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It's the thought that counts

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"What's this, angel?" Crowley asked at the sight of a black woollen bundle on the table. 

"Oh, it's a scarf," Aziraphale replied. His gaze was still on that book he was reading.

"Ah, nah. I know what it is…" it then came to Crowley that the scarf had many kinks along the sides so that they wobbled. Crowley tilted his glasses up to get a clearer look. Now that he could focus on the smaller details, Crowley noticed the uneven stitches, causing valleys and summits in the dense wool. It was a very imperfect specimen. 

He picked it up. Yet the wool was a soft, warm and springy Merino wool, a quality good enough to win any farmer’s fair. If this was miracled, why wasn’t the craftsmanship as professional as expected for this type of wool? Crowley concluded:

"This is not miracled."

Aziraphale glanced to the side and adjusted his reading glasses with a sheepish look, then raised up the book he was reading. 

The art of knitting [1]

"Knitting! You do realise that you could miracle one up instantly, right?"

"I decided to try knitting, that is all. Besides, knitting is about enjoying the process to get to the finished product!"

Crowley nodded, thumbing the soft material before placing it down again. He looked back down at the scarf before glancing back at Aziraphale, who squinted at a passage in the book. He wondered where the rest of Aziraphale's wool was when it came to Crowley that Aziraphale probably miracled enough to make this scarf only. Crowley stroked his chin. And Aziraphale did not wear much black. [2]. If that was the case...

"Is this is your first attempt?"

Aziraphale nodded. 

"For, for me?"

"Yes! Do you like it, dear?"

"Oh erhm, yes! Very much so!"

Aziraphale smiled warmly. But once his gaze fell down onto the scarf, the smile disappeared.

“Oh…” and as his eyes darted left and right, Crowley realised that it was because the scarf happened to be a little imperfect. But it was still Aziraphale’s first scarf for him. “It’s not finished, I’m afraid. I can start over if you like.”

Crowley’s stomach turned. “well… you still made it for me.”

“I can make it better. Take it apart and restart it,”

“Restart it!”

“Yes! It’ll be done in a jiffy.”

“Well, you can always knit another! Just... “ Crowley gulped when the words refused to come out.

Aziraphale let out a long, quiet sigh. “That’s precisely the point, dear. Won’t be long now.” And then he raised his hand for a miracle. 

A miracle to unravel the scarf back to a pile of wool.

Crowley swatted his hand in the air, causing the pot plant behind Aziraphale to topple over [3]. Aziraphale glanced behind, buying Crowley enough time to snatch the scarf and run away.

“Oh, Crowley! Oh, dear. If you liked it that much, why didn’t you say so, you silly sap! Crowley!”

Crowley wore Aziraphale's first scarf for the rest of the week [4]. And if anyone pointed out that the scarf looked "off", Crowley will then point out that all the fashion magazines relish at how misshapen scarves were in season.


    1 The book was an old, outdated copy from the Victorian Era. One of those pocket-sized manuals that, with its canvas hardcover and lack of pictures, looked more like a small novel. Aziraphale must’ve been reorganising his bookshelves again. [return to text]

    2 If he did knit it for himself, Aziraphale would knit it in tartan. Or perhaps something a little easier, considering all the complicated hatches a tartan pattern would require. Maybe something like a light robin egg blue. [return to text]

    3 It was a small but hardy New Zealand flax who survived several of the country’s earthquakes out of spite. If anything, this small push would make it grow taller to show which one of them was the boss.[return to text]

    4 Aziraphale did knit a few more scarves, and Crowley did eventually wear them all, but not before he finished flaunting the first one.[return to text]