Work Text:
“You made this?" Crowley fingers the thick, black-and-red knitted sweater in his hands. “For… me?”
Aziraphale nods. His face feels warm; he swallows. “For you.”
“Gosh.”
“I… I hope it fits.”
Crowley holds the sweater up against himself and glances into the full-body mirror that’s surprised to find itself hanging on the wall.
It looks nice, Aziraphale thinks distractedly. The colors complement his eyes, or at least they would complement his eyes if not for the sunglasses. They complement the idea of his eyes, anyway.
“Looks like it’ll fit,” Crowley says. He clears his throat… then doesn’t actually go on.
Silence.
“You know,” Crowley says finally, “there’s supposed to be something called a sweater curse.”
“A sweater curse?” Aziraphale winces. That doesn’t sound pleasant. He’s never heard of such a thing, but then, curses always were Crowley’s area of expertise.
“Yeah. People say if you make a sweater for your… your loved one, it’ll end your relationship. Cause a breakup.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale feels his stomach drop in cold horror. He poured his heart into making this sweater, very nearly literally — there’s love and protection interwoven with the yarn in every stitch — but he would never, ever have even considered doing so if he’d known it meant the risk of activating so dire a curse. “Oh, no.”
“That’s what they say, anyway.”
“And…” Aziraphale resists the urge to close his eyes, almost afraid of the answer. “What do you say?”
Long, familiar arms, warmer even than the sweater he spent months knitting, fold around him. Aziraphale feels the wool of the sweater between them, the embrace tight enough to keep it from falling.
“I say,” Crowley answers, low and loving in Aziraphale’s ear, “I’m a demon. Big fan of people who give me curses. Can you help me put this on?”