Work Text:
It’s a stupid holiday, he thinks as he passes by yet another gaudy chocolate-and-heart window display and weaves through the crowded Soho street filled with both shops and people dressed in their Valentine’s Day finest.
Humans had always had a weird sense of logic though for the organization of their holidays, from celebrating the birth of Jesus five months early so as not to lose the opportunity to decorate trees to the strange British tradition of random bank holidays with no assigned meaning. So really, naming a holiday of love for a man who was gruesomely martyred and buried on the Via Flaminia wasn’t that far of a stretch.
He barely manages to swing out of the way in time to avoid taking a dozen roses to the face as a flustered florist bustles by with a frankly ostentatious arrangement balanced precariously in their hands, and Crowley grumbles under his breath as he brushes a few lost petals off of his jacket. Yellow roses, he notes amusedly, denoting jealousy. He hopes the recipient isn’t well versed in the language of flowers.
Few humans were anymore though, a loss of knowledge which greatly entertained Crowley anytime he passed by a stand selling rather confused messages of bouquets. Now, it was simply roses, roses, roses for romancing one’s partner. If you bought into that sort of thing, which Crowley absolutely did not. Why did one need generic gifts given on a randomly appointed day to prove love for their partner? To be fair, he’d spent most of his existence without having (or at least pretending not to have) any romantic feelings of the sort. But even now that he and Aziraphale had finally gotten on the same page post the Second Coming of it all, he still didn’t see the point. It felt cheesy and trite.
Not to mention the utterly ridiculous levels of sappy, corny adverts, gifts, and romantic drivel that seemed to pour out of stores and his favorite television show breaks as soon as New Years ended. Torturous and hellish it was.
Which meant that naturally of course, humans had invented it entirely on their own.
He shifts the bottle of wine he’d just purchased to his other hand and crosses the road at a light jog to avoid the Valentine acapella service currently delivering a pitchy serenade to a young woman seated outside at Marguerite’s. Normally, he wouldn’t leave his flat on February 14th, much preferring to sleep through the nonsense, or he would slink over to the bookshop to badger Aziraphale into letting him lounge idly on the sofa. The latter of which he had been successfully doing until said angel had suggested the possibility of a bottle of wine, the type of which did not exist in the cellar and just had to be procured by Crowley from the local shop.
“Y’know, angel, you can still miracle things,” Crowley had protested when Aziraphale had looked over at him imploringly from his latest binding repair work.
A put-out sigh escaped his partner’s lips, “Well, yes dear, but,” the angel’s mouth formed a soft pout as his eyes sparkled at Crowley over the rims of his glasses, “it’s never the same .”
And so off Crowley had gone to the wine shop, cursing his inability to resist Aziraphale’s pleading blue stare.
Speaking of said angel, Crowley belatedly notices him exiting the shop just as he makes it to the door with a huff, unable to stop his brusque forward momentum quickly enough to avoid their small collision. He slams into the angel with a small grunt, Aziraphale’s hands shooting out to grab his waist in an effort to steady them both as he chuckles,
“Careful, dear.” Those troublesome blue eyes glint up at Crowley, and the angel leans up to press a soft kiss to Crowley’s cheek in greeting. “Just stepping out for a quick moment, but you should go ahead inside.”
Crowley feels his cheeks heat slightly. He’s not quite used to this ease of unguarded affection they’re afforded now. It feels surreal still, being able to love him openly. He slides his own hands around the soft curve of Aziraphale’s waist and returns the greeting with a kiss of his own to the angel's upturned lips. Aziraphale hums contentedly against his mouth, and Crowley’s heart gives a soft skip.
It feels surreal still, that Aziraphale loves him back.
“More miracle-less shopping, angel?” Crowley teases against his lips.
Aziraphale pulls back, face flushed prettily as he smooths his hands up Crowley’s chest to give a gentle tug on his lapels (which absolutely does nothing to the demon’s ability to breathe deeply). “Something like that,” he replies with an unfathomable smirk.
“You do realize that’s almost as infuriating of a response as wait and—” A sharp whack to his back cuts off his retort as another petite florist murmurs, “Terribly sorry!”, and scurries around them carrying a somehow even larger floral arrangement than the last one he’d been accosted with.
Crowley groans, “Ergh, bloody ridiculous holiday this one.” He gestures broadly, “Can’t even walk outside without being assaulted by sodding rose bushes.”
Aziraphale regards him with an amused smile and an affectionate roll of his eyes, “Yes dear, you were very brave to go out at all.”
“Bastard,” Crowley mutters lovingly, and the smirk returns to Aziraphale’s lips as he leans in to press another kiss to the demon’s mouth,
“So I’ve been told,” he whispers lowly against the corner of Crowley’s lips, and dammit that had no right to pulse heatedly through his veins the way it did. He tilts his head to capture Aziraphale’s lips properly again, but finds that the angel is already pulling back and out of his arms. Crowley staggers slightly at the unexpected movement as his partner gives him a gleeful smile,
“I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb's tale.” And then he’s disappearing around the corner, leaving Crowley to stare after him as his heart rate struggles to even back out at the abrupt change in tone.
The doors to The Dirty Donkey open with a sudden bang, flooding the street momentarily with the blaring notes of “My Heart Will Go On”, as a raucous group spills into the busy street, and Crowley finds his earlier annoyance return to him with a start. Groaning in disgust, he fumbles for the door handle and throws himself across the threshold and into the respite of the bookshop, flinging his glasses off as he steps down the entry stair into the shop and sets them down on the nearest table along with the wine bottle. With a relieved sigh, he takes in the familiar setting around him and freezes, mouth parted slightly in shock.
This is not the same bookshop he left earlier.
Tables have been shifted around so that they line the shop entryway more purposefully; Aziraphale’s prized gramophone sits on one next to two stemmed wine glasses, the gentle lyrics to I’ll Be Your Mirror filtering softly through the air from its speaker. Crowley swallows thickly against the sudden lump that’s formed in his throat. He doesn’t remember ever telling Aziraphale that’s one of his favorite songs.
Or that the angel even knew how to find a record he considered “bebop.”
The rest of the tables are covered in vase after vase of flowers. No one had ever actually bought him flowers, he realizes idly, as he moves regard the tables more closely. Pristine cuttings in a riot of colors fill the space, and Crowley struggles to take them all in as his lungs make a valiant attempt to remember to take shallow breaths. Because, oh , these flowers are not just roses; his eyes burn slightly and his chest feels tight as he takes note of the various arrangements.
And unlike most humans, Aziraphale had not forgotten the meaning of flowers.
He trails a tentative hand over a delicate blue hyacinth. Your loveliness charms me. Fragrant apple blossoms– I prefer you before all– fill his senses and compete with the gentle undertones of a nearby bunch of yellow honeysuckle: Devoted affection. Muted surprise catches his breath as he notes a stunning group of red tulips– I declare my love –and he can’t control the embarrassing stutter of his heart as he moves along the series of porcelain holders to admire the pure white bouquets of lilies and daisies. My love for you is pure and true. A selection of elegant dahlias sends a soft shudder through his spine– Eternal commitment– as the shop door opens and shuts softly behind him.
“I do hope it’s not too much,” Aziraphale begins nervously.
Crowley whips around to stare openly at his angelic counterpart, a small “ngk” escaping his mouth which makes the angel smile tenderly. Aziraphale stands before him, evening light catching softly on his white blond curls, velvet vest shimmering slightly in the sunset, blue eyes regarding him with so much overt love and adoration that Crowley finds he temporarily forgets to breathe.
Sometimes it still surprises him. That someone can have that much love for him.
“Just one flower was missing,” Aziraphale continues, crossing the space between them to stand in front of the still wordless demon. The angel laughs lightly, “Luckily it's still very popular in human traditions.” He reaches out a hand, and Crowley finally looks down and takes note of what the angel had stepped out to buy.
A single, perfect red rose. Ardent love, passion. Love found at first sight. Crowley inhales shakily as he accepts the flower with a trembling hand, and he glances back up to meet his partner’s waiting stare.
“Aziraphale…” he manages to whisper past the torrent of emotions swirling through his chest. He clears his throat thickly, tries to find some combination of words that will appropriately convey the overwhelming affection threatening to burst through his ribs at this unexpected gesture, “I don’t k–”
“I know it’s a silly holiday,” Aziraphale interjects anxiously, tugging at his vest as he glances down at their feet. “It’s just…,” blue eyes look back up to meet Crowley’s with a determined sincerity, “we almost didn’t get this, and I think we deserve to celebrate these little, human moments.” A hand darts out to clasp the demon’s free one with a firm squeeze. “ You deserve lovely traditions, and—”
A loving ache tears through Crowley, overriding his overwhelmed thoughts as he leans forward and captures Aziraphale’s lips in a searing kiss. Releasing the angel’s grasp, he brings his hand up to cup Aziraphale’s cheek and deepens the kiss as his partner releases a surprised breath, parting his lips under Crowley’s with a small whimper, and the demon focuses on pouring every feeling of gratitude and love that he can into brush of his lips, the sweep of his tongue. Words were overrated, he decides as Aziraphale clutches at his jacket in response and sinks his teeth gently into Crowley’s bottom lip, sending a flood of liquid heat up the demon’s spine and pulling a low moan from his throat .
Maybe this holiday wasn’t so stupid after all.
Aziraphale breaks the kiss on a shaky breath, pulling back slightly, and Crowley blinks dazedly at him as the angel’s lips quirk into a self-satisfied smile, “So, I take it no need to return everything then? Because I can always throw it all away…” Blue eyes twinkle in mirth, and Crowley chuckles exasperatedly. Bastard.
He’s ridiculously in love with him.
Leaning forward once again, Crowley presses his forehead against Aziraphale’s, “Shut up, angel.” He places a firm kiss on his lips. “S’Perfect.” Another kiss, and then he tips his head back to meet the angel’s now soft gaze once more, “I love it,” he whispers, emotion filling his voice; he smooths a thumb across Aziraphale’s cheek and watches the swirl of gentle emotions the action evokes in it’s owner’s blue eyes, “I love you.”
Aziraphale face alights at his words, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his mouth parts in a radiant smile. “I love you too, my dear,” his voice trembles slightly in a kind of disbelieving wonder that causes Crowley’s heart to thump painfully in his chest.
Maybe it still surprises them both sometimes. That they finally made it here. That they no longer have to pretend not to be a pair.
An idea surfaces in his mind suddenly, and he reaches over to lay the rose on the closest table, giving a small flick of his wrist toward the player to restart the record with barely a skip. Aziraphale’s eyes follow his movements curiously as Crowley takes the angel’s hands in his and pulls him gently toward the center of the floor, “You deserve lovely traditions too, angel.”
Aziraphale blushes lightly as he stares at the demon who places one arm around his waist and raises their other joined hands to shoulder height.
“Dance with me?” Crowley asks earnestly. Aziraphale laughs with a surprised delight and places his free hand gently on Crowley’s shoulder, stepping close to him with an affectionate press,
“I’d love to.”
Crowley smiles openly at him in return and begins to spin them slowly around the room.
“Did you ever meet him?” Aziraphale inquires as they move, “Saint Valentine?”
“Hmmm, don’t think I was actually in Rome at the time, you?”
“No, I believe I was somewhere in China during the third century…”
One song fades into another as they continue to sway in each other’s arms; soft laughter and easy conversation echoing through the shop and filling Crowley with the peaceful, warm fondness that’s been permanently etched into his soul for the many millennia he’s known Aziraphale. A love returned and cherished now. His gaze catches on the myriad of flowers surrounding them, each one a love note, a card written in floral script, and he smiles broadly as Aziraphale says something unintentionally witty before leaning in to meet his grinning lips with his.
They were rather lovely after all, Crowley decides, some of these silly, human traditions.