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“So. Will you come?”
Aziraphale sighed deeply, the puff of air drawing circles to his steaming cocoa. One of the marshmallows actually got submerged in the sudden waves, plopping merrily back on the surface as he settled the mug down.
They had been discussing this for almost an hour, Anathema pulling every trick in the book to get him to say yes. Meeting at his favourite cafe; check. The smell of freshly baked cookies was clouding his judgement. Favourite beverage in his hands; double check. Ordering a second cup was too much even for him. He took a sip regardless.
“I-I can’t, my dear, I just—”
“Come ooon, it’s gonna be fun! We’ll have wine and pastries and we’re all going to do the crafts together it’s not as if—”
“Don’t patronise me, it’s a couples event, people are coming there to spend time with their significant others,” Aziraphale pointed out sternly. “And on Valentine’s Day, at that.”
“Technically not on Valentine’s. Day after.” Anathema’s grin spread wickedly wide. “Place was booked out for Saturday.”
“Even so. Everyone’s going to be— coupled up, it’s sad for a middle aged man to be alone amidst all… that.”
It was Anathema’s turn to sigh, seeing as this was the third time he’d brought up this particular argument. “There’s going to be single people as well, I promise! And 42 is barely middle aged.”
“Who would be sane enough to join such an event alone? Honestly, my dear—”
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.” Anathema straightened in her seat, looked deep into his eyes. Those glasses magnified her eyes, there was no other explanation as to why Aziraphale felt so scrutinized and pinned to his seat. “There’s going to be a brief get together at first. Newt and I are going there early to set up. Nothing major, just blowing some balloons up and performing a thorough check to make sure the wine is drinkable.” She gave him a wink, then reached across the table to cover his hand, give it a gentle squeeze. “Come along. Worst case scenario, you help around a bit, you get tipsy on some excellent wines—if I do say so myself—and call it an early night. Best case, well…”
Aziraphale huffed. And wiggled in his chair. And huffed some more, for good measure, stalling by taking another long sip of his cocoa.
“Please, Aziraphale. I know how good you are at crafts.”
Bless it. All the stops, indeed. Flattery and a call for help.
“One hour,” he said at last, rolling his eyes at his friend’s barely contained glee. “The wine should better be worth it.”
Aziraphale ran his fingers under the thin stripe of water, flicking some droplets away before brushing them through his hair. He had taken a shower just this morning but as the afternoon arrived, the book he had chosen combined with the relaxing citrus scent wafting from his chamomile and the unprecedented rays of sun filtering through the open curtains, he couldn’t resist sleep as it sauntered in and took him under. He had had quite a restless night, tossing and turning and actually drafting four separate messages to Anathema telling her he changed his mind before deleting them and letting his head fall back on the pillow with a sigh.
The nap had left him feeling quite out of sorts—as naps always tended to do with him, on the rare occasions that he took them—but it wasn’t something a strong cup of english breakfast couldn’t fix. That strand of cow lick, though, seemed untameable despite his best efforts. Defying gravity quite… well, defiantly.
With an annoyed huff, he stomped out of the bathroom, straightening his bow-tie and running his fingers over his cheeks, downwards and upwards, making sure no spots were neglected. This was fine. It was going to be fine, he was going to enjoy some wine with his friends, help them with the event they had been planning for over a month now and be home in time to catch the tail end of the evening news. All fine. Might as go as far as to say tickety-boo, if he put his heart into it.
Drawing the shades and locking the doors twice, double-checking the sign at the front of the bookshop is flipped to closed, he spared a few seconds to send Anathema a response confirming his swift arrival—for the third time that day. That witch was really too intuitive for her own good.
Thick clouds grumbled overhead, heavy with the threat of rain. It wasn’t too long of a walk to the cafe hosting the evening, but the last thing Aziraphale wanted was to be caught in the rain, dragging his soggy feet to the event and having to smile through it. No, he shuddered at the mere thought of damp socks. Tube. Tube it was.
It wasn’t that he was bitter about the holiday, not really. He was a big fan of grand romantic gestures, proclamations of love, candle-lit dinners and whatnot. He couldn't find fault with people finding more excuses to show love to their partners.
It was more like he was bitter about the expectations of the day. Ever since he was younger, people made such a big fuss about it all, it kept driving him further and further away from the spirit of it. Come February, every call home back in his university days always found itself concerning his love life. Questions about dating, any lovely girls in his class, but London was so big, there surely could be someone—
Long story short, he just wasn't a fan. Simple as that.
But this was different. Not on the 14th of February, for one, which disqualified it as a “Valentine's Day event” by definition alone. He allowed himself the pedantry just this once, for the sake of his mental health. Bright, glittery hearts on big posters promoting it notwithstanding. And for another, at no point of it all was he pressured to find a date. He was merely on his way to have a pleasant evening with his friends who happened to be a happily married couple.
The rumble of bustling people and muttered apologies reached his ears before he had even turned the corner for the tube. Just as predicted, thick droplets had already formed small puddles on the pavements, accompanied by strong gusts of wind that would have rendered his umbrella useless had he elected to walk.
Well practised movements had him in front of the tracks in no time. The train was already full when it got there, but that was to be expected. He squirmed his way in the middle of the crowd, joining in the chorus of apologetic murmurs and sympathetic smiles.
It was quite warm on the train and he didn’t waste time unbuttoning his coat and undoing the knotted scarf around his neck. They were about to leave, when a dark figure with bright red hair came sprinting down the stairs, stumbling over their own feet and dropping curses on the way. The doors had just begun sliding closed when the figure pushed through, but not without his coat getting caught between them.
“Shit— fucking bollocks, don't do this—”
One hand was holding a dark blue paper cup between his index finger and thumb, a sleek black phone held up against it with the other three fingers. The other was tugging incessantly at his long coat.
“Not today, devil, come on.”
Aziraphale was certain he was bound to hear seams ripping in half any second now. The phone seemed to be slipping from his grasp with every merciless pull but he only gripped tighter, pulled stronger.
With a wince, Aziraphale let go of his vicious grip on the pole and took a step forward.
“Perhaps I can help,” he offered with a tight smile.
The man was becoming a public danger. With every tug, his elbow flew backwards, prompting the crowd to take steps away instead of trying to help him.
The stranger frowned, gave another pull. “Seems I have to stay here like a fucking dog until the next stop,” he grunted.
“Don't be silly, we'll have you freed in a shake of a lamb’s tail.”
Really, the answering snort was rather unnecessary.
“Did you escape out of a Victorian novel or something?" he muttered, even as he stopped attacking his own coat and let Aziraphale approach.
He shook his head, focusing on the issue at hand. The tail of the coat was really jammed there, Aziraphale was surprised the automatic fail-safe system hadn't kicked in to stop the doors from closing. No matter, he said he would help and he was planning on keeping his promise. He was on a roll, as of late.
With a low hum, he straightened the fabric, making it as smooth as possible between the tiny slit. He tugged, then pulled, lips pursed tight, and after a few tries, the coat flew free, seams intact.
Unfortunately, it happened just as they arrived at the next station. The momentum from the pulls and the wobble of the train caused him to lose his balance, just like the stranger who hadn't let up on the tension away from the door. They both stumbled, arms flailing in search of something to steady them. It wasn't until the train had fully stopped and they had managed to stop wobbling that he noticed the warm liquid on his chest, darkening his tan waistcoat.
“Fucking shit I'm— so sorry mate, I— fucking train should’ve more places to hold on to, I didn't mean to—”
Aziraphale dabbed the stain with his handkerchief, barely sparing a smile up at them. “It's not a problem,” he said lightly, even as his ears started to buzz.
The stranger didn't seem to hear him. “I-I’ll pay for the dry cleaning, I'll give you my details, just send me the bill—”
“I assure you, all is well,” he tried again. His tone was a little snappier than he would have considered polite, but he did have a growing, warm stain on one of his most prised items of clothing.
He lifted his head, taking a good look of the stranger. Dark glasses had slid down his lean face, giving him a glimpse of light brown eyes blown wide with concern, red curls cascading over each shoulder. A deep crease made his eyebrows nearly touch as his own gaze flickered between the growing stain and Aziraphale's face. His mouth was parted, half-formed words of apology stumbling out of it.
Just like that, a different kind of warmth spread in his chest. His throat dried out, knuckles whitening around the pole as the train jolted to life again. For the life of him, he couldn’t even remember what he was upset about.
“Sacrificed your coat for mine?” the man finally drawled, thin, dark pink lips relaxing into a lazy smirk as he tried to joke. “How very noble of you.”
Despite himself, Aziraphale could feel the apples of his cheeks warming. “I rather think the choice was clear enough. My waistcoat has seen better days.”
The stranger snorted. “Yeah, in the 1960s probably.”
It really was an old piece, passed on by his late grandfather. What he neglected to mention was how comforting the well-worn article was; with its faded edges, the middle button that was a little looser than the others because his mum was a lot of things but a seamstress wasn’t one of them despite her best efforts, the way it hugged his torso tightly without being suffocating. It was old, yes, but it was also loved.
“Regardless, it has not once gotten caught in any doors, I assure you,” he retorted with a pointed eyebrow at last, pulling the waistcoat taut.
The man threw his head back cackling, and Aziraphale didn't stop himself from tracking the movement. Transfixed on the bob of his Adam’s apple, the way his long hair trickled down their back, he almost missed the disembodied voice announcing the next stop.
His stop. He had to get off.
Before he had the chance to say anything else, the doors opened once again, and the crowd all but carried him back on the platform. The stranger had stopped laughing, following him with his eyes as his mouth opened and closed wordlessly.
“Sorry again!” his shouted at the last second, moments before the train was speeding off again.
Aziraphale made it to the little cafe just in time to escape the worst of the pouring rain. He left his umbrella on the stand by the door, gave his shoes a thorough sweep over the welcome mat—already darkened with mud—and made his way to his friends. They were already surrounded by scattered balloons on the floor, some bright red and heart-shaped, others transparent with heart-shaped confetti inside them.
Right. So it was technically a Valentine’s Day event. No matter; he was there now. Sacrificed a family heirloom to make it and he was determined to not let it be in vain.
Anathema was the first to notice him, walking through the sea of decorations like Moses to wrap her arms around him. “Aziraphale! You came!”
“I am a man of my word,” Aziraphale said, not without the slightest twinge of regret about the truthfulness of the statement.
“All I know is that Newt owes me 10 pounds.”
Aziraphale gaped. “You placed bets on me not showing up?”
“No, I bet that you were going to show up!”
“Sorry, Aziraphale.” Newton gave him a sheepish smile as he slid a bright orange note to his wife.
“I have half a mind to turn around,” he muttered, smiling at last at Anathema’s exaggerated gasp.
He followed them further into the cafe. They had put a lot of work into it, that much was certain. The tables had been all arranged in a long line around the room, chairs on either side of them along with empty glasses for wine and water. So that’s how the couples would be sitting. Colourful garlands hung from the ceiling, even more hearts twisting with every minute disturbance in the air.
Aziraphale took a deep breath and tried to remind himself what he was there for. Good wine and helping friends. He could do this. He unbuttoned his coat, letting it hang from the back of a chair close to a radiator in hopes that it would be dry enough to put back on and leave soon. He had just draped his scarf over it when Anathema found him again, two glasses filled with wine up to the middle in each hand.
“What happened to your waistcoat?”
He looked down at the mostly dried out stain, ran his fingers over it as if he had forgotten it existed. “Unfortunate encounter with someone on the tube,” he said, not without his brain bringing the certain someone back at the forefront of his thoughts, long legs, wide smile and everything.
“And they’re still alive?” She passed one glass to him, bringing the other under her nose. “I’d expect you to smite them on the spot.”
“I-It was unfortunate, to be sure, but the young fellow really didn’t do it on purpose, and they seemed to be having such a hard day so I…”
Anathema hummed, narrowing her eyes before shaking her head and lifting her glass towards him. “Happy Not-Valentine’s day.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but clinked his glass to hers. “Happy Not-Valentine’s day to you too, my dear.” He took a small sip, inhaling deeply and letting the fruity scent sweep him away for a brief, blissful moment. “So. Show me what has to be done.”
Much to Aziraphale’s dismay, afternoon melted into evening so seamlessly he was surprised to look out and find the sky dark and the streetlights on. Anathema walked him through their plans for the event, even showing him some of the inspiration pictures she had chosen. Apparently, the plan was to give the couples clay and a picture and have them cooperate to recreate what they saw. Simple enough, and they got matching key-chains at the end of it.
It was all terribly wholesome.
Soon, the participants started to arrive, and Aziraphale allowed himself a moment to sit by and observe. Everyone seemed already coupled up, their arms around each other and giddy smiles on their faces as they admired the decorations.
“You said there would be… single people here,” Aziraphale whispered when Anathema came up to him.
“There will be! It’s still early.”
He flicked his pocket-watch open with a huff. “The event is supposed to begin in three minutes!”
“You know that thing doesn’t show the right time,” she said, taking out her phone. “We’ve still got… four and a half minutes.”
He rolled his eyes, accepting the offered wine with a sigh.
“You can oversee,” she reminded him. “You don’t have to participate, you can just… help out when needed.”
“I’m not sure I have anything to offer.”
“Of course you do! I’ve seen all those things you’ve made with Adam, making a couple clay mushrooms will be child’s play for you.”
It was true, he enjoyed playing with his little godson and building things out of Play-doh, could go on for hours (even as the five year old insisted on mixing the colours together and nearly giving Aziraphale an aneurysm). He could just sit at the bar, have another glass of wine and observe. He wouldn’t have to join, just be there for support.
He sighed, and Anathema already knew she had won. “I’ll get you an apron!”
“Alright!” Anathema clinked a plastic knife against her glass. “First of all, thank you all so much for joining, and happy Valentine’s day!” She smiled at the answering cheers. “I’m Anathema, and this is my husband Newt making sure we’re well fed for the evening.”
The small chime above the door startled her for a moment. Tall, lean, with red hair and dark clothes, the newcomer gave her a tense smile before turning to her left with an almost real one. She narrowed her eyes, jumping from Aziraphale—whose cheeks were a darker red than the stranger’s curls—to the entrance with a smile.
Interesting.
“Hello!” she said at last. “Welcome, you’re just in time.”
“Uh—”
“Take a seat, I was only just making introductions, you didn’t miss much. Babe, another plate for our new participant?”
While the red-hair was busy giving his order to Newt, Anathema turned to her friend, dragging him to the side.
“Okay, what is going on?” she whispered.
If possible, Aziraphale’s cheeks darkened more. “I-I-I don’t have the faintest—”
“Aziraphale, don’t play coy with me. Your aura just blew sparkles when he walked in. Who is he?”
“He’s— No one!” he cried, eyes wide and glued to the floor. “I don’t know him, we’ve never met before.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Your souls seem to be overly familiar.”
“You know I don’t believe in that-that kind of stuff,” he huffed.
Her eyes narrowed once again, pursing her lips. Her thoughts were reeling, fingers buzzing with the need to bring out her Tarot deck and do a reading, to Hell with the crafts.
“Excuse me—”
Both their heads snapped back, to the red-head standing right behind them, now devoid of his soaking wet leather jacket. His hair had been pulled back into a low bun, a few darkened strands escaped and framing his face.
Both of them were looking at him, but he was looking only at Aziraphale.
“Hi,” he said, smile wide and toothy. “I’m— Crowley.”
Okay, then maybe they really hadn’t met each other before. But the way the stranger’s smile seemed to soften, the way Aziraphale’s eyes widened—it spoke of a story years in the making, finally getting the chance to develop right before her very eyes.
“H-Hello.”
“Aziraphale,” she urged, when it was clear no other words were forthcoming.
“What?”
She stared at him pointedly.
“Oh! Yes. I’m… Aziraphale!”
“Nice meeting you,” Crowley—apparently—drawled, and Anathema had to bite her lips to keep from screeching. “I promise I will bring no drinks near you this time.”
Huh.
Aziraphale chuckled warmly, at last breaking out of his stupor. “Yes, that would be much appreciated.”
“Sorry again…” Crowley waved a hand over the dark brown stain on the tan waistcoat. “My offer still stands.”
Aziraphale gulped. “P-Pardon?”
“To— y’know— pay for the… cleaning and stuff. I could—”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary, I assure you,” the blond honest-to-Salem waved him off. Just as Anathema thought she had seen everything. “I can clean this up in a jiffy.”
“We’re very happy to have you,” she jumped in without much thought. “Can I just ask, how did you find out about our event? Was it one of the Instagram posts?”
The apples of Crowley’s stubbly cheeks turned slightly pink at that. His eyes jumped between Aziraphale and Anathema, whose grin only widened.
“W— uh— y’know, I jus’— I mean, I was walking by, and I thought… ‘s a nice place.” He looked around, shoving his hands in pockets that were definitely too tight.
Anathema clapped her hands loudly. “Wonderful! Okay, go take a seat and we’ll be there soon to show you what we’re doing here.”
The second Crowley walked away, Aziraphale let out a long, shuddering breath and turned his back to the retreating man. What are the chances of seeing the man twice in one day, and on a day as chaotic as Valentine’s at that? It only took one look at him to quickly jump to the conclusion he was dressed to impress; dark, skin-tight jeans, completely contrasting the flow of his deep purple shirt, baggy over his lean torso, the top four buttons undone. Earlier, his hair was impeccably curled, not a single strand out of place. Aziraphale had to admit— the messier hair-do the whistling air had afforded him only made him so much more attractive.
“Told you there’d be other single people here,” Anathema dragged him out of his thoughts, only to be faced with her too-pleased grin.
“You don’t even know if he’s— single,” Aziraphale said, whispering the last word as if the man in question could hear him over the hum of chit-chat.
She let out a scoff. “Please, the way he’s looking at you? Single and ready to mingle.”
“He’s not— looking at me!”
“Look at you, you can’t even convince yourself!” Anathema laughed. “If you’re so sure, why don’t you take a look?”
Aziraphale bristled, his nostrils flaring even as his cheeks warmed. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“And you’re being too obvious,” she chirped before walking away. “So, since you’re the only one without a partner here,” he heard her say, and was mortified to turn around and see that it was aimed at Crowley, “Aziraphale has agreed to help you out. Isn’t that right, Az?”
“I-I-I thought we agreed I was only to lend a hand—”
“And our brand new participant here so obviously needs it,” Anathema interrupted him with a poised eyebrow.
Aziraphale let out a breath and straightened his back. “I would be more than happy to,” he said with a tight smile.
“Knew I could count on you.” And with a—rather pointed—squeeze of his shoulder, she was gone.
He turned back to Crowley, who was watching the exchange with an angled eyebrow and a tilted smile.
“Hello partner.”
Ignoring the way the word—or it could have been the drawl, or the smile, or the suggestive wiggle of his brows—made his stomach flutter, Aziraphale set about undoing the buttons of his waistcoat. The poor thing had endured enough horrors for one day. He placed it gingerly over the back of his chair, then started folding up his shirtsleeves.
Crowley’s smirk flickered for a moment, a harsh gulp drawing attention to the lean column of his throat. The blasted sunglasses from earlier were still perched high on his nose, but Aziraphale could have sworn the man’s eyes tracked every inch the methodical rolls revealed.
He took a seat across from Crowley, folding his hands on the table. “So. Do you have any experience with crafts?”
“Ehhh— nnnyeah, s-somewhat. Yeh...”
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes and smiled. “You sound ever-so confident in your abilities.”
“Right, well, I don’t… Haven’t really done much crafts since I left school,” Crowley admitted with a dear redness to his cheeks. “And that was… nearly 30 years ago so.”
“Not to worry, dear boy.” Aziraphale gave a gentle pat to the man’s hands, smile widening at the slight tremor that followed his touch. “You don’t really need prior experience, I was just curious. It’s all fairly straight-forward, and I’ll be sure to talk you through every step of the way. I’ll show you everything you need to know.”
Crowley chuckled, then bit his lips. A bitten-back snort forced itself right out.
“Did I… say something amusing?”
“No, ‘s just…” He chuckled again, rubbing his temples with one hand. “No, I-I’m being stupid, go on.”
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and kept his mouth pointedly shut until Crowley sighed.
“It’s— You being all… ‘I’ll show you how it’s done’ and ‘I’ll talk you through it’, ‘s just…” His jaw tensed, the red now reaching all the way to his loose neckline even as his lips twitched with a smile.
Aziraphale took a quick inhale. His gaze sharpened, his collar tightened slightly around his neck. And yet, his eyebrow barely wavered.
“Just…?” he prompted, struggling to keep his smile in check.
Covered eyes jumped up to him and Crowley let out a disbelieving scoff—if obviously amused, judging by the smile following it. “You’re a bit of a bastard, aren’t you?”
At last, Aziraphale set his smile free, sitting back in his chair. “I do try.”
“Right!” Anathema’s voice over the chatter broke the spell between them, and Aziraphale couldn’t decide if he was grateful or annoyed. “You should find everything you need in front of you, including an envelope with your inspo pics. You can begin!”
Crowley reached for the envelope, tearing apart the corner so he could rip it open with his finger. Aziraphale’s poorly suppressed wince prompted a snort. The red-head took one look at the picture, then passed it on with a raised eyebrow.
“Go on, then, professor. Tell me what to do.”
It was chaos. For someone with such elegant-looking fingers, Crowley was seemingly incapable of a soft touch. Aziraphale told him to roll the clay, he’d all but squash it with his palm. He’d tell him to gently pinch one side, and Crowley almost chopped the corner off.
Aziraphale was doing his best not to make the man feel bad. Besides, not everyone was made for crafts and that was okay. It really was, and Aziraphale was trying to remind himself of that fact when Crowley pressed the arm of his clay demon to the lumpy body with so much force he left the poor thing completely deformed.
“My dear fellow, you are meant to be gentle! Clay is easily malleable, you can’t just smash the pieces together and hope for the best.”
“This is me being gentle!” Crowley groused, ripping apart the arm (which would have probably fallen off anyway before it even made it to the oven) to roll it between his fingers again.
Aziraphale, whose clay-angel was already standing to the side, tiny, undetailed arms clasped in front of him, dragged his chair across the table with a screech that barely made it above the excited conversations around them.
“Your clay is too dry,” he pointed out, taking the lump of a demon in a delicate hold.
“Your clay is too dry,” Crowley muttered and wiped his fingers with a damp towel.
Aziraphale ignored him. “It’s okay, we can just start over.”
Dipping his fingers in the bowl of murky water, he took his time carefully kneading the clay back into a smooth ball. One needn’t be a genius to see that Crowley wasn’t a patient man. He could feel his leg jerking up and down beside him, his frustrated sighs on Aziraphale’s damp hands, could almost hear the rolls of his eyes when Aziraphale managed to roll the body of the demon effortlessly into a self-standing shape.
“You just pinch this end right here,” he explained quietly, rolling the lump into a tear-drop and flattening the other side to make it stand.
“‘s what I did too!”
“No, you smashed it and expected it to comply.”
Crowley huffed, taking the body in a much more careful hold. “Not all of us have such soft hands,” he murmured.
Aziraphale stiffened. His jaw set tight, and he put down the rest of the clay. “There’s nothing wrong with a bit of softness,” he said sternly, already pulling his chair away.
“Wh— I didn’t mean— Aziraphale, come on.” He held on to the back of his chair, barely holding him from moving away. “I meant it in a good way,” he tried, voice softer than Aziraphale had heard it all evening. “I like your hands,” he added with a smile.
Heat spread on the blond’s cheeks, the words freezing his movements at once. He looked at his hands, plucked some clay from underneath his fingernails. Crowley reached out, covered his fretting palms with one of his own.
“They’re steady and certain,” he continued, dragging his own chair closer. His voice was firm but reassuring, his smile warm. “Someone knows I could use someone showing me how not to break everything I touch.” His thumb ran circles on the back of Aziraphale’s hand, roughened pads scratching the pale skin.
“You’re being perfectly soft right now,” Aziraphale remarked with a smile, eyes glued to their clasped hands.
Crowley scoffed, his hand retreating but not without a fond squeeze. “Don’t let anyone else hear you say that. Got a reputation to uphold.”
“Mum’s the word.” The blond smiled, mimicking a zipper over his mouth with an exaggerated wink.
Crowley shook his head with a disbelieving chuckle, smirk softening.
It took a few tries, but finally the clay demon was starting to take shape. One wing in front of Aziraphale, the other in front of Crowley, a toothpick in both their hands as the former demonstrated how to sculp the feather lines.
“Slow, steady.” Aziraphale watched carefully as the other’s pick slid carefully across the softened clay.
Crowley leaned closely over it, the hint of pink flashing between his lips in concentration. He had pulled his sunglasses off, their arm now hooked over his neckline, pulling it even lower. His eyes—the brightest of golden brown, adorned by crow’s feet that seemed carved by a sculptor—were narrowed, brows furrowed above them.
“You’re doing so well,” Aziraphale murmured, leaning close as well, to oversee.
The man’s careful movements stuttered, hand trembling over the wing.
“Go on,” Aziraphale encouraged, mouth twitching with his smile. “Not too long left now, keep going.”
“Jesus,” Crowley muttered. He shook his head, gulped, and resumed the designs. “Stop laughing, you bastard!”
“But you’re so good!” he managed between fits of laughter, hands clasped over his heart.
“I swear to God, I’m gonna prick you.” He raised the toothpick threateningly, his own lips pursed to hide his smile.
“Oh, at least take me to dinner first.”
“Fucking— Shut up,” Crowley grumbled, mercifully poking his shoulder with his finger instead of the wooden weapon. Aziraphale let himself be pushed, his giggles heightened. “That’s it, you’ve lost privileges.”
“Have I, now?”
He pulled the wing closer to him, hiding it from view with his palm. “I’m doing this alone, no more instructions.”
Aziraphale gasped, laughter ceasing. “You can’t possibly be trusted unsupervised!”
“Watch me. I’m going rogue.”
“You are not! My angel can’t be seen in public with your demon looking like— like—”
Crowley fully ignored him, taking his bottom lip between sharp teeth as he hovered over the poor wing.
“You’re holding the pick too—”
“Shh,” the red-head interrupted him.
“Just let me see—”
“Wait one damn second!”
Aziraphale huffed and folded his arms in front of his chest. He sat back, the tip of his shoe rapping impatiently on the wooden floor, his nostrils flared.
After what felt like an entire age, Crowley sat back, flicking the toothpick to the opposite side of the table.
“There,” he simply announced with a cocky smile.
With a stern look, Aziraphale leaned in. Crowley’s work was… not perfect, far from it. The lines were crooked, either too forced and deep or too light and faint. But there was a charm to it, an inelegance and jubilant inexperience Aziraphale couldn’t help but admire.
“Not bad,” he said, not quite capable of hiding the surprise in his tone. “And you didn’t break it,” he added with equal fondness.
“Was paying attention, wasn’t I?” Crowley mumbled, gaze returning to his creation.
“What a good student, you are,” Aziraphale whispered, leaning close to inspect the wing but smiling at the hitch in the man’s breath.
“Okay, now that your beautiful creations are out of the oven and have cooled down, it’s time to switch!”
Aziraphale frowned, hands curling around his angel protectively, now hardened and cool to the touch. He wasn’t aware he was meant to give his creation to someone else, and had opened his mouth to object when Anathema continued.
“Go ahead and pass them on to your partners and get ready to paint!”
Crowley turned to him, tight-lipped smile crooked. “We don’t have to switch,” he whispered, glancing down to the clay angel, hidden from view. “We can just say mine’s that one.”
“Don’t be silly,” Aziraphale huffed, cupping both hands under his creation before passing it on to him. “I trust you. Just— don’t give him a face tattoo!”
“I’ll make no such promises.”
The painting process was much calmer than the moulding debacle. They worked quietly side by side, chuckling softly when they both tried to block their creations from the other’s view.
Aziraphale picked up a medium brush, and covered the demon’s body and wings in black, blowing on it softly to hasten the drying process. Careful not to smudge it, he went over the face with a light pink colour, smiling at the crooked horns on top of the tiny head as he used a thin brush to paint them red. Once the wings had dried fully, he wiped the bristles carefully and dipped them in gold. With slow, delicate movements, he covered all of Crowley’s rough lines with it, following the carvings exactly. He wasn’t hiding the unevenness, he was shedding light on it. Finding the beauty in the imperfections and embracing it.
“‘kay, I’m done,” Crowley exclaimed, one hand hiding the angel for the big reveal and the other wiping his own brushes clean.
Aziraphale chuckled, not lifting his head before every last line was covered in gold. One more swirl in the water, he used more black to draw two eyes and a tilted smirk and covered the demon with his palms as well.
On the count of three, they both pulled their hands away and leaned in to inspect the other’s work.
The little angel was… adorable. Much like Aziraphale had done, Crowley used the same shade of light pink for the face, opting for the white for the body and wings. Golden streaks created a neckline, the same shape like bracelets on the edges of his arms. He had used a light blue and honest-to-God glitter for the edges of the wings, and a green-blue for his eyes.
What kept Aziraphale’s blurring gaze captive, though, was the single, black feather on the bottom of his right wing. He couldn’t tell if it was intentional, but Crowley had used the same golden he had to highlight it, with the same care he had put in the rest of the piece.
“It’s…” Aziraphale tried, a lump in his throat. “Beautiful, it’s… absolutely stunning.”
“Yeah, well, got inspired.” Crowley shrugged, nudging him with his shoulder.
Despite all the couples sitting opposite each other, Aziraphale never got around to moving back to his side of the table. And he was eternally grateful when he reached out to take the angel back in his palm with even more care than before, and lifted his eyes to the red-head.
“Why… Why the black feather?” he couldn’t help asking, smile coy and utterly fond.
He was certain the fetching blush on the other’s face was best viewed from a small distance. The highlighted freckles definitely were.
“It’s— y’know… He— hhhng— Got a bit of bad in him, doesn’t he? ‘s what makes him—” He gulped, shaking his head. “Anyway. It’s stupid.”
“I don’t think it’s stupid,” Aziraphale said firmly. “As a matter of fact…”
He put down the angel and reached for his brush again, reaching for the white paint. Within seconds, the demon had a white feather with a light blue glittery outline. His was on the right wing, top corner.
“They’re the yin to each other’s yang,” he whispered softly, placing the two next to each other.
“Sap,” Crowley merely said, his smile wide and eyes slightly glassy.
Crowley insisted on walking Aziraphale home. Not that it took much to convince him. But it was cold, and Crowley’s cheeks and the tip of his nose quickly reddened as they stepped out into the harsh February air, so Aziraphale couldn’t help fretting. The red-head was carrying the bag with both the key-chains, each in a small box covered in hearts that Anathema had provided with a smirk and a promise to call him soon and catch up.
All too soon, Aziraphale’s door crept into his view. His safe haven had always been a fortress to him, eagerly awaiting for his return at the end of long days with the promise of a comfortable arm-chair and a wide selection of beloved books to cradle him deep into the night.
And yet that night, his footsteps grew heavier and heavier as they carried him closer to the door and further away from the most delightful evening he’d had in longer than he would ever care to admit.
“This is me,” he said, swallowing over the lump in his throat that stubbornly crawled back up.
“This is a bookshop,” Crowley pointed out.
“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.” Aziraphale chuckled, pretending to be surprised before his eyes softened. “There is a flat upstairs.”
Crowley hummed, admiring the front of the shop while silence settled around them.
“Thank you for a truly wonderful evening,” Aziraphale said at last, smiling through the bitterness of possibly never seeing this man again. “I didn’t quite expect to enjoy myself so much.”
At last, Crowley’s eyes settled on him, warm and kind as ever. He hadn’t bothered putting his sunglasses back on, a fact for which Aziraphale was eternally grateful. He couldn’t imagine an obstacle being between the honeyed gaze and the frantic jumps all across Aziraphale’s face as he leaned against the door frame.
“I’m just glad I was paying a bit more attention and saw you in there as I was walking by,” he drawled with a tilted smile.
“You— You what?”
Crowley barked a laugh, throwing his head back. “You can’t honestly think I came in just to do crafts!”
“I-I-I thought…”
“Yeah?” Crowley prompted quietly, shuffling a tiny bit closer. His lips were pulled back on one side, even as the bottom one was tucked between his teeth.
“I don’t like to presume…” Aziraphale whispered. He took a deep breath, attempting to calm the shakiness in his voice.
Crowley hummed again. He lifted the hand that wasn’t holding the key-chains. Slowly, carefully, he dragged it all the way from Aziraphale’s shoulder down to his hand and lifted it. Eyes glued to his face, he tugged the fingers of his light beige glove one by one, putting it in his own pocket once it was off.
He brought the knuckles to his lips, brushed them lightly. “How’s that for presuming?” he whispered, turning the palm around and kissing from the tips of his fingers down to the inside of his wrist. “Can I take you to dinner?”
Aziraphale’s enthusiastic response didn’t have time to escape. Pushing himself on his toes, he tugged the red-head closer, bringing their lips together. Their hands were still mid-air, his own clasped tightly in Crowley’s as they kissed, before he let go to wrap both his arms around Aziraphale and tug him closer. They both sighed into the kiss as they exchanged quiet hums and needy whines.
It didn’t escalate further. Aziraphale was all too mindful that they were standing in front of his home, in the middle of So-Ho, busy as ever. Despite a deep yearning to just keep going, he pulled away, but kept his arms around Crowley’s neck, the ungloved hand playing with the hairs that weren’t quite long enough to be contained by the elastic tie.
“That a yes on the dinner?”
Aziraphale’s lips twitched, and he couldn’t resist leaving another kiss to Crowley’s lips. “As long as you promise not to spill any drinks on me,” he whispered, barely moving away.
“I’ll do my damned best.”
They did kiss again. Again, and again, until both their lips were numb and their cheeks pained from smiling. Aziraphale went back to his flat. Alone. He was a gentleman after all.
Perched on his bookshelf carrying his most treasured tomes, was a little demon, whose smirk kept him company for the rest of the evening, wondering when his angel friend was going to join him on the shelf.