GOD the "I dont go shopping I get and retrieve" prompt for the south downs PLEASE
ok so I just wanna say this may have gotten away from me
❝ I don’t go shopping I get and retrieve. I have a narrow focus, unlike some people. ❞
Aziraphale crosses his arms, trying to look above all this and failing. “I have no idea what you mean.”
Crowley makes a series of disbelieving noises, wildly waving the receipt in his hand. “Look at this! We needed eggs and you came back with–” He sputters some more before holding the receipt close and taking off his glasses. “3 dozen lemon marionberry muffins, a tin of £20 rose tea, four different types of cheese danish, a recipe book from 1877, and brioche.”
Aziraphale shrugs. “Well what’s wrong with that? Those were all perfectly delicious.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale blinks. “Yes, I suppose I did.”
“And it’s not just that,” Crowley continues. “Every time we go into that antique shop you end up buying half the store. And I’m all for irritating consumerism, you know me, practically invented it when I got the home shopping channel up, but the expenses.”
“Crowley, again, we have an endless supply of money.”
Crowley grumbles. “Fine! Fine, yeah. But the space, Aziraphale. I mean.” He gestures to the room.
Aziraphale looks around. There’s stacks of books on the coffee and tide tables, and some wedged between the couch cushions. The window is open, and the multitude of antique chimes he bought a few weeks ago glitter gloriously in the light with their greens and ambers but tangle up when the breeze passed through. The shelves are lined with his collection of regency snuff boxes. There’s stacks of plates on the floor–not used, of course, but they’re a set from 1813 he had wanted for so long, and he found them for a steal. Even the mantelpiece is choked with porcelain figurines and fancy pots that Crowley has been filling with plants.
“I,” Aziraphale starts, though he hates to say the rest. His hands twist in on each other, and he sighs. “I suppose it is getting a little cluttered. Oh, but I like the clutter.”
“I’m not suggesting a total overhaul,” Crowley says, voice soft. “Just, you know, some spring cleaning. The human way. Pack up some stuff for the attic.” He pauses. “And also getting eggs this time.”
Aziraphale sighs again. “Alright. And I’ll go get the eggs. They also had a lovely selection of peaches there that–”
Crowley rolls his eyes. “You’re lucky I love you. Walk or ride, you think?”
Aziraphale considers. “Walk.”
When they return, eggs in hand (along with the peaches, and some Hazelnut Ritter Sports because Crowley can admit that he is a hypocrite, unlike some people) they get to the cleaning. Crowley has promised the human way, but looking at the mess now resolves to first snap them neatly into piles on the floor. Easier to go through everything and all that.
After a few hours of sorting they’ve got the books back in the study, at least, which has been steadily becoming a larger and larger room with the confines of their tiny cottage, and some of the wind chimes tucked away in the attic. The box of porcelain figurines was especially surprised to find itself in an antique shop in Dorset, but what Aziraphale didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
(The box will be equally surprised tomorrow morning to find itself unpacked and back on the mantelpiece, while a smug angel looks on and a mussy haired demon groans in exasperation.)
For now they’ve moved to the snuff boxes. Aziraphale is sorting through them now, criss-cross on the floor. It’s late now, and the wisps of his hair glow orange in the lamplight. He’s wearing another hideous jumper that their neighbor’s knitted for them. It’s fraught with knots, but Aziraphale can’t find a way to say no to a gift and he figures that if he wears it once it’s enough to call it a job well done. Crowley watches as Aziraphale checks the inside of one box before setting it aside and inspecting another. He feels a sort of warm stretching in his chest. Aziraphale always looks his best when the lights are low.
As if his ears were burning, the angel looks up. “What is it?”
“You’re staring. Do I have snuff ash on my face?”
He does, but Crowley won’t tell him that. “No, no. Just, erm.” He’s still very knew to this, the whole saying what he means kind of thing. “Just like looking at you, is all.”
Aziraphale beams. The warm stretchy feeling grows more. “Oh, Crowley.” His smiles softens. “You are–”
“Oh, tell the whole blessed world, why don’t you,” Crowley grumbles. His cheeks are hot. Is it hot in here? Perhaps it’s the furnace. He should check the furnace.
“We’re married, darling, there’s no need to be embarrassed.”
“Not embarrassed, just.” He’s not used to it, still. The whole thing of saying something so true and having the other person hear it and respond to it. To even like it, is. He shakes his head and picks up one of the snuff boxes. It’s metal, and lightly carved with ivy leaves. “Why do you have so much of these anyway?”
Aziraphale sees the moment pass and moves on. “Well, I don’t know. I suppose I just think they’re neat.”
Crowley smiles. “Oh, you would, wouldn’t you?” He opens up the box, and inside the lining is a single piece of folded paper. He remembers this. He knows what this is. He tries to stuff it somewhere before Aziraphale notices, before he–
“What’s that you’ve got there?”
Fuck. “This? It’s nothing. Uh, shopping list, looks like.”
Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “Shopping list?”
“Or a receipt. Or something of the like.”
Aziraphale leans forward. “Well, let me–”
“No! No,” Crowley yells. He keeps the paper from Aziraphale’s reach. “I’ll, uh. I think it’s best if I keep it, yeah?”
Aziraphale looks at him dryly. “Crowley.”
Crowley’s resolves crumbles. He pulls his arm back down. “It’s. It’s a letter. From me.” He swallows. “To you.”
“Oh, well we used to send each other letters all the time, didn’t we?”
“It’s a.” He grimaces. “Love letter. From back when they were in fashion. Regency or something like that.” He opens the letter, grimacing again at the language. “1817, to be exact. Got drunk and snuck it in the box thinking you’d never open it. Completely forgot about doing it, actually.”
“What does it say?” Aziraphale asks.
“I don’t–” Crowley starts, shaking his head. “’S all flowery words, it’s not really–”
He’s giving the big shiny eyes this time. Crowley rolls his own eyes and takes off his sunglasses. “Yeah, alright,” he says. “My dearest Aziraphale.” Oh, this is going to be much harder than he thought. “Every day without you grows lonelier than the last. To think I spent centuries without you is laughable. You have found me bewitched, I am sure. Bewitched by your smile, your eyes, the wisps of your hair. Every day I look at you and find something new to love. To say I have loved you for ages would be to understate time and all of the years I have looked upon your face with utter adoration. I would kiss the rose of your lips if you would be so kind as to let me. I cannot ensure you against the wrath of an unjust God, but if she be so she is not the God for us. As such, however, I understand if your feelings are not true to mine. That which is divine has no obligation to be upon sullied ground. I stand with a flawed love, but it is yours nonetheless. As am I. Best regards, Crowley.”
He swallows. He can’t bare to look up from the paper. In the time it’s taken to read it his voice has gone rough and his eyes are wet. “Told you, ’s a load of–”
Aziraphale’s lips are on him lightning quick, cupping his face in his hands. Crowley leans in, bringing one of his hands to feel the groove of Aziraphale’s knuckles before the angel pulls away. “You never cease to amaze me.”
Crowley rolls his eyes. “It’s not that good.”
“No, I refuse to see it as anything other than amazing.” He snatches the letter from Crowley’s hands. “I’m framing it.”
Crowley frowns. “Framing it?”
“Yes.” He runs his thumb over the paper, looking at the words before blushing a bit. “If you wish, I can give you one of mine and you can frame it as well.”
Something short circuits in Crowley’s brain. “One of yours. You–” A half consonant tried to escape his mouth a few times before hitting jackpot. “You wrote love letters about me?”
Aziraphale shakes his head. “Well, much later, yes. And some poetry.” He looks bashful. “You’re not the only one who had trouble getting their words out.” He smiles a bit sadly, and reaches out to take Crowley’s hand in his.
Crowley stares at Aziraphale for a while before returning the grip, interlocking their fingers. “Well,” he croaks. “Lucky we found a way.”
“Yes,” says Aziraphale. He brushes a thumb over Crowley’s knuckles. “Extremely lucky.”
They forget about cleaning for the rest of the night.
