”

“No,” Crowley moped. “I feel like I don’t know a lot about him yet, though.”

“Fix that, first of all.”

“But how? I can’t start a conversation about what he likes that’s not knitting if knitting’s all I know about him to begin with!”

Anathema pushed the coffee at him again.

“Pick something easy. I knew Newt’s habits before I knew he liked space documentaries. Find your morning elevator. What do you know?”

Crowley slumped back in the booth, pretending to sulk behind his cup while he was actually thinking. Everything he seemed to know felt so superficial. Aziraphale was sweet, was a little shy, learned things quickly, liked the color blue…

“Honestly. Me and my dense men.”

“Oi!”

“Come on, mopey, we’ve got a bus to catch. You’ve got almost a whole week to brainstorm. You’re the third cleverest person I know, you’ll come up with something. Help me with the bag?”

He’d already reached for it. “I still haven’t rejected the possibility you came up with this whole pregnancy scheme to get out of carrying things.”

“See? Clever.” She plucked his empty cup from his hand and went to throw them both out. “But you like helping, anyway.”

“I’ve worked in customer service my whole life, it’s ingrained.”

“Mhm.”

He would have grumbled at her, but she was a few steps ahead to go and hold the door for him, so he didn’t have to.

He’d always been a shit liar, anyway.

The idea occurred to him on the bus home, right after Anathema had disembarked at her stop. There was that familiar twinge of worry when he didn’t go to walk with her or give her a hand stepping down to the curb; he knew Anathema would give him a look and refuse the help, but the rest of the bus would be perfectly within reason to peg him as a bit of an ass for not assisting his very pregnant companion. He’d rather not step on Anathema’s toes, but couldn’t help wishing she’d let him do more for her.

It was then that his two problems collided, and he found that together they actually lined up very nicely.

He texted Anathema asking for another copy of her blanket pattern as soon as he’d gotten home and confirmed he’d lost the paper copy. He really wasn’t good enough to try deciphering it on the fly during Knitting Night, but he had most of a week and a boatload of crafting resources at his disposal. A bit of extra work, and he might be able to get Anathema past the latest illegible section of lace the next time they tried.

And if helping her like that was also a bit impressive to a certain beginning knitter, well. He’d had more selfish ideas before.

Aziraphale fidgeted as he stood outside the shop window. Ostensibly, he was considering the tiny display of chunky knit baskets artfully arranged in the cramped corner behind the glass. More realistically, he was crumpling and smoothing the corner of his shopping list and building himself up to step into Idle Hands. Like he hadn’t been there just the night before for Knitting Night.

“Ridiculous fool,” he muttered to himself as he finally shoved the paper deep into his pocket and rounded on the door. “I don’t even know what you think you’re frightened of, at this point.”

His burst of bravery immediately paid off, as Crowley was sitting behind the counter folding up little origami bats. The pile of paper creatures tumbled down in a colorful avalanche as their creator jumped to his feet. “Aziraphale!” He was grinning widely, a genuine surprised joy in his posture. “You’re—hi. Hi.”

“Hello.”

“Can I get you something?”

“Er. I thought I’d just peruse the yarn a bit…”

Crowley’s face went nearly as red as his hair. “I meant—sorry. ‘Course. But, I do have some leftover biscuits from last night?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s heart fluttered. He was still a little startled every time Crowley indicated he was happy to see him specifically, and not just any friendly customer. “Yes, that would be lovely, thank you. As long as I’m not getting in your way?”

Crowley answered by disappearing into the office without a second’s hesitation. Aziraphale took the moment he was gone to smooth his shirt and steady his breath.

“Sorry I don’t have tea to offer,” Crowley said as he reappeared, plastic biscuit tray in hand. “The kettle in the back’s busted. Haven’t had a chance to replace it yet.”

“Oh, heavens. I can’t imagine getting through a day at the bookshop without a few tea breaks.”

Crowley shrugged. “‘S not terrible. There’s a decent coffee shop up the next block. I can run over on my break, if I want.”

“That’s good. I’m glad.”

The brief silence as Aziraphale munched on his shortbread and Crowley cleared the counter of paper bats to put the tray down was just long enough to remind him of his practical purpose there. He glanced towards the yarn shelves; there was a stack of large boxes against one of the aisles, and every so often a young adult he hadn’t met before would come and take an armful of yarn skeins from them and disappear back between the shelves.

Crowley had followed his gaze. “We got a shipment in yesterday. Didn’t have time to shelve it all before Knitting Night.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale fingered the shopping list in his pocket. “Do you happen to know… just off the top of your head, really, did you get in any more of that blue yarn I’m using?”

Crowley’s eyes lit up immediately. “We did! Do you need more already? I made sure I ordered some just in case, but I didn’t think you’d get there this fast.”

“Oh. Well, you know, it’s… I’ve been enjoying myself.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

Crowley’s grin widened. He was bouncing on his feet as he slid a clipboard out from under the counter and quickly skimmed the inventory list on it, and bounded over to the stack of boxes before Aziraphale could even finish his biscuit and follow. He was wholly stunning when he was happy.

Though he was muttering curses by the time Aziraphale caught up to him. Crouching down to check the number on the box all the way at the bottom of the stack, Crowley sighed and peeked into the open box on top, though he didn’t seem to find what he was hoping for.

“Hey, Quinn, can you help me move these?”

“Oh, here, I can help—” Aziraphale stepped forward, but before any of them could start to deconstruct the pyramid, the bell over the door rang. At the same moment, Crowely’s watch started to beep an alarm. Quinn and Crowley exchanged a look.

“Take your break,” Quinn said, already turning to lift the top box away. “I can handle it.”

“Hello?” called one of the trio who had just come in. “Do you have any paint sets here?”

Crowley put a hand on the box before Quinn could take it. “No, go help them. I’ve got this one.”

“Crowley, you should take your break,” Aziraphale cut in.

“‘S fine. I’ll just be a little late.”

“I can wait—don’t worry, Quinn, yes? We’re alright here.” At a nod from Crowley, Quinn shrugged and made their way over to help the newcomers find the—quite clearly marked—paint shelf. Aziraphale knew customers. They’d require Quinn’s full attention for a bit.

“Really, my dear, I’m not in a hurry,” he continued. Somewhere in the back and forth his hand had wound up on Crowley’s arm, stopping him from reaching for the boxes. His fingers flinched a little reflexively, but he chose to turn it into a little squeeze instead of hastily retreating. “There’s no need to upend your schedule for me. There are enough other customers who will do that as it is,” he added before Crowley could get out the argument he could see coming.

Crowley’s mouth snapped shut with a click. “That’s… ngk. Fair.”

“How long is your break?”

“‘Bout twenty minutes?”

Aziraphale’s right hand found its way behind his back, twisting at the fabric of his coat unseen. “Would you—if—I mean.” He cleared his throat, tried again. “If you’re in need of a coffee, I would, er, go with you?”

Crowley’s eyes went a little wider. “To get coffee?”

“Well, tea for me, I don’t like coffee much, but I imagine they have that as well, or cocoa at the very—”

“They have tea. It’s good, I think, I’ve heard it’s—” Crowley’s arm moved under his hand, and before Aziraphale was really aware he had grabbed his hand and squeezed it. Just for a moment, less than a second probably, before he let go and spun towards the office with a quick “Let me grab my jacket!”, but it sent Aziraphale’s heart rate into a flurry. He pressed his hand to his chest in a vague attempt to soothe it.

Crowley was back as fast as he’d left, apron tossed over the stool at the register and sunglasses untangled from his hair.

“Ready?”

Aziraphale couldn’t have done less than match his beaming smile if he’d tried. “Yes. Of course.”

It wasn’t entirely clear to him whether he had been the one brave enough to tap the back of his hand against Crowley’s or if his companion had that honor. But as they rounded the corner onto the sidewalk their fingers slipped together, and by the time they reached the coffee shop, they were thoroughly entwined.

Chapter Text

Coffee was brilliant. Aziraphale was brilliant. Thank someone for his alarms, or he might’ve accidentally abandoned Quinn at the store. As it was, Aziraphale walked him back to Idle Hands, hands delightfully not idle as they swung between them, held loosely but warmly.

Quinn was checking someone out when they returned, but in the interim they had unburied the box with Aziraphale’s yarn in it. The silvery blue bundle was right on top, and when Crowley handed it to Aziraphale and their fingers brushed it was a slightly different kind of electricity. Less nerves, more excitement.

This had not been part of the plan. He was just a very lucky bastard.

As he had the first day he’d come in, Crowley shooed his employee away from the register so he could check Aziraphale out himself. Aziraphale produced his own bag, a bulky canvas tote big enough for the rest of his afternoon’s errands as well as the yarn.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale said as he packed the yarn carefully away. He was moving slowly, lingering at the counter as long as he could. “I, ah, suppose I’ll see you next week, then?”

Crowley smiled, tried to make it look more humorous than longing. “Unless you polish off that skein before Wednesday.”

“Tempting,” Aziraphale said. Crowley’s heart flipped, and he laughed.

“Well, if you’re desperate for my company… here.” He tore a corner off a staff schedule and scribbled a number on it. “It’s mine. My phone, I mean, not the store’s. If you—ng, if you want to talk. Or get coffee again.”

Aziraphale pulled the paper from his fingers and pocketed it safely in the inside of his jacket. Just over his heat, the little daydreamy bit of Crowley’s brain sighed.

“See you before next week, then,” he smiled. “I hope.”

“Me too.”

The entrance bell rang. In the time it took Crowley to look up and evaluate the new customer, Aziraphale had fitted his bag over his shoulder and reached out to place a hand over his arm where it rested on the counter. “Mind how you go.”

“Yeah. Bye, Aziraphale.”

He waved as he went out the door. Crowley waved back, as dopey as it was, and couldn’t find it in himself to be at all embarrassed.

He didn’t wind up seeing Crowley before the following week’s Knitting Night, but he did text with him quite a lot, and that was almost as good. Aziraphale had never been so tied to his phone during work hours; the delightful jolt of excitement he got each time his phone buzzed was enough for him to start leaving it on his desk, where he could hear it better. His layers of clothing, cozy as they were, muffled the sound too much for him to enjoy it. And it was far too tempting to take the device out and see what Crowley had said right now instead of finishing his conversation or the stack of books he was shelving first.

It also slowed down his progress on his scarf, which wasn’t a bad thing. Once he finished he was going to have to pick another project, and it was starting to look like he’d need to come clean about his little white lie. He wasn’t at all sure how to do that yet, though.

So the scarf hadn’t quite finished off the last of his first ball of yarn when he carted the whole lot to Idle Hands on Wednesday night. Which also meant he’d get to let Crowley teach him how to switch to the new ball, which was much more appealing than looking up videos himself.

Crowley was nowhere to be seen when he came into the shop and settled into his usual spot next to Deirdre. He did have to navigate around an impressive pile of crates to get to his seat, though; the circle of seating in the back room, which was usually only cozy, was today positively cramped. The back stock that took up the rest of the room was spilling into the meeting space, with a few stacks of inventory even left in the middle of the circle.

Crowley appeared as Aziraphale was getting his things out, looking unusually disheveled. His hair had all been pulled into a bun instead of the usual classy half, though a fair bit of it had slipped out of the tie and fallen across his face. Aziraphale would have been embarrassed about staring, if they hadn’t been texting like infatuated teenagers all week already.

“Hey, everyone—hi Aziraphale.” He couldn’t tell if Crowley’s face was red because of him or from plain exertion. “Sorry ‘bout the mess, I’m working on it. Shipment came in really late today.”

Aziraphale immediately moved to stand. “I can help, dear.”

But Crowley was already shaking his head. “No, don’t worry. I’ll be in and out if you need anything.”

“Alright. If you’re sure. I have experience with late shipments and inventory.”

Crowley’s smile went softer, and Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat when he reached down to squeeze his shoulder. “Thanks, angel.”

And with that, he disappeared back onto the shop floor, leaving Aziraphale to hide his blush behind his partial scarf.

He’d never really had a pet name before. It wasn’t particularly his style, nor that of any of his previous partners. On Crowley’s lips, though, angel felt like… it felt right.

It was a little different sitting in the knitting circle without Crowley at his side all night. Even as Aziraphale had progressed past needing his hand metaphorically held the whole time, Crowley had still been his main companion. Other than Deirdre and Anathema, and a little bit Newt, he realized, he hardly knew anyone else. Deirdre, the wonder, picked up on this quickly, and started pulling him into her conversations with some of the others, even inviting him to move to the empty seat on her other side so he wasn’t quite so isolated over on the love seat. After he’d hesitated long enough to confirm that Crowley wasn’t going to be joining them for more time than it took him to collect a box from the pile any time soon, he agreed, and moved over, where he was promptly sucked into a surprisingly engaging conversation about baking show preferences.

A bit before an hour in, the room sank into a contented quiet, as it always seemed to. It felt a bit like the working area of a library, outside of the quiet zone; fleeting conversations and sporadic laughter over a backdrop of focused work. Now that he’d managed to get all of the boxes out of the middle of the room, Crowley still popped in every once in a while to check on them all, but he was very much based in the main room. Aziraphale was just considering going out to check on him, and maybe bring him one of the brownies Paula had brought, when there was a brief shuffle of noise from another corner of the circle. Anathema had stood up, ostensibly to carefully stretch out her back and shift her weight for a moment, though Aziraphale could see frustration at more than just an achy body on her face. When she moved towards the snack table, shaking off an offer of help from her husband, Aziraphale stood too.

“Are you alright, my dear?” he asked quietly when they were both perusing the offered baking. He was careful to be quiet enough not to draw attention if she didn’t want it, without making it seem like he was patronizing her. He had, despite his general unwillingness to use it, quite a lot of skill when it came to people. Years of owning a bookshop, where he got everyone from students to seniors to business folk to parents meant he had quite a library of experiences to help him read people.

Anathema’s tight smile, for example, was sure proof she was trying to avoid anything to make her more upset than she already wouldn’t admit to being. “Damn blanket’s not working,” she said. “The numbers just don’t make sense when I try to actually do it.”

“Ah.” He’d known she was working on something ambitious; Crowley had spent as much time sitting with her the past two weeks as he had with him. It had been very sweet of him, Aziraphale thought. It was also, maybe, simply necessary. Even modern patterns could be confounding to follow sometimes; old ones were sometimes downright impossible. He couldn’t help but be curious, but he couldn’t very well ask to see her pattern like he’d understand it when he hadn’t even told Crowley about his absurd little secret yet.

So instead he was left with an unsatisfying bit of politeness. “Hopefully a bit of tea and a break will help.”

Anathema smiled. “Hopefully. I’ve got a deadline.”

“Indeed. I hope it all goes well.”

“Thanks, Aziraphale.”

“Of course, my dear.”

He left Anathema to make her tea (Crowley had finally replaced the broken kettle a few days before—there had been a lot of excited texts about how fast it boiled that Aziraphale had had to screenshot to be sure he’d be able to find them again later, they were so sweet) and went out into the store, feeling a bit generally useless.

He found Crowley in—of all places—the crochet section, hanging up the new stock of hooks on their little display. He had retied his bun sometime during the evening, and, while neater, it now sported an impressive array of pens stuck through it.

“Can I tempt you to pause for a moment?”

Crowley looked up, fixing his glasses where they’d slipped down his nose. Aziraphale startled for a moment when he realized they weren’t his usual sunglasses; though he’d rarely seen Crowley wear them properly indoors, he did always seem to have them on his person. These were regular, clear lensed glasses, though, in a classy but surprisingly un-hip tortoise shell frame. He only got to admire them for a moment before Crowley yanked them off and dropped them into an apron pocket, but Crowley’s beaming face was enough to mitigate it.

“Did you bring me something?” He took the offered napkin and beamed wider when he saw the brownie inside. “Didn’t even get a chance to see what Paula brought. Been handling boxes all bloody day.”

“Do you want help?” Aziraphale offered again.

“I’m almost done. Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t leaving the mess for Warlock and Quinn tomorrow.”

“Is it your day off?”

“Morning, yeah. I usually pop in in the afternoon to check in.”

“Does Warlock not have school?”

“He’s homeschooled.” Crowley took a bite of brownie and hummed appreciatively. “His parents are diplomats, move around a lot, so he does everything online. He’s been here for a few years, though. I keep trying to get him to come to Knitting Night the same day as Adam, he needs more friends, but it hasn’t worked yet.”

“That’s very sweet. That you’re trying, I mean, even if it hasn’t worked.”

Crowley promptly choked on his brownie. “It’s—ngk.” He coughed for a moment. “It’s not sweet. Just—he’s a good kid,” he mumbled.

Aziraphale squeezed his arm warmly instead of arguing. “Are you sure you don’t need help out here?”

“Yeah. Go knit, I want to see how far you’ve gotten when I finish out here.”

“Well now there’s pressure. I’m going to get much less done.”

Crowley laughed and pushed him gently towards the door. “I still want to see. You’re going to finish that scarf soon, I know it.”

Aziraphale’s heart jumped a little at the reminder. He would be done soon, and it would be hard to justify going through all the work to set up a new knitting project without coming clean. And he missed his crochet hooks a little.

But he wasn’t done the scarf yet, and until he was he had time to think up a way of talking to Crowley about it. So he went back to his seat and started in on the next row, choosing to be slow and careful, though he’d have said it was out of care and not just to draw it out if he had been asked.

Knitting Night had no determined end time; they all met up around seven and people started to drift out as they reached stopping points or neared bed times. Aziraphale had often been one of the last present, because he didn’t open the store until eleven most days anyway, and the fewer people who were there the more uninterrupted time he got to chat with Crowley. That wouldn’t be the case tonight, but he still stuck around as others started to pack up and say their goodbyes, enjoying the company even in the quiet.

A wordless huff drew his eyes up from his work as it was approaching nine. There were only a handful of people left, so it was easy to pin the noise on Anathema. It was easier once he saw her face; there were tight lines creasing her forehead, and her mouth was set in a frown. Almost as soon as she dropped her crochet in her lap in frustration Newt had leaned over to whisper something to her, a soothing hand on her back, and Aziraphale turned his attention back to his needles, not wanting to intrude on a careful moment even just by watching.

He looked up again, however, when Anathema threw down the blanket again, leaning forward as much as she could to rest her elbows on her knees and cover her face. Newt rubbed her back again, but even he looked at a bit of a loss. He was trying his best, but as tremendous as his knitting was, he didn’t know how to help decipher a crochet pattern. He murmured something to her again, and when Anathema nodded into her hands he stood, dropping a kiss onto the crown of her head and going to the snack table.

As he began his usual strange argument with the kettle to convince it to start, Aziraphale peered around him to keep an eye on his wife. Anathema’s shoulders were stiff but still—she didn’t appear to be crying, but her frustration was palpable. She likely wasn’t far off.

And, damn it, she did have a deadline.

Looking quickly around the room to make sure everyone left was absorbed in their work, and that Crowley was still outside, Aziraphale set his knitting down and hurried across the room to perch on the sofa next to Anathema, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.

She looked up as he sat down, but before she could ask him what he was doing, he held out a hand for the packet of papers on the stool in front of her.

“May I have a look, my dear?”

Anathema squinted at him. Her eyes did look a little damp behind her glasses, but he had seemingly confused her enough to slow down the spiral of frustration she’d been caught in. It was something, at least, he thought as he waited for a response. If Crowley came in now, or she said no, or he couldn’t actually help anyway, at least he’d maybe gotten her through a little bit of her rough patch.

He was too absorbed still in the paranoia that someone would notice and somehow decipher his bizarre little facade. After a moment in which Anathema seemed to see right through him, her face shifted imperceptibly. He thought she was about to ask him to leave, but instead she handed the pages to him, wordless. Aziraphale put himself right to business, electing to ignore that she was still staring at him like he was a stubborn jigsaw puzzle.

The pattern was worse than he had anticipated, in a lot of ways; he’d sort of hoped, in the brief span of his dash across the room, that it would actually be decently readable and only such a challenge because everyone trying to read it was a complete beginner or a damn knitter. But no such luck. It was a print out of a photocopy of something very old and worn, and to make it worse, he could already see that whoever had written it had been fond of odd terminology.

He squared his shoulders. He was committed now. And he had always enjoyed a challenge.

“Show me where you are,” he said, holding the pattern towards Anathema. She pointed, still wordless, and still watching him with unsettling intensity. He ignored it. “Ah. Right, one moment.”

While he was doing a first skim of the section of pattern Anathema was up to, Newt returned, bringing Anathema her—slightly lukewarm—tea. She took a sip, apparently unbothered by the temperature, before setting it down on the stool with a decisive click and leaning forward again.

“Aziraphale?” she said, matching his quiet volume.

Aziraphale didn’t look up from his row counting. “Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

“Math, at the moment. Hold on.” She waited obligingly, though he could tell she was bursting to ask the real questions. And he’d seen her bicker with Crowley enough to know that if he let her get going, his odds of getting control back were slim.

He thought he could see the core of the issue, though, which was something. “Let me see your—yes, thank you.” He spread the offered, partial blanket across his lap carefully, wary of mussing any weak spots in the chains, and began to count, and then to test his own reading of the pattern.

“Aziraphale.”

“Mm.”

“What is going on.”

“You’re having difficulties, my dear, and I’m attempting to help.”

“But you don’t crochet.”

“Yes, there is that, isn’t there?” he commented as he deftly hooked a bit of yarn through a stitch.

Anathema stared at him. He decided he was probably better off getting in ahead of her where he could. “There was a brief misunderstanding when Crowley and I first met.”

Anathema made a sound not unlike some of Crowley’s sputters. “I can see that.”

“He thought that I was in the store to learn how to knit. I didn’t realize until I was leaving.”

“But you came back.”

“I know you’re too observant to have missed the fact that I like him quite a lot.”

“You’re faking learning to knit, though.”

“Not at all, actually, I have no earthly idea how to knit. Had no idea, now, goodness. But it is possible that I have been crocheting longer than you’ve been alive.”

Anathema watched him for a moment as he looked back and forth between her pattern and her unfinished baby blanket. “Long enough to understand this mess?”

“Possibly. One moment please—erm. If you wouldn’t mind, would you let me know if Crowley’s coming back in?”

Anathema snorted. He decided to take it as a maybe.

“It’s the repeat that’s confusing, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“Always the damn repeats,” he muttered under his breath. “Knitting doesn’t seem to be any better for that. But I think…” He held the blanket up for her, showing where he had moved her stitch markers a few spaces over in both directions. “The numbers are just off. The pattern’s going beautifully row by row, it’s just not lining up right here and here.”

Anathema snatched up the pattern. “But they only add up if…”

“Ignore that note, it’s just confusing. This bit here, the half-double crochets? Isn’t included in the repeat.”

“Then why’s it there?!”

“Flair. Or, honestly, a misprint. But if you only do it at the ends of each section instead of throughout, I think your numbers will start to make sense. You’ll have to frog a few rows, I’m afraid.”

She snorted again, but this time it was more obviously a laugh. “‘Frog.’ How the hell have you been keeping this from Crowley?”

Aziraphale sighed. “I don’t have an answer to that.”

“You fixed my pattern.”

“I only solved one hole, my dear, I’m sure there are more. It should be enough to get you through the rest of tonight if not—oh, damn it.” He took the pencil from the stool and wrote his cell phone number on a corner of the pattern. “Send me the rest of it. I’ll see what I can do.”

Anathema’s head tipped to the side. “Crowley’s been trying to help me with this for weeks.”

“I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell him about this just yet.”

“Do you plan to?”

He paused.

“Because it’s not exactly a ‘brief’ misunderstanding anymore, is it?” she continued. “As misunderstandings go, it’s a bit prolonged.”

“I will admit it may have gotten out of hand.”

“You’re dating now, aren’t you? Close to it?” Aziraphale felt his shoulders stiffen slightly. Oddly, Anathema almost mirrored it by softening. “He’s my best friend, Aziraphale. I’m wholly on your side in this.”

He startled. “My side?”

“Yours, plural. The two of you. I want you to work out more than I want this fucking baby blanket to work out.” She shook the project for emphasis. “And as ecstatic as I am that you could fix the fucking baby blanket, it’s also a problem. Secrets are not good for new relationships. Secrets like this,” she amended. “As it goes, this is somehow in the sweet spot between catastrophic loss of trust and great material for a charming story told at your wedding.”

“Oh, heavens,” Aziraphale said into his hands.

“You’ve put yourself in a really weird spot, my friend.”

“I’m aware,” he mumbled. He sat up with a sigh and a deep breath. “It’s not unfixable, though. Surely.”

“You’re building a relationship on a lie, Aziraphale. A profoundly funny lie, which is why I won’t tell him yet, but it’s not good long term. I will tell him if you don’t. Wait too long and you might ruin it.”

“...I understand.” He sighed again, running a hand through his hair. “Give me a little more time. I haven’t figured out how to tell him yet without—well. ‘Catastrophic loss of trust,’ you said?”

“You’re not there yet,” she said, nudging him with her shoulder. “Just don’t wait forever.”

“I won’t. I—yes, I’ll think on it. Figure something out.” He patted her knee. “Thank you.”

“Least I can do, given…” she gestured with the blanket again. “...and the amount of entertainment I’m going to get out of this now I’m in on it.”

“I thought you wanted me to end it quickly!”

“Are you going to do it tonight?”

“No!”

“Then I’m set for the evening.” She sat back, lifting her feet onto the stool. “I give you twenty seconds before he’s back, by the way.”

“What?”

Anathema only raised her eyebrows in a “want to take that bet?” expression. Realizing he’d been sitting with her for quite a while by now, Aziraphale quickly gathered himself and made his way back to the loveseat—only for Crowley to poke his head through the door as soon as he’d sat down.

“All good back here?” he asked the room at large, which replied with scattered assent from the handful of remaining crafters. He turned to Aziraphale, and asked him the same question with just a smile.

Aziraphale’s heart fluttered. He nodded, and Crowley beamed briefly at him before disappearing again. Immediately, Aziraphale’s eyes snapped back to Anathema. She smiled knowingly, then turned to her baby blanket as though nothing at all interesting had happened.

He’d already known she was a smart one. Anathema knew Crowley like… well, like Aziraphale knew crochet. She had been right about when he’d come in, and she was right, he knew, about letting go of his silly secret.

That wouldn’t make it any easier to actually do.

Chapter Text

The Wednesday night Crowley spent hauling boxes around was, like seemed to happen oddly often, awful until quite suddenly it wasn’t. He’d been looking forward to Knitting Night, as he always did, and as he especially did since Aziraphale had joined them. Nerve-wracking, thrilling time with his crush had mellowed into a comfortable companionship. He liked having time with Aziraphale because he liked just spending time with Aziraphale.

And it seemed he’d miss all of it that week, which was upsetting. He leaned into the back room as often as he could, but couldn’t take the time to actually go sit. At least Aziraphale was far enough along with his knitting that he didn’t need much help anymore; he seemed to be knitting away just like everyone else in the circle, chatting comfortably and getting into the last third or so of his scarf. When he’d seen that, Crowley had been suddenly glad he’d found a new strategy for impressing him. At this point, it really would be hovering if he gave Aziraphale all his attention.

He couldn’t enact plan B though, either. Hard to impress by being helpful when he didn’t have time to be conspicuously helpful. So all his hopes of progress were regretfully pushed off to next week.

Until the end of the night neared, and Aziraphale appeared at his side. “Hello, my dear.”

Crowley jumped, dropping a pack of origami books ungracefully to the floor. “Ngk!”

“Oh, dear, I’m sorry.” Before he could right himself, Aziraphale was already bending over to pick up the books, and handed them back with a smile. “You were more absorbed than I thought.”

“Mrg,” Crowley said articulately. “Was just—yeah. Distracted. Sorry.”

“No need, dear boy. Are you nearly done, or…?”

“Nearly, yeah. Two more crates, I think, and Quinn’ll be able to handle the rest even if it’s packed in here tomorrow.”

“Seems unlikely for a Thursday morning.”

“Yeah.”

They were silent for a moment. The last of the other crafters left the back room in a small pack, waving goodbyes as they passed. It was just them, and Anathema and Newt, still in the store.

“I’ve gotta go start packing up,” Crowley said wistfully. “Can’t leave it to Anathema anymore, and Newt drops things.”

“I understand. I’m, er. I’m sorry we couldn’t spend a bit more time together tonight.”

“Yeah.” His throat bobbed a little. “Wish I could’ve.”

“If you’d like,” Aziraphale said, hands clasped firmly behind his back and eyes wandering everywhere except Crowley’s face, “we could, perhaps, try to make up for it? Some time this week?”

The whole shop seemed to brighten suddenly. Crowley’s heart felt like it was going to lift him right off the floor. “Coffee, again?”

Aziraphale minutely relaxed as soon as he agreed. “If you’d like.” He smiled, meeting Crowley’s eyes again. “There’s a shop near me we could try.”

Crowley tried not to visibly bounce on his feet. He’d been vaguely looking for an excuse to go see Aziraphale’s shop, but hadn’t come up with one that wasn’t blatantly obvious yet. “I’m off Sunday afternoon.”

“Around lunchtime?” Crowley nodded. “I close the store between one and two. And I’m not terribly far from St James. It’s lovely for an afternoon walk.”

Crowley grinned. “I’ll wear walking shoes.”

There seemed a moment when Aziraphale was about to say something else, or at least was considering it, but it was broken by a minor crash from the back room, followed immediately by the trademark sound of Anathema trying not to laugh.

“Shit. I said Newt drops things.”

Whatever Aziraphale had been thinking about had vanished. “Better go see,” he said instead, and squeezed Crowley’s arm in farewell. “I’ll see you on Sunday, then.”

“One o’clock.”

“One o’clock. Goodbye, my dear.”

“Bye, angel.”

And with that consistently adorable little wave at the door, Aziraphale stepped out of the shop and into the night.

Despite the continuing clatter and lighthearted bickering going on in the back, Crowley stood in the store for another minute, leaning against a shelf and sighing happily to himself.

Across the next two weeks, though, something strange happened that threw Crowley’s contentment into disarray.

Anathema was no longer struggling with her blanket pattern.

Crowley spent the whole of the next Knitting Night sitting with her ready to help—when he wasn’t making eyes at Aziraphale or surreptitiously gushing to her about their coffee date that week—but, miraculously, bizarrely, she didn’t need it. She still checked with him that she was remembering her double crochets from her half doubles and her slip stitches from her chains, but prior to his sudden burst of semi-selfish semi-altruistic crocheting research, he’d have had to look those up to be sure he remembered right, too. The pattern frustration was gone. She finished almost ten rows that night, with hardly any undoing at all.

Which meant that now Crowley was the frustrated one, and that didn’t seem fair at all.

Plan B of Operation Aziraphale was out. Plan A was still invalid—Aziraphale had commandeered him away from Anathema for a few minutes to pick his brain about a new project to replace the scarf he was rapidly finishing, and as ecstatic as Crowley was that he was making so much progress and had already expressed interest in continuing, he still wasn’t ready for anything overly fancy yet. Flat-knit gloves weren’t going to use much in the way of new techniques for Crowley to teach him, as good a pick as they were for a second project. Which meant there was going to have to be a plan C.

Anathema was no use in coming up with one. Her only recommendation was the stunningly reasonable suggestion of asking Aziraphale to dinner, which was all well and good except he couldn’t very well focus all of his attention on it or he’d go well and truly mad.

He was pondering ideas in the store on a quiet Friday afternoon when a new customer came in, looking for knitting patterns. He was the only one in, so he went to show her the corner stocked with books and pamphlets, most for sale, a handful free.

“You don’t mind if I peruse them for a little while, do you?” the customer asked, already flipping through a book of sweaters and tsking over a few designs. “It’s so hard the find the right thing sometimes.”

Crowley assured her she could look all she wanted and promised to check in on her in a bit. His curiosity got the better of him before he could retreat to the counter, though. “What kind of thing are you looking to make?”

“I’m not sure.” The sweater book went back on the shelf, and she pulled out one on easy socks instead. “I just like the doing, to be honest. But I’m not as good as all that,” she gestured to the first book, “and I get bored with simple things. My partner suggested if I find a good book I might be set on ideas for a few projects, at least.”

Crowley hummed in agreement. “It’s tricky finding something satisfying, yeah. Have you done socks before?”

“Tried once. Turned it into a cat toy.”

“Might be a good challenge, then. And they’re small, which is nice if you have trouble focusing for long. I’ve got about four blankets I never finished because it just takes forever.”

They spent a few minutes commiserating over the difficulties of the intermediate knitting level; she didn’t end up buying a book, but did leave with a new set of stitch markers and a flier for Knitting Night that Crowley had had Warlock make up.

It got him thinking, though. At the rate Aziraphale was going, the gloves wouldn’t take him more than a few weeks. He was going to need something new soon. And it was a pain in the ass finding just the right pattern.

He didn’t have a ton of experience designing patterns, but he’d done it once or twice before successfully. The infant-sized towel he had made for Anathema had been his own version of a design he found; and Aziraphale wasn’t at the point of wildly complicated techniques, anyway.

He thought he’d look adorable in a nice winter hat. Blue, to match his scarf and, yes, because he was apparently a sap now, his eyes. Probably with a pompom on the top, Crowley could teach him how to make one of those.

Plan C commenced, as plan B had, with a flurry of research. This time, though, he’d be able to hand Aziraphale a physical something, which felt good in a particular way. He’d make up a little kit, yarn and a nice set of circular needles and a unique pattern made just for him.

If that wasn’t enough support to get Crowley to ask him out properly, he was a lost cause all around.

Tracy’s flat was at once the twin and polar opposite of Aziraphale’s, which had always made it an odd sort of comforting. Both were cluttered and a bit dim, and once you knew your way around there was a sort of magic in automatically avoiding all the piles of stuff to go about your day. But while Aziraphale’s flat was full of books and knickknacks and baskets of yarn, Tracy’s was covered in jewel tone scarves, knickknacks, and an array of garishly pink accessories.

They both had a fondness for tiffany lamps, funnily enough.

But Aziraphale had known Tracy for a very long time, and by now her flat was as comfortable for him as his own. They maneuvered around the kitchen and each other with ease, reaching for spatulas and sugar without a pause in Tracy’s gossip or Aziraphale’s latest book critique.

They were making shortbread today, which would have been a step back from their usual adventurous baking if shortbread hadn’t been the bane of Aziraphale’s baking skills. Tracy swore the new recipe she’d uncovered wouldn’t crumble; Aziraphale was ready with a pack of digestive biscuits if they found themselves without anything edible to go with their tea.

“So,” Tracy said, as soon as Aziraphale had his hands covered in dough and was committed to his position at the counter. “How’s your knitting knight doing?”

“Don’t you even start,” Aziraphale said without heat. “But it’s going quite well, if you must know. We went out for coffee last week, and he visited me for lunch yesterday.”

“Have you told him the big secret yet?”

Aziraphale sighed. He wanted very badly to cover his face with his hands, but as his hands were covered in biscuit dough, that wouldn’t go very well. “I’m going to. I thought I would when we went for coffee, but…”

“Stars didn’t align?”

“It just felt so odd.” He sighed and scraped more flour onto his hands. “Here I am, about to go ‘hello, dear, I know you’ve gone out of your way to come see me, and actually I’ve been lying to you from the first day we met, but that doesn’t really matter does it? Thoughts on a walk?’ It’s absurd.”

“People do things like that all the time.”

“Not me. Heavens, how did I get into this situation? It’s not like me!”

Tracy hummed. They worked in silence for a moment, Aziraphale doing his best to focus on the proportion of wet to dry in the biscuits instead of the spiral of worry he’d been carefully sidestepping at all hours since Anathema told him in no uncertain terms to tell him the truth already.

It wasn’t until they were clearing a space on the kitchen table to roll out the dough that Tracy returned them to their discussion. “Is it the telling you don’t know how to do, or the carrying on afterward?”

“You mean if we’re out when I tell him?”

“Well that’s not really in question, you can’t tell him over the phone.”

“Yes.” He’d already been over that possibility with a fine tooth comb looking for any excuses to validate it.

“What if you… what if you were to do something for him? I know you’ve gone to see him once or twice, outside of your Wednesday date.”

“Yes…”

“Mightn’t it feel less like you’re imposing on him if you go to him? Ah, no,” she clucked when he opened his mouth to object. “I know ‘impose’ isn’t quite the right word, but you do feel like you’re asking a lot of him, right, love?”

Aziraphale hesitated, crimping the edge of a piece of parchment paper absently. “It seems a lot to put on him, asking him to—oh, I hate this—forgive me, and also to stay with me, and especially in that moment. How awful is it of me to ask him to get lunch and then drop this on him and expect him to just stay for the rest of the meal?”

“Firstly, you’re getting away from yourself, we’re not discussing awful or not, we’re strategizing. Secondly, strategically, we will not be setting you up to do this over a meal.”

“So I’m right, then.”

“You have good instincts.” Tracy’s mouth quirked. “Except when it comes to shortbread.”

Aziraphale finally looked properly at the dough he’d been working with, to find it crumbly and dry. “Oh—damn it.”

“More water, I think.”

“There isn’t any water in the recipe.”

“Come now, we’re adaptable, the two of us.”

“Your miracle recipe failed, is the point.”

“Biscuits are the point.”

“Touche.”

“Biscuits could be the solution, too.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at the incohesive dough. “Not these biscuits.”

Tracy clucked her tongue at him. “Good biscuits. Probably something that you made, though, to give it an extra kick. Give him something, when you tell him. Show him you do care, even though you… well.”

“Fucked everything up?” Aziraphale suggested.

Tracy softened. “No, love. Just, a little something might help you feel like you’re not putting all the work on him. Even just to thank him for coming and listening.”

“Mm.” It was a good idea. Not that he expected anything less from Tracy, but often there was a level of flair or drama he had to get past first before he could see the sense in her advice. Not this time, though, and his mind was already racing with a string of ideas.

“Sweets seem a bit… well, obvious, though I’m rather fond of obvious, but I’m not sure if they’re too generic, maybe. I’d want something he’d like. Really like, not just momentarily.” Something specific, too; what did he know that Crowley liked? Every conversation they’d had seemed to disappear from his memory. It seemed they had talked about everything, and somehow all he could think about was audiobooks and the color black and knitting.

His eyes must have brightened visibly, because Tracy’s smile turned told-you-so in an instant. “There we are. I knew you’d think of something, love.”

“Yes. I—oh, dear.” His mind was racing with all the steps his plan would take, but for the first time he felt confident about it as a plan. “I’m going to need help.”

“Ooh, tell me, tell me. I’m not letting past a chance to get myself involved in this.”

“I’m going to need you to go to the store. Crowley’s store. I’ll tell you what I need, I'll be very specific, but if I buy the yarn he'll know I'm doing something.”

Tracy’s eyes sparkled. “And what are you doing, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale smiled, feeling himself perk up at the prospect of a new project. “I’m going to crochet him a sweater.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale spent the next three days, once again, buried in research. He was back on familiar ground, though, and between his vast array of books, patterns, websites, and online crochet groups, he quickly found himself with a sweater design he was satisfied with. It was sleek and plain, nothing flashy, but he’d gotten his hands on a picture from an acquaintance who’d made it before, and her son was a similar build to Crowley, so he thought it would suit him. He picked out a soft, warm black color of a wool yarn he’d used before, and as Wednesday night approached, prepared to do the last bits of information gathering he’d need before he could get his hooks out. He was itching for it; the swatches he’d done to test parts of Anathema’s pattern had made him long for the familiar motions of a crochet hook, as much as he had come to enjoy the different physicality of knitting.

And, most importantly, he felt good about the plan. He was looking forward to telling Crowley, now that he knew how he was going to do it. The nerves would certainly return when the time actually came, but at least with the sweater, he’d have something supporting him.

Crowley was already in the back room when Aziraphale arrived for Knitting Night, which he decided to take advantage of. He made a beeline for the yarn aisles, and to the wools shelf he’d been steered away from so many—it seemed—weeks ago.

He had memorized the yarn he’d picked, and Crowley’s store was beautifully organized, so he was able to find the right basket quickly, and, with a quick check to make sure there was still no one in the store, dug around in it until he found the exact color he’d chosen. There were only two skeins of it, certainly not enough, but it would get him started. He’d ask Tracy to tell Crowley she’d need more of it, and he was sure by the time the order came in he’d be just ready for the additional yardage.

He had just put the basket back on the shelf and reached to briefly admire the knitted swatch Crowley had made from a green tone of it when he heard footsteps on the tile floor leaving the back room. “Aziraphale?”

Briefly caught between trying to hide he’d been in the yarn at all or playing it off casually, Aziraphale fell back on his original plan. “I’m over here, dear.”

Crowley appeared at the far end of the aisle, and broke into a smile as soon as he saw him. “Hey. Andrew said he saw you come in. I was waiting for you to show up.”

“Got distracted, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said, still holding the swatch he’d taken. “They’re lovely little pieces, you know.”

Crowley’s face went red, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. “‘S the yarn that makes ‘em.”

“No. Yarn is just yarn.” He put the swatch back in its place, and took a few steps toward Crowley. “Sorry to make you wait, my dear.”

“Nah. Just got excited.”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to blush. “It’s a mutual feeling, I promise.” Boldly, he slipped one hand into Crowley’s arm. “Come on, then. I’m about up to the thumb holes on my gloves. I’ll need some guidance.”

Crowley’s hand found its way out of its pocket to twine with his. “You’ve got me all night. Mostly. But Anathema’s off to the races now, so yeah, mostly just you.”

“She is, isn’t she?” Aziraphale said, as detached as he could sound. But Crowley didn’t seem to notice anything odd, either about that or Aziraphale’s detour to the yarn aisle, so he counted it all as a win over all.

The other thing Aziraphale had to do that night was find out Crowley’s size. He had already decided he was better off asking Anathema than asking Crowley directly; he really did want the present to be a full surprise, and he couldn’t invent any good excuses for why he’d need his shirt size other than to get him a shirt.

It may have been a moot point. In a spare moment, Anathema had gestured him to come over; in the last few weeks they had started to chat more, and Aziraphale had even moved nearer her one night when the room was a bit more crowded than usual and his regular seat was taken. While he was there, he asked Anathema if she knew Crowley’s size, and though she didn’t remember off the top of her head, she promised she’d tell him by the end of the night. Aziraphale took that to mean she’d dig a little bit in her phone’s notes, or perhaps some old messages with Crowley.

This was not what happened.

“Oi, Crowley!” Anathema called a few minutes later, right as Crowley was in the middle of showing Aziraphale how to bind off the right stitches for his gloves’ thumb holes. “What’s your shirt size?”

Crowley had looked up and squinted at her, which made Aziraphale’s hands immediately go clammy, but he only said “Medium, but I am not wearing any matching shirt you’re coming up with,” and went back to the needles.

Anathema winked at him. Aziraphale had just nodded, feeling a little faint. He should just be glad she’d waited until he’d been back in his own seat for a while, he supposed. And that she was exactly the type to badger her friends into matching t-shirts. It had taken all the suspicion off him.

But once he’d calmed down a little, he found himself getting ramped up again, this time with excitement. He had everything he needed—almost, Tracy would pick up the yarn tomorrow—and without anything to stop him now, he was itching to start his gift. It was hard to focus on his gloves, his head was so full of ideas for how he’d present it.

Crowley, of course, was very patient with him even when his mind wandered. “Angel—watch your yarn, here, you’re going to snag it.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale quickly corrected his hands. “Thank you.”

“‘Course. Erm.” He fidgeted briefly with his needles. “We talked a little about it last time, but… did you want to try to get lunch this week?”

“Oh—oh, well yes, but…” His sweater wouldn’t be nearly done. Not that they couldn’t get lunch first, but as Anathema had reminded him when she called him over just an hour ago, the farther they went before he told Crowley about his crochet skills, the more likely Crowley would be hurt by the revelation. That was the last thing he wanted to do. “This week may not work well.” He saw the little sag of Crowley’s shoulders and instinctively put a reassuring hand on his knee. “It’s a busy few weeks at work, right now. Back to school, everyone comes in looking for their school books. I don’t even carry them usually, but it’s a good little boost in sales, I like to take advantage of it.”

“Ah, yeah. Makes sense.”

“But after. It’s not very long. And maybe if I have a clearer day sometime soon, I’ll call you?”

Crowley brightened slightly. “Yeah. Anytime. ‘S long as I’m not the only one here, obviously.”

“And if you were I might just come visit you.” Squeezing his knee, Aziraphale gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “And we can still do coffee, probably. And Wednesdays, of course.”

“Yeah.” Crowley smiled then, back to his proper boisterous self. “Lunch’ll be there when we get to it.”

“That it will. For now, will you show me how to do that fickle increase again? I’m afraid I wasn’t following very well.”

Crowley was very happy to show him again, and they spent the rest of the night sitting together, lightly pressed together from hip to knee, and despite the lingering taste of regret for the loss of a lunch date, Aziraphale reassured himself with the knowledge that it wouldn’t be long before they could.

He was going to crochet faster than he ever had before. That sweater would be done before the back to school rush finished, if he had his way.

Which, when it came to yarn, he very often did.

Chapter Text

The true beauty of working in a small craft store was that nobody was bothered if he spent his free time crafting. That was also the beauty of owning said small craft store, but even when he’d worked other places before, as long as it was a place run by a human and not a company, nobody had ever looked twice if he whipped out a half finished sock during a quiet moment at the register.

It was a little harder working on a pattern in his free moments; he had to keep dashing between the office, where his computer was, and the shop floor, where the customers were. And with Warlock’s school year starting up, he was taking over more shifts out in the shop. He’d thought about hiring someone else—Quinn had mentioned a friend looking for a part time gig—but hadn’t gotten around to it yet. How Aziraphale managed his shop almost entirely on his own, he didn’t know.

He was alone in the shop on Wednesday, just contemplating whether to wait for his lunch break or eat in pieces and spend his half hour once Quinn arrived fully focused on the pattern, when his apron pocket buzzed. His heart jumped when he saw the message was from Aziraphale, but sank again when he read the preview.

I’m sorry, my dear, I don’t think I’ll make it to Knitting Night tonight.

The typing bubble was still up, probably Aziraphale checking his grammar on whatever else he had to say. It was endearing, his persistence in using full punctuation over text. It made Crowley smile. It was so very him.

The bubble disappeared, came back for a moment, but vanished again. When it didn’t reappear, Crowley opened his own.

That’s ok

I’ll miss seeing you though

Everything alright?

The bubble popped up immediately. Perfectly fine. Something came up, is all. I’ll miss you as well, my dear.

Daringly, there was a little red heart at the end of the message.

Quinn came in a while later to find him still on his phone tapping happily away. Now that the line of emoji usage had been breached, Crowley was tacking his own little hearts and faces onto his messages. Aziraphale seemed a bit perplexed at a number of them. It was a lot more fun than working on the pattern, frankly. And if he wasn’t at Knitting Night that night, Crowley would have a little more time to work on it then.

And he might, if he was feeling a little daring himself, use this to his advantage a little, and try to convince Aziraphale to go on another coffee almost-date. He really didn’t want to wait a whole other week before seeing him again. And he was increasingly confident, with each passing text, that Aziraphale didn’t, either.

Aziraphale made it to coffee; he didn’t make it to Knitting Night, again, the following week. This time it was a busy day at work, and a late shipment he had to inventory. Crowley was as supportive as he could be from a distance, and without putting his own disappointment on Aziraphale. The last thing he wanted was to make Aziraphale feel worse about something that was out of his control.

Guess you’ll have to get me coffee again to make up for it, he had responded, only to immediately regret it. But Aziraphale had responded with a heart, and as delightfully sarcastic as he could be in person, he’d never shown a sign of it when it was something that mattered.

He didn’t, however, get a suggested time for said coffee date, and Crowley hesitated at pushing it if Aziraphale was trying to get through a big shipment. That part could wait a bit. They’d find a time.

Aziraphale felt a little bit awful about lying his way out of Knitting Night, which was a little absurd given the lie he’d been telling for weeks to get into Knitting Night, but there he was. The sweater was taking longer than he hoped. That was almost certainly down to his own overeager expectations and the fact he hadn’t crocheted something so big since he made his cardigan, but it was also genuinely slow going. He’d never been a careless crafter, he cherished quality in his work and in his things, but he’d never been a perfectionist, either. A little slip up or two was what gave an item its hand-crafted-heart, he’d always believed.

For Crowley, though, he couldn’t turn off his inner critic. Even when he tried to get into the zone and just crochet, there was still a lingering worry that he’d made a mistake somewhere. Double checking stitch numbers had turned into triple checking, and he had used so many stitch markers to keep count he’d had to start stealing them from other unfinished projects he had lying around. The sweater was going to be beautiful. If nothing else, it would show Crowley that he really did care about him, enough to go to an awful lot of work to prove it.

To make up for the slower pace his perfectionism was inducing in him, he was crocheting at all hours. In the shop, over dinner—very carefully—, in bed, on the bus. He brought it with him when he visited Tracy, tucked safely into a shopping bag, always with an extra hook and the next ball of yarn, just in case.

He had left it laid out over the counter by the register one morning when the bell over the door tinkled. He was out of sight of it at that moment, helping one customer find the poetry section while scanning the drama shelves for a spare copy of Hamlet for a harried father searching for his high schooler’s other books in other aisles.

“I’ll be with you in a moment!” he called. For the upteenth time, he wondered whether he was mad for not having more help, but he’d proven to himself over the years that he much preferred the flexibility of working alone to the structure required of having employees. For instance, he was already considering closing a few minutes early for a slightly early lunch. He had a lovely serving of leftover pasta he’d been craving most of the morning just waiting for him upstairs.

“There you are, my dear, have at it,” he said to the young lady he’d been showing to the poetry section. “Shout if you need anything.” She went on her way, beelining for the shelf of Sylvia Plath, and Aziraphale turned to make another sweep of drama only to find— “Crowley!”

“Hey, angel,” Crowley said with a grin. Aziraphale clutched the book he was carrying a little tighter. He looked very good—a little step up from his usual, hair a little curlier, shirt a button up instead of a simple t-shirt. He had on a jacket somewhere between a blazer and a leather jacket, which Aziraphale had seen before, but somehow the lack of an apron anywhere to be seen seemed to take it a step up. He was wearing his sunglasses, as he usually seemed to outside Idle Hands; Aziraphale hadn’t seen the tortoiseshell reading glasses since the first time he’d spotted them in the store.

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale demanded, though his delight shone right through.

Crowley shrugged, hands in his pockets. “Thought I’d come surprise you. I was out this way with Anathema, and I know you close for lunch at noon, so…”

Aziraphale knew he was beaming and made no effort to tone it down. “I was actually just thinking about leaving a little early. There’s a few more people around, but once they’ve left—are you alright to wait a few minutes?”

“‘Course I am. Been meaning to come visit, anyway. You know my store front to back, I wanted to see yours.”

“Well feel free to wander. There’s a little shelf of audiobooks up front, actually I know you like those.”

Crowley’s face brightened. Before he could turn, the chime by the register rang. “Ah. Excuse me, dear, I have to go—” Oh. The counter.

Fuck.

“Actually, now that I think of it—well, it’s not a lot of audiobooks, and actually there’s some good stuff in the back there through the circle, follow the tall shelves, there you go.” He didn’t quite push Crowley towards the other side of the store, but there was a bit of a shove. The register bell rang again. “I’ll meet you back there, back corner, see you soon.”

“Okay,” Crowley said, lips quirking bemusedly. Aziraphale was talking too fast, but couldn’t stop himself.

“Right. One moment.”

Before Crowley could question him, he dashed around the corner and made his way to the counter as quickly as he could without outright running. He didn’t even round the desk before he swept the partial sweater out of sight, checking nervously to see if Crowley had followed, or even just poked his head around the shelf to see why his friend had suddenly started behaving so oddly.

There was no sign of red hair, though. He leaned forward to peer down the center aisle, which was a reach, but he could see enough of the central circle in the middle of the shop to spot Crowley just coming through, hands still casually in his pockets as he wandered the shelves. Aziraphale let out a breath.

“Um?” said the woman waiting at the register.

“Ah.” Aziraphale shook himself. The crisis had been averted. “Yes, my dear, did you find everything?”

The other three customers left in the store came through quickly, luckily; Aziraphale had just enough time to locate the Hamlet he’d been searching for before ushering its new owner through the door and hurriedly flipping the sign to closed before anyone else could get any funny ideas about coming into his shop.

He double checked that the sweater was securely in its bag and tucked away in the cabinet under the register before he made his way towards the back of the store. There would be no more near misses like that.

Crowley was in the back corner, like Aziraphale had told him. He’d found a stool Aziraphale used for dusting high shelves and was perched there, flipping through a book. Aziraphale had to take a moment to remember what section he’d randomly sent him to. There were worse things than astronomy, he supposed. It could have been the tiny, barely-extant self help corner. Or worse, crafting. That would have been much too complicated a section to explain. There were more crochet books there than Aziraphale had projects in his flat.

“There you are,” Aziraphale said as he stepped closer. Crowley looked up, and smiled.

“Wasn’t hiding.” He flipped the book closed. “I was worried I might get lost, though. But I know you’d have come to find me.”

“I can’t very well leave you wandering the stacks for all eternity, can I? Here, I’ve shooed everyone out. Were you thinking of a walk, or…?”

“How much time do you have? Your sign says ‘hours flexible.’”

“Usually a half hour or so, on a day like today. But I’ve earned a break.” It really was a busy time of year; that part of the fib hadn’t been untrue. “We—well, if you wanted, and you have time…”

“I’ve got all day. Nothing to do but keep you company for a while.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale felt his cheeks go pink. “Well, in that case, would I be able to tempt you to lunch?”

Crowley lit up, the way he only ever seemed to when Aziraphale suggested they do something together. “You’re not too busy?”

“I have time today.” Crowley had already leaped up, finding the place his book had come from and neatly reshelving it before grabbing Aziraphale’s hand and physically pulling him towards the front. “Crowley! I’ll trip!” Aziraphale laughed.

“I’ll catch you. Come on, I know a place I want to take you.”

“I’m taking you to lunch.”

“Do you have a car?”

“No. Where are you trying to take me?”

“It’s not far. No good bus route, is all. I’ll have you back in plenty of time.”

“Alright, alright,” Aziraphale said, making Crowley stop long enough for him to get his coat and lock up the register. “But only because I don’t have any ideas off the top of my head. Next time, I’m taking you out.”

“Fine with me.” Crowley held the door for him, like a perfect gentleman, and took his hand again as soon as the door was locked behind them. “I missed you this week.”

Aziraphale held his hand tighter. He’d missed Crowley too, though he’d been too focused on making his sweater to focus on it. “I’ll be there this week. I promise. And,” he decided, “maybe we could try for another lunch date between. To make up for it.”

Crowley made very sure he knew it wasn’t necessary, and that he understood things were busy, but Aziraphale saw so easily how happy he was with the idea. How could he force this to wait on a project taking longer than he thought? A date—two, counting today—wouldn’t ruin anything, surely. Perhaps, if he really went for it, he could finish before the next week.

It was hard to focus on the numbers, though, when Crowley was loosely swinging their hands between them, and the early fall day was so bright and lovely.

True to his word, Aziraphale was at Knitting Night the following Wednesday perfectly on time, gloves out and ready to knit. Crowley was a little surprised that they weren’t any farther along than the last time he’d seen them; with his first project, Aziraphale always seemed to have finished another few inches by the time the next week came around.

Crowley wrote it off as Aziraphale wanting further guidance with the rest of the pattern. He was already past the tricky bit, but a bit of reassurance and company was always helpful.

An hour or so in, though, he still didn’t seem to have made much progress. Whenever Crowley was sitting with him, he was knitting away, but he seemed unusually prone to getting distracted by the conversations around them. And when Crowley moved over to Anathema for a while to check in with her, he looked up a few times to find Aziraphale not holding his needles at all, but instead frowning at his phone or listening in on other conversations.

It was odd, but, then again, he was having a stressful time at work. Maybe he was more in need of company and conversation than crafting time; that was perfectly understandable.

And then, over an hour before he usually did, Aziraphale left.

He said goodbye, and promised to give him a time for the dinner date they’d been floating, and he did look like he needed some sleep, but Crowley still stared a little forlornly after him as he left.

He ignored Anathema’s attempts to catch his attention. She stopped after the first few, picking up on the fact that he wasn’t avoiding talking to her, just avoiding talking to her with people around. Thank someone for too-smart best friends.

He finally allowed himself to be towed over to the sofa when it was only Deirdre and Paula packing up the leftover snacks and Newt hurrying to finish the last few rows of his shawl—this one adult sized, meant for Anathema once the weather got colder.

Anathema’s project was abandoned on the stool next to her the moment he sat down. “Is Aziraphale okay? Why’d he leave?”

“Tired. Work’s been busy. That’s all.”

“Okay.” Anathema stared at him, reading right through his skin. For once, Crowley didn’t make any fight against it. “Come on, talk to me, Crowley, what’s up? You’re looking like you’re heartbroken.”

Crowley startled out of it a little at that. “No. Not that. It’s fine.”

“Walk me through what happened. You were good to go earlier. Did he… tell you something, or anything like that?”

“No. It’s—really, we’re good, I think? We did lunch the other day. And we wanted to do another but it didn’t work, so we moved it to dinner, which is huge, you know, I didn’t think I’d be able to ask him to dinner until I had the pattern for him, but it just kind of happened, and it’s, you know, it’s…” He sighed. “It’s good. It is.”

“So why are you feeling shitty about it?”

“I’m not feeling shitty about it. No, I’m not, don’t start, it’s not us, it’s… he left early. And he’s not. Mrg. He didn’t look like he was enjoying his knitting. Not like he has before.”

Anathema made a long, low sound. They sat for a moment, both slumped against the back of the sofa, Crowley from tiredness and Anathema from not having much where else to be with her belly in the way of her lap. “I told you you should find something to impress him with outside of knitting.”

“Do not told-you-so me now, Anathema,” Crowley snapped.

“I’m not, I’m not, I mean, you’ve done it. You are seeing each other outside of this. Even as he was on his way out he asked you about going on a date. Does it matter if he falls out of love with knitting if he’s already fallen in love with you?”

Crowley squirmed. “No need to bring the four letter word into this,” he muttered.

“I know it’s disappointing, I get it, you were the one who comforted me when Newt said he thought the occult decor was getting a bit too much for the wedding.”

“He was right.”

“Thank you, Crowley,” Newt chimed in from Anathema’s other side.

“And you still understood it upset me. He’s not as into knitting as you hoped; okay, but he’s into other things. You’re into other things. There will be other things you can share. Even if this was the first thing, and it’s disappointing it won’t last.”

Crowley sat for a while, staring at his hands. Newt finished binding off his shawl and packed it and Anathema’s blanket away; Deirdre waved goodbye on her way out the door, and Anathema hauled herself to her feet before turning to offer Crowley a hand.

“It’s the pattern,” he said quietly once he was up. “I was so excited to give it to him. Now it’s not really going to matter.”

“Oh, honey.” Suddenly he was in a tight hug, a little awkward in position, but he didn’t fight it. Anathema pulled away and put a hand on his cheek briefly. “You’re going to be alright. We’ll find you something else to give him when you go to dinner.”

“Flowers are safe.”

“I can find out what his favorites are.”

Crowley snorted, almost a laugh. “You’re so close to being a creep.”

“I carefully toe the line. He likes me, that makes it easy.”

“Sure.” Finally taking a look around the room, Crowley found it all packed away and cleaned up. Newt was just stacking the last of the folding chairs in the corner. “Alright. I gotta lock up. Time to head out.”

“We’ve got ice cream in the freezer if you want to come with us.”

“Nah. I’m alright. Thanks, though.”

Anathema patted his cheek again, this time significantly more patronizingly. After she and Newt gathered up their things and left, Crowley went through the motions of closing the store, letting the routine take him out of his head.

He texted Aziraphale on his way out. He didn’t get a response until the next morning—Aziraphale had gone home to sleep, after all—but what he did see upon waking up made him smile hard enough to carry him through the day.

I believe Friday night will be perfect. Don’t go making any plans, you promised I could take YOU out this time.

Crowley went through the whole day with a smile on his face.

Chapter Text

“You’re running yourself ragged, love. That never ends well.”

Aziraphale sighed loudly, though he didn’t look up from his crocheting. “I’m perfectly fine, Tracy. I’ve had tighter deadlines before. Remember the hat drive last winter.”

“Which had maybe a third the emotional stakes as this sweater,” Tracy tsked as she brought a tray of tea and fresh biscuits—made on her own, this visit—over to the sofa, where Aziraphale had stationed himself as soon as he arrived.

“It’s nearly done. And then I’ll have this whole mess behind me and we can get on with things.”

“Tell me you’re taking some breaks, at least. You’re not a young man anymore, Aziraphale, you can’t string all-nighters together like you did in school.”

“Excuse me, I never strung together all-nighters in school.” A row finished—finally—and immediately onto the next one. “The library closed at eight and opened early. I was strictly on that schedule.”

The silence was only broken by the deliberate sound of a sip of tea. Aziraphale finally looked up, to see Tracy peering at him meaningfully over her cup.

He sighed again, even louder this time. “I am taking breaks. I am eating at my usual hours, and I am sleeping every night, so you can stop mother henning. You’re not very much older than me to begin with.”

Tracy continued to watch him with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, really.” He finally put his work pointedly aside and took his tea cup. “I want it done by Wednesday. We’re going out for a late breakfast. Or coffee and a walk, maybe, we didn’t specify. Wednesday morning, though, I’m going to see him, and I want to give him this then.”

“Didn’t you see him yesterday already?”

“Yes.” He couldn’t help a slightly dreamy sigh. “I took him to that sushi place you introduced me to. And it was wonderful, and I like him so very much, and the entire time I was sitting there feeling completely awful that I haven’t told him yet.” He let out a bark of laughter. “It’s absurd. It’s absolutely ridiculous, but I don’t know how else to fix it.” He stared at the black fabric in his lap. “If it goes wrong, if I’ve ruined things too much… at least he’ll have this from me.”

“Oh, love. I know he’ll love it. And if it doesn’t go well, you come right here and we’ll find a way to fix it.”

“Thank you, Tracy.” He looked at the sweater for another moment before taking it and putting it away in its bag. He felt better for it; as much as he was determined to push on and finish the damn thing, he had been pushing hard. Staying up late, missing Knitting Nights… his dates with Crowley, while wonderful, probably didn’t count as the kind of breaks he needed considering all he was doing otherwise. That was fine though, surely. Two more days—three if he counted today, and it would all be behind him.

Crowley woke up on Wednesday morning with his heart already jumping. He’d intended to sleep in a little more; Wednesday wasn’t his usual morning free, but Warlock had a day off for some inexplicable American reason, and he’d been happy to switch. Aziraphale didn’t open his store until after lunch on most Wednesdays. They could go for a late morning outing and still have plenty of time for them both to make their afternoon shifts.

Though he was too anxious to fall back asleep, it was the excited kind of anxious, not the nervous kind. He’d been a wreck before their dinner date on Friday, trying on half the things in his closet, redoing his hair three times, getting to the florist a half hour early in fear something would have gone wrong and he’d need time to fix it before it was time to meet Aziraphale. But as soon as he’d actually gotten there—actually seen Aziraphale all dapper in his cream coat and bowtie, and his surprised delight when he presented the bouquet of peonies, all his nerves had vanished. It was easy, being with Aziraphale, even if he didn’t find it easy to think about being with him.

So this morning, armed with experience and the great wonder of knowing what he was getting into, he was able to actually enjoy the lead up to their date. He padded around the flat taking care of little chores, considering what he might wear that morning based more on the rapidly chilling weather than what he thought Aziraphale would like best. Not that that wasn’t a factor—it very much was—but he was able to have more fun with it today.

The hat pattern he’d been working on was still on his desk when he went to clear it up. It was finished. He hadn’t been able to leave it half done, even if it wouldn’t be going to its intended recipient. He tucked it away on a shelf, between a pair of knitting books. Maybe he’d publish it, at some point. Or make it and give the actual hat to Aziraphale. That might be nice.

He left the flat twenty minutes before he really had to, but he was starting to get jumpy, and figured a walk would get rid of some of his excess energy. He took the long way to the park, instead of catching a bus. Maybe he’d regret it if they wound up getting coffee and wandering the park for another hour, but he’d worn his comfortable boots instead of the fancy ones he’d put on for Friday, so the sunshine and fresh air seemed worth the risk.

He found the bench they had sat on the last time they’d come to St James, and snagged it before anyone else could take it. He was still early; maybe he could go and get them their drinks ahead of time, have them ready to surprise Aziraphale with. They had agreed to meet at the bench, but as long as he was in the area they’d find each other.

But the park was starting to get busier, and despite pondering the idea for a while, Crowley decided to stay where he was. It was a nice bench, with a view of the lake. And this way they could go get their coffee and tea together. Or even a little brunch, if Aziraphale wanted.

It was a testament to how much calmer he was feeling that day that he got quite distracted watching the ducks, and actually lost track of time for a while people watching. When he did finally check the time, though, it was already eleven o’clock. Aziraphale was nearly ten minutes late.

Crowley frowned. That was unlike him. Crowley may have been accustomed to arriving places first because he got anxious about being late and therefore arrived unreasonably early, but Aziraphale was generally right on the dot, if not a little before. He checked his messages, but there was nothing but a four leaf clover emoji from Anathema. He rolled his eyes. He hadn’t even told her about this yet.

“Must be caught on the bus,” Crowley decided, and sent off a quick text letting Aziraphale know he was at their bench whenever he got there.

There was no response.

He waited a little longer before he got too fidgety and had to get up and start walking. His nerves were back in full force, and suddenly he didn’t know how he’d been sitting still for so long. He made his way over to the kiosk to see if maybe Aziraphale had gone straight there to get his tea, but there was no sign of him. He hadn’t arrived at the bench by the time Crowley made it back there, either.

He waited for close to an hour, all told. Aziraphale never came.

Aziraphale woke up when the sun started to filter through his bedroom window. Given his room was on the west side of the building, that meant it was getting quite late; certainly longer than he had intended for his nap, but clearly he had needed it.

He didn’t rush his way out of bed. He felt miles better than he had that morning when he woke up slumped over his desk with the lamp still burning and Crowley’s sweater pressed into his cheek. Seeing that it was already well into the morning, he had blearily changed the day’s shop hours on the sign and gone upstairs to have an impromptu day off.

Wandering into the kitchen in his dressing gown to make a cup of tea and find something to eat, he instinctively reached for his phone to check if he had any messages from Crowley, only to find he didn’t have it. A quick scan of his bedroom and sitting room confirmed that he had left it downstairs last night—or that morning, rather.

It would keep until he’d had some food, he decided.

Caught up in a slow, pleasant post-nap haze and still a little too sleep deprived to think entirely clearly, it was even later by the time he was dressed and cleaned up and went down to look for his phone. It was buried under one sleeve of the sweater. He took a moment to smooth out the fabric—it was so close to being finished—before turning it on.

The time on the lock screen alone was enough to jolt him out of his calm. It was nearly six thirty by then. He’d have to hurry to make it to Knitting Night on time. And then—

It was Wednesday. He’d forgotten—he’d never properly gone to bed on Tuesday, and the change of day hadn’t really registered when he woke up. It did now, though, and very harshly.

“Oh no,” he whispered. “Oh no, oh—Crowley…”

He had a string of texts from him, the alert bubble red and accusing. They went from cheerfully announcing he’d gotten their bench for them to wondering if he was somewhere else, to asking if he knew when he’d arrive. They stopped suddenly around noon, with nothing but a last “are you coming?”

There were two messages from Anathema, as well. where were you this morning? , followed by answer him before you answer me, he feels awful

Aziraphale had bolted up the stairs before his phone could hit the desk again. Keys and coat hanging off his arm, he flew back downstairs and hurriedly packed the sweater into his shopping bag before running out the door with barely enough care to turn off the lights.

If he caught all the right buses, and ran the rest of the way to the shop, he’d get there just before Knitting Night started. He didn’t even take the time to rehearse an apology, he was so consumed with finding the fastest route there.

He had never intended to hurt Crowley like this. It was a mistake, and an honest one, but it was unconscionable to leave it any longer than physically possible. It wasn’t something to try and fix over a text, either, when he was about to see Crowley face to face, anyway.

And the sweater was coming with him, secret or no. It had been intended to help him move forward with Crowley; he wasn’t going to allow it to pull them further back. He would explain—he didn’t know how, but talking with Crowley had always been easier than he expected so surely he would figure it out—what he had been working on, and that he’d pushed too hard, and accidentally slept right through their morning together. And maybe—no, he would, he would ask Crowley out on another date to make up for it. Whatever he had to do to reassure him, he knew he’d manage it when he saw him.

He was going so fast when he finally got off the last bus and ran for the shop that he pulled on the door before he noticed the lights weren’t all on, and nearly ran into it when it didn’t open. Staring dumbfounded, he realized the shop was closed.

A face appeared on the other side of the glass, but it was purple-haired instead of red. Seeing who it was, Warlock unlocked the door and opened it enough to speak with Aziraphale.

“You alright, Mr. Fell?”

“Yes, I’m—why is the shop closed? It’s Wednesday. Isn’t it?” He was feeling more and more turned around every moment.

“Crowley canceled it,” Warlock said. “Wasn’t feeling well today. Didn’t you get the message?”

“No.”

Warlock’s eyebrows furrowed momentarily. “Are you even in the group chat? I haven’t seen you.”

“Group chat?”

“Oh. There’s one for the Knitting Night regulars. Just times and who’s baking that week. I guess Crowley was just telling you separately.”

“Yes. He must have been.” Aziraphale couldn’t help staring through the window where he could just see the office door behind the register, hoping unrealistically that maybe Crowley would step out and he’d be able to talk to him.

“I can add you now, if you want. Sorry you came all the way here.”

Slightly numb, Aziraphale went to take out his phone, but found it wasn’t in his pocket. He’d left it on the desk, again.

“Perhaps another time, Warlock,” he said. He suddenly felt exhausted, like he’d never taken a nap at all. “I’ll, um. I’ll head home, I think.”

“Okay. I’ll see you next week, Mr. Fell.”

Warlock disappeared back into the store to finish closing up, leaving Aziraphale standing on the curb, wondering what on earth to do with himself now.

There was nothing to do except go home; his only way of reaching Crowley was there lying uselessly in the back room. He made his way back significantly slower than he had come. The weather was just beginning to turn, and he stroked the fabric of the sweater in its bag as he sat on the bus. It was going to be the perfect weather for it in a few weeks.

He undid his changes to his hours sign on the way into the shop. Doors locked, coat hung up, he scooped his phone off the desk and went upstairs.

Despite his better instincts, he decided not to call; if Crowely really was feeling unwell, like Warlock had said, he didn’t want to wake him. If he texted back, he’d ask if he could call then. It wasn’t the real problem and he knew it, but he didn’t want to be intrusive.

My dear, I

This morning was a

Are you alright? I’m so sorry, I

You mean so much and

I think I love you.

He sat on his sofa for a long time, head in his hands, typing and deleting. What he actually sent was less than everything else, but about as much as he had earned for himself, he thought.

Crowley, forgive me. I made a mistake this morning, and I’m so very sorry I left you waiting. You deserved so much better than a text hours late, but I only woke up a short while ago. All I can offer is an apology and a promise I’ll try and make it up to you, if you like. I’m so sorry, my dear.

After minutes reconsidering every word and editing every piece of punctuation, he finally sent the message, and watched as it went, and was delivered, and was not read. If Crowley really was feeling unwell—and not just because of Aziraphale’s foolishness—Aziraphale hoped he was asleep. He so badly wanted to know he was getting what he needed.

When there was no response for a long time, and his halfhearted attempt at a soothing hot cocoa had gone cold untouched, Aziraphale picked himself up and went back to bed. For the first time since he’d gotten the device, his phone was left on overnight, ringer turned up, waiting on the nightstand in case it should ring. Aziraphale wouldn’t like Crowley to have to wait on him again all in one terrible day.

He fell asleep easier than he expected. He was still exhausted, after weeks of pushing himself too hard. The sweater lay downstairs on the desk, left to itself for the first night since it had been begun.

Chapter Text

There was no return message when he awoke. His apology was still marked unread; Aziraphale, because he didn’t have anything to do but hope, hoped that Crowley was sleeping late, and would feel better for it when he woke. For his part, Aziraphale had risen early, and quickly found things to busy himself with. His phone stayed on his person, where he would be sure not to miss it if Crowley called him.

Around eleven, just as he was opening the shop, his pocket buzzed with a text.

Were you feeling okay? Why were you asleep so late?

A bark of a laugh burst out of him. Here he was, having overthought every word in his apology, and somehow he’d gone and made Crowley worry about him. The lovely, wonderful man.

I’m fine, dear. It seems I haven’t been sleeping quite enough, and fell asleep at my desk late on Tuesday, and when I woke up I forgot which day it was and went back to bed. I’m so sorry I left you there.

The new typing bubble didn’t appear immediately, and it was hard to keep himself from fidgeting or sending off something else, but he wouldn’t step into Crowley’s chance to say his piece. A customer came in, and as much as his phone weighed heavy in his pocket, he was happy for the distraction.

While he was working, Crowley had just responded. It’s okay

Then, a moment later, Next time I’m coming to get you. See if you can sleep through me hanging on your doorbell

Aziraphale laughed truly then, loud enough to make the few customers around look over. He didn’t care in the least. Next time I think I’ll be waiting on the stoop before you even get here. I was so looking forward to our morning.

We’ll do it again. Saturday?

Heart full of so much warmth he thought he might burst or laugh or break into tears, Aziraphale pressed a hand to his chest and typed as quickly as he could one-handed.

Yes, I can do Saturday. I promise.

A brief pause, a typing bubble that flashed in and out a few times, and then See you soon, angel <3

Aziraphale clutched his phone in his hand until someone came to ask him where the picture books were, at which point he tucked it carefully into the breast pocket of his shirt—unsightly as it was—and went to help. Crowley’s day started not long after his did, with a post-lunch shift at Idle Hands, and their conversation was necessarily staggered, but with every message the tension in Aziraphale’s bones eased. It was beautifully, beautifully normal, this back and forth. Like things were alright.

Like it might turn out alright, in the end.

The sweater made very little progress that week. Aziraphale hadn’t burned out, quite, but he was newly distracted. Saturday morning was an odd bubble of relief and joy, as they both settled back into normalcy after their first real hiccup. He wouldn’t have wanted to break that fragile comfort with revealing his secret even if he had thought of it, but it somehow, genuinely slipped out of his mind—he was so focused on Crowley, and the utter joy of making him laugh, and perhaps for the first time since they had met, knitting never came up. Tracy would call that growth. Aziraphale wasn’t thinking hard enough to call it anything.

The shopping bag was waiting patiently on his desk when he got home. It put the slightest damper on his day, but he rallied. It was past time to be done with the whole charade. The very next time he saw Crowley, he determined, finished sweater or no, he would give him what he had and tell him. He was confident, in that post-date bliss, that it would end alright. When the shop was closed for the night, he took the project upstairs and worked on it until bedtime, but without any of his previous mania. It was packed up well before his usual bedtime, and he spent the last bit of the evening tucked up cozy and warm, talking with Crowley about nothing until he fell asleep.

Crowley didn’t realize he was nervous until lunchtime on Wednesday. In retrospect, he’d been jittery all day, but once he finished doing the monthly inventory and suddenly had nothing to do, he found himself with nowhere else to put those nerves.

It took him longer to figure out where they were really coming from. It was a decently busy day, slow start notwithstanding, and while he didn’t have anything satisfying enough to occupy his hands, his mind was too busy to have a chance to work out why he was so anxious. That was compounded by the obvious source suddenly being so very un obvious. He and Aziraphale were fine. They were better than fine; he’d never felt so confident about anything, amazing as it was.

As seven o’clock approached, the direction of his nervous energy started to take a clearer shape. As the clock ticked closer, he started to realize that, while half of him was happy-nerves excited to see Aziraphale, the other half was equally as anxious that he might not show up at all.

They hadn’t discussed Aziraphale’s apparent loss of interest in knitting. It hadn’t come up, which seemed bizarre now, but had genuinely not occurred to Crowley in the time since last Wednesday. The previous week’s slip up had seemed to reset them, somehow. They were well and truly their own little self-sustaining relationship, now. Crowley knew that whether or not Aziraphale came to Knitting Night ever again, it wouldn’t have an impact on them. He still sat and bounced his knee and wondered, though.

Anathema read him as soon as she came in. “What’s with you?” she asked before the door had closed behind her.

“I don’t know if Aziraphale’s coming or not,” Crowley blurted. There was no one else in the shop, and he’d been worrying at his own nerves all afternoon.

Anathema looked upward for guidance—or patience. “You haven’t asked him?”

“I didn’t think of it till today. It doesn’t matter, I’m still—we’re doing, y’know, ngk, it’s just—”

Anathema mercifully cut him off. “My god, we have got to finish this nonsense.” Before Crowley could protest that he didn’t think this alone qualified for ‘this nonsense,’ she plowed on. “Here’s what we do: if he comes—” she clapped her hands together “—good! Easy. Send him to me before you two get settled, we need to have a chat. If he doesn’t come—” no clap this time, only a slightly exasperated shrug “—you call him. Now, from right here. Get it done with. You don’t mind if he’s not into knitting anymore, you’d just like to know, right?”

“I…” Crowley swallowed. It was odd thinking of this whole thing as being that stable, when it had always felt unthinkably fragile. “Yeah. That’s all. I think.”

“Good.” Clapping him on the shoulder—which was a little silly with their height difference—Anathema turned and headed, not for the back room, but the office. “Now, for the moment, you need a distraction and I need to order decorations for the baby shower, which means you get the dubious honor of helping!”

“The party’s next week.”

“I have been occupied. Pardon me for neglecting the necessity of paper streamers and balloons. Also, can you come help build furniture on Saturday? We finally got the room painted, but I wouldn’t trust Newt with a lego set’s instructions, and I can’t get on the floor anymore.”

Grumbling, but not fighting, Crowley let her pull him into the office. “Only if you give me creative license on the decor.”

“Granted. The room’s purple, though, so you’re gonna have to work with that.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

Thank someone for the Anathemas of the world, and thank them again for having one as a best friend.

Aziraphale left his flat quite early, but he was starting to compulsively dust and reshelve books, which was a sure sign he was working up toward an impressive fit of nerves. So he rinsed out his largely untouched, cold mug of tea, donned his coat, and carefully checked that Crowley’s sweater was safely tucked into its bag before heading for the bus stop.

The sweater wasn’t finished; there were still a few rows to go before the hem, and then it would need to be neatened up and blocked before it was truly ready for wearing. But it was as finished as he had had time for, and that would have to do. And he’d had enough time for a little extra touch along the back of the neck, where a tag would be. He was happy with that.

There was no need for rushing, he’d left himself so much time, so he took the longer route with fewer buses, and still made it to Idle Hands well before anyone else had arrived. The shop was unlocked but apparently empty, and no one came when the door bell chimed, but when he made his way to the back room he found it set up for the evening, with Newt already settled in and stitching away. He looked up when Aziraphale came in and smiled in greeting, which Aziraphale returned with a wave. He liked Newt. Quiet and accident prone as he was, he’d been nothing but kind and cheerful the whole time he’d known him.

The room was arranged a little bit differently than it normally was, which wasn’t completely unusual; the seating was hodgepodge to begin with, and got shoved against the walls when they were finished, so a few chairs were often in slightly different positions each week. The loveseat by the door, though, where Aziraphale usually made his spot, was tucked back behind the circle that night, piled with boxes that apparently hadn’t yet found their way to their proper storage shelf. There were enough extra folding chairs to make up the difference, but the plastic seats didn’t appeal. Feeling he deserved a bit of comfort given the long-awaited task he was about to do, Aziraphale claimed one of the ratty, overstuffed armchairs in the circle, and settled in with his bag on his lap.

He didn’t know whether it was better for him to talk to Crowley now, before Knitting Night began, or to wait until after. He’d been back and forth over both options, and as much as he wanted to get it over and done with, he wasn’t sure if he might end up forcing Crowley to put on a happy face for the rest of the evening if he was really upset by it.

Just as he was starting to fidget and consider going to find Anathema for a word of advice, he was saved by the ringing of his phone. He let out a breath. Tracy was even better than Anathema would have been.

There was no one in the room but him and Newt yet, so he answered there, though he was already standing to go outside as he did. “Hello, my dear,” he said quietly as he set his bag down to reserve his chair and went to the door. “You have wonderful timing, as always.”

“Do I?” Tracy said airily. “I thought you might need a bit of encouragement before your big talk tonight.”

“I need a bit of guidance there, actually. I’m not—oh!” Aziraphale stopped in his tracks barely halfway across the shop floor. “One moment, my dear, I’m going to put you on hold. Right back.” He did so without waiting for an answer, and held the phone pressed to his chest while his heart did its by now familiar tap dance at seeing Crowley. “Hello, my dear.”

“Angel,” Crowley said, a small, unexpectedly relieved smile slowly blooming on his face. “You came.”

“Of course I did,” Aziraphale replied, somewhat surprised. “How are you?”

“Good—good, yeah, great.” Anathema appeared in the office door behind him, took one look at them, and went back with a roll of her eyes. Crowley glanced over his shoulder at her. “I gotta finish something, then I’ll be in. Help you get that glove finished, if you want.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Yes, well… I’ll be there in a moment, as well.” He held up his phone and gave it a little shake. “Have a call to finish, I’m afraid.”

Crowley smiled. “Take your time. I’ll be here.”

Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley disappeared back into the office. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Aziraphale headed outside, where he immediately put Tracy back on.

“Tracy, I need help,” he burst as soon as she responded. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Calm down, love, you can. You have the gift for him, don’t you?”

“Yes, but—oh, I think I’m in love with him,” he groaned. “This is absurd.”

“It’ll be over soon, Az, don’t worry. Are you worried about what you’ll say?”

“When I’ll say it. I want it to be done—and I want to stop blasted lying to him, it should have been done weeks ago, I can’t wait longer. But then we still have the whole evening to get through.”

Tracy hummed thoughtfully. “That’s tricky, love.”

“I know.”

“You’re not going to like my answer.”

“Please.”

“I think after.”

Aziraphale’s heart dropped a short distance into his stomach. “Do you really?”

Tracy sighed. “We don’t know how he’s going to react, right away. I think you’ll be alright in the end, don’t get me wrong, but he’s got a right to be upset. It’s more fair to give him room for that, I think. Can’t very well have himself a moment when he’s running his knitting club, can he?”

“No.” Aziraphale stared out at the darkening street, buses and cars and people going past at the usual busy city pace. His shoulders sank. “I… you’re probably right.”

“I’m sorry, love. But it’s only a few hours more. This way you can come right here if it goes bad, anyway.”

“I will. I mean, I hope I won’t, but I will if… I have to.” He sighed. “I need a drink.”

“Can’t recommend that before an important conversation, Az.”

“Tea, at least.” He remembered the coffee shop around the corner, where Crowley had taken him on their very first outing together. “I wonder if they’re still open. There’s a coffee place Crowley likes, I could bring him something, too.”

“That sounds like a lovely idea to me. A little walk and fresh air won’t do you any harm, either.”

“No, that’s certainly true.” He took another deep breath, setting uncomfortably into the idea of waiting until the end of the night to tell Crowley the truth. “Alright. Thank you very much, my dear. You’re a wonder, as always.”

“I hope it’s the right thing. I know it’ll be alright, either way. Mind how you go, love.”

“You as well.”

The call clicked off, and Aziraphale was left standing on the sidewalk with half a plan and a whole dose of anxiety.

“Buck up, old boy,” he muttered to himself as he made for the end of the street and the—hopefully open—coffee shop. “It’s something, at least.”

Helping Anathema with her overdue party prep was much more pleasant after he’d seen Aziraphale. He’d been preparing himself for disappointment, and, even moreso, for a tricky phone call. But he was here—early, to boot—and not only did Crowley not have to worry about what to say to him about it anymore, he was going to get to spend the evening with him. It had been a few weeks now since they’d done that, since Aziraphale started missing meetings. He hadn’t quite realized just how much he missed it until he was looking forward to one again.

More people started to filter in shortly after Aziraphale went out to take his call, and the usual sounds of people chatting and settling in in the back room were comforting. Anathema left him in the office once they’d finished picking balloons. Crowley stayed there for a little longer, neatening up, feeling more content and calm than he had in a while.

He was greeted loudly and cheerfully by his circle of knitters when he finally made it to the back, though he noticed Aziraphale hadn’t returned yet. He also saw that their love seat—ahem—hadn’t made it into the circle that night; he hadn’t gotten around to putting away the extra inventory he’d left there the day before. Clambering around folding chairs and the snack table, he made his way to it and started clearing it off to bring it back into the circle.

Deirdre breezed in with Adam while he was moving paint kits, depositing a tray of shortbread on the table and then looking around for a place to sit. Crowley didn’t pay her much mind until she spoke up to ask the group, “Did anyone leave this here?”

She was pointing to one of the armchairs, over on the other side of the door. There was a large canvas bag on it, though no one claimed it when asked.

Crowley’s brow furrowed. He didn’t recognize the bag. Picking his way back over, he picked it up to see if there was an obvious name anywhere. All he could see was a sizable pile of black fabric and yarn inside. “Anyone know whose this is?” he asked, but only got scattered negatives in response. He shrugged at Deirdre. “We’ll leave it for a minute. Maybe somebody ran to the loo.”

“Probably,” she agreed. “Adam will have to cope with me sitting near him tonight.” Said teenager, despite the assumption, actually brightened when his mother squeezed in on a sofa next to him, immediately starting to talk her ear off about the amigurumi zombie that Warlock, sitting on his other side, had just shown him.

Crowley left the bag on its chair, and briefly poked his head into the store to see if its owner was immediately visible. Aziraphale still wasn’t back, and he couldn’t see him through the shop window. He suppressed a brief pang of worry that he’d left. He knew Aziraphale wouldn’t do that without telling him—though he did hurriedly pull out his phone to see if he had. There was nothing, so we went back into the back room to keep excavating the love seat.

The bag kept nagging at him though. When still no one had claimed it after a few minutes, he went over to investigate again. Neither of the knitters sitting on either side of the armchair recognized it, or had seen it put there; it had apparently been there already when they arrived. He asked again if anyone saw it brought it, but got only the clacking of needles and some shrugs. Anathema’s head tilted in the way that said she was intrigued, but that it was too much work for her to come over there. Next to her, Newt hadn’t even looked up from the navy blue cardigan he was plowing through.

“Weird,” Crowley said to himself. Deciding it had been there long enough to warrant further investigation, he opened it and carefully took out its contents, checking for a name as he went.

It was obvious that it belonged to a crocheter. He found a very nice hook with an ergonomic handle, as well as a case of crochet stitch markers. The bulk of it, though, was a beautifully done black wool sweater. Crowley would be the first to say his crochet skills were lackluster, but he could still see the skill with which it had been made. The stitches were tight and even, and the places where the sleeves began looked almost seamless. But he’d never seen the damn thing before.

“Seriously, nobody knows who’s making this?” he tried again. “It’s beautiful.” There was a little touch of gold by the collar. He draped it over his arm to see without pulling at the unfinished bottom. There was a cloth label sewn into the inside, and for a moment he thought he’d been victorious, but it wasn’t a name. It was labeled, confoundingly, with “knitting knight,” in simple hand-embroidered text.

He was standing there dumbfounded by it when, finally, Newt spoke up from behind him. “Oh,” he said, in his usual calm Newt way. “Sorry, I didn’t see. That’s Aziraphale’s.”

Crowley stared at him. Newt was unbothered, having already returned his focus to his knitting, until Anathema elbowed him. “Ow! What?”

“What do you mean it’s Aziraphale’s?” she demanded.

“He brought it in with him?”

“You saw it?”

“Yes?”

“It’s not Aziraphale’s,” Crowley said. “Somebody else must have left it earlier.”

“No, it was definitely him.”

Anathema groaned. She looked half pained, half exasperated. “Crowley, I think it’s his.”

He frowned at her. “It can’t be. This is crocheted.”

“I can’t believe this,” she muttered.

“Can’t believe what? This is crochet. Aziraphale doesn’t crochet. Ergo, not his.”

Anathema gave the biggest sigh, moving to stand. “He does, actually.”

Crowley stared at her. “He what?”

“He crochets. Has for years. Help me up.”

But Crowley was stuck to the spot. “What do you mean?”

Anathema’s gaze moved to over his shoulder. “Oh, good. Ask him.”

Crowley turned, eyes wide. Aziraphale was standing in the doorway, looking just as startled. He had two takeaway cups in his hands.

“You were about two minutes too late,” Anathema said, settling back on the sofa. “Told you I’d tell him if you took too long. Credit for style, though.”

“Credit for—” Crowley sputtered loudly. He was caught between demanding answers from Anathema and demanding answers from Aziraphale and staring amazed at the jumper in his hands. ‘Knitting knight,’ it had been labeled.

He turned to Aziraphale. He was still standing stock still in the doorway, glancing anxiously around the room. A few people were watching, between rows of their projects, but it wasn’t the whole room by far. The baseline level of chaos had, somehow, not yet been reached.

For the room, that was. Not for Crowley.

The crocheted fabric bunched softly in his hands as he held it out. Aziraphale’s eyes came back to him, wide and unsure.

“Did you make this?” Crowley asked quietly.

Aziraphale’s gaze slipped down to the sweater. He swallowed. “Yes.” He swallowed again, and clutched the paper cups tighter. “It’s for you,” he added, nearly in a whisper.

Crowley’s eyes went just as wide. He stared at the sweater—the black yarn, and the simple cut, and it was his size, now he looked—

He was the knitting knight.

He didn’t realize his mouth was gaping open until Aziraphale touched his elbow and it snapped shut. “Would you like to come out here for a moment? I—I’d like to explain. Please.”

Crowley nodded dumbly. He had nearly followed Aziraphale all the way back into the shop before the tug of yarn against a stitch marker reminded him he was still clutching the unfinished sweater. Carefully—reluctantly—he laid it out on the armchair. Anathema caught his eye before he turned again. He couldn’t read her expression. He hurried out to the shop before she could try to tell him something. This was—whatever the fuck it was— for him and Aziraphale, he thought.

Aziraphale lingered by the end of the closest yarn aisle, waiting for Crowley to follow. He took a moment to appear; when he did, the sweater was gone, and he had his hands shoved into his pockets. His shoulders weren’t all the way hunched, which was… something. Aziraphale could feel his own creeping up towards his ears. Funny how all his confidence disappeared the moment he actually came to need it.

He didn’t know where to put his eyes. Avoiding Crowley seemed cowardly, or like he was trying to hide something, which was the entire opposite of the point. But he was scared if he made eye contact, he’d just look pleading and pathetic.

“So,” Crowley said quietly, when they’d been standing there in silence for a long minute. “Was, um. Was Anathema right?”

“I’m… not sure. I didn’t hear everything,” Aziraphale answered, voice a little faint. “Probably, though.”

“Yeah. Usually. At least a little. Then…” Crowley trailed off. He was looking somewhere to Aziraphale’s left. Aziraphale watched his expression flicker a few different places before it landed somewhere adjacent to puzzled that he couldn’t quite understand.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale began. “I didn’t intend to… do… whatever it is this became. Oh, for someone’s sake.” He sighed and went to run a hand through his hair, which was when he remembered he still had the coffees clutched in his hands. “Right, yes. That. Er, this is for you?”

Crowley took the offered cup slowly, though there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth Aziraphale hoped he recognized as the tip of a smile. He clutched his own cocoa against his chest, thankful for the warmth and an anchor for his hands.

It was just going to get sillier the longer he avoided the elephant, as it were. Best get it out of the room as efficiently and truthfully as possible.

“I do crochet. Picked it up sometime around graduating university, I don’t quite remember… just needed something to do with my hands, really. I’ve always been fidgety.” He chuckled to himself and his cup, which his fingers were already idly tapping against. “I’m not really sure what happened, when we met. I was distracted. You’re so—well. You know. I think, by now, you do?”

A glance up at Crowley, whose face had gone a faint red behind his coffee cup. He jerked his head in a tiny gesture enough like a nod for Aziraphale to push on.

“I was here looking for a new yarn shop. My old one closed, and I’m… particular. But I think where I was being thorough, you saw someone out of his depth. And came to help, because of course you did, and before I knew why, entirely, I was leaving, and you asked me to come and learn to knit with you.

“It wasn’t, you know, any sort of mastermind plot. I wasn’t even thinking most of the time. I never set out to deceive you. I only… it didn’t seem to matter overly much at first, because we’d just met, and I could just say a word and it would all be cleared up, and I was enjoying it so much I didn’t want it to end just yet. And then suddenly I turned around and we were together and I loved it and I wanted the secret over with but by then it mattered so much that I didn’t know how.”

He stared at the top of his paper cup. “The sweater was meant as a way around that. I wanted to… I…” He squirmed. But it had to be done with. “You had to know, when I told you this, that I care about you. So very much. Despite our entire relationship having started with a lie. I like you so much, Crowley, and I… you had to know.”

The cup liner twisted silently around the cup. He watched its steady progress, feeling oddly disconnected from his own fingers, for a long, lingering series of moments. Crowley was unusually still, even in his periphery.

When he finally spoke, it was with an unexpected blend of uncertainty and deep, lingering fondness. “Were you the one who taught Anathema how to fix her blanket?”

Aziraphale looked up. Crowley was wearing an odd half smile, as unsure as his voice. “She had a deadline coming up,” he said weakly, but with a new thread of hope running through it.

Crowley snorted. His shoulders twitched. Then he started to laugh, from suppressed little giggles to a full blown laugh from the belly. Aziraphale’s gut tightened in anxious hope.

“Is it alright?” he asked, rushed, desperate. Crowley’s laugh was contagious, but he had to know before he broke down, too. “Is—are you angry?”

Crowley’s laughter had drawn a few faces to the doorway, but he didn’t seem to care. “You’re ridiculous, you—god, I love you, why? I thought you were getting bored of knitting! And you weren’t!” he crowed. “You weren’t even into it from the start!”

“I was, actually,” Aziraphale objected petulantly. “Well. From day two or so, anyway.”

“But you didn’t even—” He sputtered into another burst of laughter, so genuine and bright Aziraphale was getting pulled in despite himself. He giggled himself, and let Crowley pull the cup out of his hand to haul him into a hug, still laughing together. “I can’t believe you. This whole time.” Crowley squeezed him tighter, and the last little bits of dread washed away. “You made me a sweater.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Anathema join the little crowd at the door. “Oh. They’re fine,” he heard her say. “Idiots, but fine.” The crowd dispersed without argument.

Possibly—somehow—maybe—they really were fine. Idiots, but yes.

Anathema was, after all, always at least a little bit right.

Afterward, Aziraphale stayed to help clean up, letting Anathema and Newt head out earlier than they usually did. Anathema pulled Crowley aside before they left. Aziraphale overheard something about furniture, though he figured there was more to it than that. He was expecting his own long debrief from his own best friend when the evening was over.

They both seemed eager to let it stretch on a little while longer, though.

“‘Lie’ is a big word for it, by the way,” Crowley was saying, mouth running happily while he stacked folding chairs. “Lie of omission, if anything, and anyway it’s not even the biggest lie I’ve told, or been told. It’s not, y’know, you, y’know?”

“I’m not sure,” Aziraphale admitted, smiling as he tried to follow along with Crowley’s happy rambling.

“It’s fine, I’m right, don’t worry about it.”

The last chair clanged onto the stack, and they turned their attention to shoving the remaining furniture into their spots against the walls. Aziraphale slowed as they reached the love seat, hand falling atop Crowley’s instead of on the armrest.

“Are you sure, my dear?” he asked. They’d been so uproarious earlier, there hadn’t been space for a real answer, but he needed it. Before they moved on, before it tangled itself up into a new anxious knot in his chest. He squeezed Crowley’s hand. “You’re allowed to be upset. It’s alright, if you’re hurt, really. I understand.”

Crowley paused. Something eased in Aziraphale just knowing he was giving it due consideration.

“I don’t think so?” he said honestly a moment later. He started pushing the love seat, and Aziraphale followed along. He knew by now that Crowley thought better when he was doing something physical, same as him. “Maybe a little, somewhere, but it’s…” He laughed. “I’ve been a fucking wreck sometimes angel, honestly. Thought you’d lost interest in knitting, worried you’d lose interest in me, all that.”

“Oh, no, darling, I haven’t, never,” Aziraphale rushed to say.

“Yeah, well I know that now.” He grinned. “You made me a sweater.”

Something maybe only another crafter could see the whole scope of. Crowley had taken to the symbol of affection more than Aziraphale could have hoped. Then again, he knew first hand all the work that had gone into it, so maybe it wasn’t all that surprising.

The sweater in question was draped carefully over an armchair, where Aziraphale had seen Crowley run his hand across the fabric nearly every time he passed. “I’m going to have to take it back,” he said apologetically. “I didn’t quite get to finishing the hem.”

Crowley pouted, instantly and shamelessly.

Aziraphale laughed. “You’ll have it again soon enough, you demon. You can’t even wear it as is.”

“Fine. Just don’t—don’t start skipping Knitting Night to work on it again, yeah?”

“I won’t. I promise. And I can even work on it here now, since it’s not a secret anymore.” His hand found Crowley’s again. “I think I’ll leave off on any secrets and surprises for a while. Gifts notwithstanding.”

“Good. By the way, my birthday’s next month.”

“Fuck.”

Crowley laughed and threw an arm around his shoulder. It meant letting go of his hand, but Aziraphale decided he liked this better, anyway.

“Actually, I’ve got—if you—erm. Ngk.” It was astounding how fast Crowley could go from coherent to not. Aziraphale just patted the hand on his shoulder and waited out the sputter. After a moment, Crowley turned his hand over a little to tangle their fingers together. “Did you mean it, that you liked the knitting? Not just the group and me and all, the actual knitting?”

“Yes. Though I’m still not sure I’m convinced that two needles are necessary.” That made Crowley snort. “But it was nice to try something new. And I think there’s—possibly—a few things one can do with knitting that don’t work so well with crochet.”

“Socks.”

“Socks,” Aziraphale nodded.

“D’you still want to keep going with it, then?”

“I think so. I’ve got a lovely teacher, anyway. He won’t steer me wrong.”

Crowley smiled at him, warm and soft. “I’ve got something for you, then. Do you mind a walk? It’s at my flat.”

Aziraphale’s chest warmed. “I’d like that. Yes.”

They found their abandoned coffee cups on a shelf on their way through the store. Crowley had forgotten all about his second little present of the night, and his mocha had gone stone cold. So had Aziraphale’s hot cocoa, though he stubbornly insisted on taking it with him anyway and seemed undaunted by the lackluster temperature. Crowley almost couldn’t stand it, he loved him so much right then.

It wasn’t far to Crowley’s building—the sort of distance that was generally worth taking the bus unless he got to the stop just as it pulled away, in which case it was actually faster to walk. In the just-chilly evening air, it was the perfect distance for a comfortable stroll. They held hands, and it didn’t even take any emotional fortitude to do it.

“I’m up there,” he said as they reached his block, pointing up to a dark handful of windows above. “Sixth floor. It’s a pain for groceries, but at least I get good light.”

“It looks nice.”

“Bit bare, if I’m honest. Not like your place. Yours is all clutter.”

“You haven’t even seen the half of it. I keep the yarn upstairs in the flat. And what I do have downstairs kept getting tossed under the counter whenever you came in.”

“Oh, gosh, I hadn’t even thought of that,” Crowley chuckled. “Is that why you shunted me off to astronomy that time I came in?”

“Your sweater was very conspicuously lying on the counter. Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley followed him into the building after holding the door, and led him toward the stairs. “Lift’s probably broken. Not worth the risk of getting stuck.”

“Ah.”

“But I’ve got decent space, and it’s close to the shop.”

“You know I understand how handy that is.”

Still, he was a touch nervous when he let Aziraphale into his flat, for the simple reasons that it was new and vulnerable and enough unlike Aziraphale’s space that he had no idea whether he’d like it or not.

He needn’t have worried. Aziraphale made a pleasant noise as he looked around the entranceway, and was suitably interested in the few hodge podge pieces of art Crowley had up. He followed Crowley into his sitting room, where he was immediately drawn to the pair of bookshelves against the kitchen wall while Crowley went to his tiny office in the corner. The bookshelves were sparse, more knickknack and project storage than library, but Aziraphale admired them all the same.

The packet he was looking for was tucked away in its drawer, where, frankly, he’d expected it to languish indefinitely. So it was with a simmering joy that he took it out and smoothed the edges, before walking over and holding it out for Aziraphale to see.

“I made you this,” he said, as Aziraphale turned away from a framed photo of him and Anathema she’d given him as a joke gift years ago. “For your next project, if you want.” He laughed quietly to himself. “My gift’s not done either, heh. Meant to get you all the yarn and needles and stuff to go with it, so it’d be a proper kit. Can still do that, I guess. Maybe we can pick the yarn together. But I’ll pay for it, y’know, it’s a gift, it’s for you, and it’s… yeah.” His rambling finished off when Aziraphale put one hand on his upper arm, still staring at the pattern.

“You designed this?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Crowley snorted.

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale looked up at him, eyes bright, and pressed the pattern to his chest. “May I kiss you?”

Crowley’s eyes widened and his heart skipped. “You want to?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

Aziraphale huffed a laugh. “Yes.”

“Oh.” Crowley felt like he was going to start bouncing off the walls. He was rooted still. “Okay.”

And Aziraphale’s hand slid up from his shoulder to the spot where his hairline met his ear, and he leaned close, and kissed him.

“I want to take you to dinner again,” Crowley mumbled against his lips once they parted a little. “And coffee. I didn’t get to drink mine.”

“I’ll bring you another when I come to the store tomorrow.”

Crowley’s heart staggered and then soared. “Tomorrow?”

Aziraphale’s eyes were bright and sparkling when he smiled at him. “Of course. I’ll need some yarn for this hat I’m making now.” He brushed a lock of hair behind Crowley’s ear. “Maybe something to match that sweater I’m nearly finished.”

“That’s my present for you,” Crowley complained.

“The making is the gift. The result is something else.”

He didn’t know how to argue with that. He pulled Aziraphale in for another kiss, instead. That was plenty enough for him.