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Crowley glared at the bin and wondered if it would be overly dramatic to set it on fire.
Look, the shiny, tacky – stupid idea – box of chocolates deserved it, alright.
A woman in a smart green coat walked past, disrupting his sight of the bin from where he leant against cold metal railings. He transferred his glare to her for good measure and grimaced when she glared right back. Londoners.
Sighing, he untangled himself from the iron bars and set off walking, allowing himself to be aimless for now as he tried to figure some way out of this unmitigated disaster– this travesty – bloody hell, what was the point of surviving the apocalypse if this was the kind of thing he had to deal with? He stole past shops, and told himself he wasn’t noticing the glittery, mass-produced hearts that were smeared across all their window-displays.
He stopped eventually, in the warm light cast out from a fast-food cafe, and leant back on the window, his dark clothes like shadows against the cheap, merry background. Focusing on small pleasures was meant to make you feel better, he thought, so he shifted a little, strategically, against the storefront. A kid with deep blue hair and a skinny-fit pinstripe suit glanced at him from a distance, at the door he was partially blocking, and decided that the family-run bakery across the road had better coffee anyway.
The tiniest uptick of a smile flickered across Crowley’s face. Then the door opened carefully behind him and he might’ve startled– heart in his throat from the microsecond of falling– except that he was a millenia-old absolute badass . So he didn’t do that. Obviously. He cleared his throat and reached up to finger at his glasses awkwardly. The person met his eyes, grimacing out an apologetic smile as they made their way past him. Probably on their way to a date. That’s probably what’s in their pastry bag: enough cutesy pink confectionary for however many partners they happen to have. Probably , it carried some special meaning between them– a memory first dates maybe, or some kind of sappy meet-cute.
He’d been getting flashes like this, of things decidedly less demonic than usual, since the apocalypse-that-wasn’t. Which… wasn’t un pleasant. Generally. He could deal with it. But… well, right now this new-found ability – ‘flashes of love’, my arse – seemed to exist solely to taunt him about the fact that he didn’t know what to get Aziraphale for Valentine’s .
Well, he did. He had. He sighed aggressively enough that he felt it burn in the back of his throat. Chocolates, everyone likes chocolates! So he’d bought chocolates: the best ones, the internet agreed, the most delicious chocolates that money could buy. Stupid. As if Aziraphale couldn’t buy his own. Not exactly a special gift when he’s already got tens of the blasted things stacked under his desk and coated in preserving miracles. Hence the black look they’d been subjected to earlier as they sat in the rubbish bin.
A couple of pigeons blustered out of someone’s way on the other side of the street. They were hurrying, and looked anxious. Not the pigeons: those guys never look anything but stupidly self-satisfied, at least in London. Since negative emotions were a piece of cake, it was easy enough for Crowley to have an idle skim for their source… huh, well then. He snapped his fingers and the abandoned box of chocolates was shining with cleanliness, as though it had never been made to languish under several oozing take-away containers, and propped by an unassuming door, in an unassuming flat, in an unassuming street. A quick application of supernatural powers and the mysterious appearance of the perfect gift would be perceived as only happily fortuitous instead of creepy.
He looked at the darkening sky and then at his phone... Aziraphale would be expecting him, if he wasn’t already. But he had time. Okay, not now , since really the angel was probably fretting, but he had time to get whatever he was going to get tomorrow. Tomorrow was a new day, and all that jazz. Deciding he’d psyched himself up enough that Aziraphale might not imm ediately notice his disquiet, Crowley strode to the road and snapped his fingers into the air, climbing smoothly into the summoned Bentley as it rolled gently to a near-stop in front of him.
He left behind a small glimmer of suggestion. In the years that followed, a small business – pride and care from multiple generations soaked into its brickwork and foundations – saw its chain-store competitors come and go, but this little bakery just so happened to weather disasters with an unusual resilience. Though that had nothing to do with Crowley, of course.
An impossibly short period of time later and Crowley was home, his face betraying none of the worry that still churned at the back of his mind. Swinging open the wooden gate to their garden, ducking under a stem of honeysuckle that trailed wildly from their trellis, helped his nonchalant appearance become more genuine, with a curl of true happiness in its shadows. The front door opened before he could even reach out for the handle. His favourite person in existence, who had wanted to live with him (Crowley was still not over that, thank you very much). What did he do, Crowley thought wonderingly, to get so disgustingly lucky ?
Aziraphale brows were gently furrowed, likely because Crowley had been driving a teensy bit fast on the way in, and he was wearing his best (in Crowley’s opinion, because it was the softest) jumper.
“Angel,” he greeted.
Aziraphale lit up like Crowley had said something– something, just better. Romantic even, or in some way expressing the vastness of Crowley’s feelings. The enormity of his emotions regarding that soft, soft woollen jumper and how much he wanted to snuggle into it would be a start. Hell’s bells, but Aziraphale was beautiful.
Crowley’s words had a tendency of wriggling away from whatever grand feelings he wanted to stuff them with, so he just stepped up, looped his arms around Aziraphale, and tucked his head so he could feel the soft blond curls against his cheek.
--------- <3 ---------
After a dinner where the food was almost as wonderful as the company, the two of them retreated to the softly-lit lounge. They sat close together on a sofa surrounded by messy bookcases, and talked softly.
“Darling,” Aziraphale said gently, fingers stroking little jolts of lightning up the back of Crowley’s hand, “will you tell me what’s wrong?”
After this simple evening together Crowley could say, with almost complete honesty, that nothing was the matter, though at the question a few tremors of worry did try to sneak their way back up. But still, nothing worth worrying Aziraphale over so he sighed dramatically. ”Late-stage capitalism, angel, that’s what’s wrong. Y’know,” he continued lightly, “I might just make it my next project actually.”
“I don’t doubt that, dear, but you know I wasn’t referring to your burgeoning freelance portfolio.” Aziraphale hesitated, then said, “You’ve been agitated recently. I thought perhaps, what with the season...”
As Aziraphale trailed off uncertainly, Crowley cursed that his angel had to be so damn clever. Except that, actually, that trait was a regular contender in Crowley’s Favourite Things About Aziraphale list. Instead he just resigned himself to being caught out again, and comforted . Gah.
Aziraphale moved to take Crowley’s hands completely in his. Crowley felt the quick brush of that jumper’s sleeve-edge against his fingertips.
“You know that you matter more to me than any material item ever could,” Aziraphale said firmly. He caught Crowley’s eyes and continued sternly, “As does your mental wellbeing, for that matter.”
When Aziraphale did ‘stern’, the lovely lines by his eyes always crinkled just so. And Crowley loved that, loved it like he did all the other micro-expressions he’d catalogued relentlessly over millennia. But how was he supposed to deal with that look, with all its concern and love and light . So he cringed, looking down at the sofa and tracing its red lines of stitching, instead of into his partner’s eyes. He didn’t pull his hands out of the gentle hold though, because Crowley would never truly pull away from Aziraphale, even when it maybe looked like he did.
“Crowley.”
Shit. Okay then. He looked up. Aziraphale’s eyes were warm. Inviting.
“I just wanted to get you the best, is all.” That was all Crowley meant to say but somehow more words were coming out of his mouth. “You deserve so much, Aziraphale. Soooo much. And I don’t care about this stupid holiday, you should have whatever you want always– every day of the year, not just for one measly day. But then I thought, it’s our first one really together and sure the day doesn’t really matter but…” Crowley grimaced but took in Aziraphale’s gaze, so gentle, and felt like he could continue, “but then I guess somewhere along the line the day did start to matter, and I thought what better day than tomorrow to give you– whatever I get you, because I don’t know what that is! ” He groaned loudly and dropped his head onto Aziraphale’s shoulder.
Aziraphale’s hands let go of his – a travesty – but they soon reappeared, caressing his back firmly and guiding him in closer to Aziraphale’s warmth.
“Crowley dear,” Aziraphale started, “I love you with all of my heart, so please try not to be alarmed–” (Crowley felt alarmed.) “-but, ah, today is in fact the 14th of February. Not tomorrow.”
“What?!” Crowley exploded out of Aziraphale’s embrace. “It can’t be. It– Oh no. It is, isn’t it?” he said, sinking back down onto the sofa in quiet horror. A second of quiet and then, “Oh, Aziraphale, it was supposed to be a special day and I wasn’t even here. ”
Aziraphale only smiled, which was not an appropriate response in Crowley’s current opinion, before asking rhetorically, “Didn’t we have breakfast in bed together this morning? The special scones from that darling tea-room on the corner?” Gently he added, “And wasn’t dinner lovely? I followed those recipes you worked out, the ones inspired by our old favourites from that time in Bath.”
Crowley was quiet.
Aziraphale drew himself up and said quite forcefully, “If you think that sitting here with you, whether in quiet or in conversation, isn’t the best part of every day then, well, I don’t know what I shall do with you.”
A reluctant smile broke out onto Crowley’s face and he relaxed back into Aziraphale. “...Well, we both know that’s a lie, angel, ‘cos breakfast is definitely your favourite time of day.”
“Only when it’s with you, dear,” said Aziraphale, utterly fond. “By the way,” he said in a tone of voice so blasé that it immediately made Crowley suspicious, “I got you a present.”
“You what .”
“Not really, my dear, not really,” he said, breaking out into bright laughter around the words.
“ Aziraphale ,” he groaned in amusement, and they shared a smile heavy with unsaid words and quiet love.
It really was a great day after all, and the many days that followed were just as good, all because they got to spend them together .