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Aziraphale picked up crocheting around the late 1900s. One of the many advantages of having a long lifetime was that you had time to try out many a hobby, and crocheting came easier to him than most other hobbies he had tried. He had crocheted many sweaters, many stuffed animals, many shirts and skirts and scarves.
He donated the stuffed animals to the nearest children’s hospital and gave away the clothes away to the human companions he had made over the years. A corner of the backroom was filled with countless skeins of yarn. He almost slipped on a stray hook or stitch marker nearly every day. Aside from reading, and, of course, Crowley, crocheting made him the happiest.
So tonight, he is content. The only light in the bookstore is that of the candles; Crowley is sprawled in his chaotic way on the couch, and Aziraphale is leaning against him, crocheting.
The skein turns lazily in its wooden bowl as Aziraphale goes round and round the sleeve he’s making. Crowley’s playing quietly on his phone.
“What are you making, angel?” Crowley asks softly.
“Just the sleeve to a sweater.”
Without realizing it, Aziraphale begins to hum.
He does this a lot when he’s crocheting. Although he does not notice he’s doing it, it is Crowley’s favorite thing in the world. When Crowley hears the first few sweet notes, he sets his phone on his stomach, closes his eyes, and leans his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder.
An hour goes by in tranquil silence. Crowley is in that hollow divide between being awake and being asleep, his thoughts becoming fuzzy and slow. His chest begins to rise and follow just a little slower, his lips parting in vulnerable rest.
Aziraphale, noticing the shift, slows down so he doesn’t jostle Crowley. Each stitch is a moment of its own. When he gets to the end of a round, he sighs and sets his project down. Then, he turns his head just enough to kiss Crowley’s temple.
The demon does not stir at the movement, and Aziraphale, though he does not sleep much, still closes his eyes and lets himself relax against Crowley.
And this is how tonight is: quiet. Gentle. Romantic.
Candlelight flickers across the faces of the resting men. Aziraphale is as close to sleep as he’s going to get, which is not very close. He takes Crowley’s hand in his and kisses the back of it, his bruised knuckles, the tips of his fingers.
Many people think that Aziraphale was the first one to fall in love, in 1941, when his books were saved. But no, it was Crowley. Crowley was the one who fell first, who fell the hardest, who was incredibly and overwhelmingly in love with his angel.
Crowley fell in love in the Garden of Eden.
His love for Aziraphale was older than civilization. Older than music, and rain, and death itself. His love was, for lack of a better word, ineffable. Humans could not understand the depth of it, God could only hope to.
Crowley sometimes felt that the whole universe was created so that he could love Aziraphale. The first time they kissed, it had felt that that was the Great Plan. Aziraphale’s mouth against his, his heart beating out of his chest. Their love was all the universe had been working towards this entire time.
Their love was divine; it was holy, it was blameless.
Crowley stirs now, with Aziraphale still holding his hand. He looks up, into Aziraphale’s bright, innocent eyes.
Crowley has been a demon for over six thousand years. At some point, you would think that he would have accepted the ugliest parts of himself. Embraced or celebrated them, even.
But looking into Aziraphale’s eyes, Crowley couldn’t help but see himself as unlovable because of the most terrible parts of him. Something inside of him kept screaming, No one who ever sees the darkest parts of me could ever love me.
Aziraphale keeps saying, I see them, I see them, I see them. I love you anyway. I love you anyway. I love you anyway.
“I love you, dear,” Aziraphale says, into the silence.
“I love you more, angel.”