Interlude: Azaria
"You invited him for Christmas?!" Sandra squealed, clapping her hands together.
"Shhh!" Azariah hissed, and pulled her behind the reshelving stacks.
"Sorry. You invited him for Christmas?" Sandra repeated in an elaborate stage whisper. Azariah sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Just for Christmas Eve, Sandra. As the youths would say, it's 'not that deep'. He doesn't have anyone to spend it with an neither do I, so…"
"Oh it is so that deep!" Sandra crossed her arms, "Christmas is The Big One, whether you've got family to introduce someone to or not. This is not casual. This is huge."
"Sandra," Azariah gave her a pleading look, gesturing with hands palm-to-palm, "could you please not make this anymore nerve-wracking than it already is? I don't need any help winding myself up about it."
"Right, of course. Look, you'll be fine!" She patted him on the shoulder, and went on with a slightly manic gleam in her eye, "Sooo, what are you getting him?"
"I…" Azariah's face twisted in consternation. "I hadn't thought yet."
"Oh, no," Sandra ripped her coat off the rack, "That's it, clear your schedule. We're going shopping."
Crowley drove much slower than he normally would (that is, within the speed limit), not because he didn't want to get where he was going, but because it gave him time to think, and prepare. He was nervous. Why was he nervous? It wasn't that deep. He was going to Azariah's for Christmas Eve, that was all. Was it all nerves, or was there something else going on in the quiver of his stomach? Aziraphale loved Christmas and the entire festive winter season; shouldn't he be happy that he was getting to spend part of it with him again? The pang was, as with so many things, that Aziraphale didn't know it. They weren't going to be lounging about the elaborately decorated bookshop, drinking wine and arguing about carols and the various misinterpretations of the holiday that had developed over the millennia; he was going to Azariah's cottage, a place unknown and unforeseen. Crowley was looking forward to it far more than he'd expected, but at the same time, he felt unmoored.
The Bentley's tires crunched on the frozen gravel of Azariah's drive. It was early afternoon, so the grey winter light was still doing its work, and this time as Crowley passed through the gap in the wall that led to the cottage itself, he caught sight of a sign affixed to the stones. It read Wyrttun Cottage, raising a flag of recognition in his mind. The thing about being able to speak every language in the world was that it applied to every language ever, and the old ones didn't just disappear when they went out of fashion. It took just a second for Crowley's brain to dredge up the Old English translation of wyrttun: garden. His fingers tightened on the wheel. Long experience had taught him that there were no such thing as coincidences, and he was absolutely not prepared to disregard that belief in this instance. But for the moment he had to put it aside: the cottage door had opened, and Azariah emerged, waving, as the Bentley drew up and finally came to a halt. Its hot metal pinged in the cold air as Crowley threw open the door and threaded himself out, pasting a grin onto his face.
"Welcome!" Azariah called, "Come on in out of the cold." Not needing any persuasion on that score, Crowley hurried to the door and past the librarian into the cottage. There was a low bench next to the door and he lowered his small black tote bag onto it as Azariah bustled in behind, closing the door. "Here, let me take that," he said, putting out has hand as Crowley slid the long, thick coat down his arms. Obligingly he handed it over, and as Azariah disappeared to deposit in some closet somewhere, he got his first proper look at the cottage.
The entryway led into a long, broad, open room, with the kitchen at one end, and living area at the other. It was an incongruous room, as so many such were these days: ancient flagstones of the hearth and those of the large fireplace itself overlooked by a television mounted above; centuries-old oak floorboards surmounted by modern furniture; the scrubbed wooden kitchen table keeping company with things like a microwave and blender. But it was the decorations that struck Crowley, and brought an ache to his chest. White fairy lights ran in tidy lines along uneven surfaces all around, paper chains hung in neat swags from the beams overhead, interspersed here and there with paper snowflakes. And anchoring the room in the far corner of the living area was the tree, a wide, bushy pine that just barely fit below the ceiling, and filled the room with its strong, earthy scent.
It too was wound with white lights, and covered in a massive variety of ornaments, bells, and miniature candy canes, all topped with flocked white star the glowed bright amber from within. The tree had always been Aziraphale's festive pride and joy in the bookshop. Insisting on only the finest real tree he could acquire, the angel would spend hours decorating and lighting the thing, usually roping Crowley into the process. He'd always moaned and complained a bit, but never came without secretly adding some new ornament to the tree, which Aziraphale thoughtfully pretended not to notice. The hours they spent in the closed bookshop over the holidays, bathed in warmth and low light and the spicy smell of the tree were always a haven for Crowley in the deep of winter, and the sight and smell of Azariah's tree was almost too much.
Azariah re-emerged into the main room, crossing back over to Crowley with a smile.
"Alright?"
"Yeah!" Crowley shook himself, and kicked off his boots, "yeah, sorry, I was just admiring the décor."
"Oh," Azariah blushed slightly as Crowley bent down to tidy his boots next to the bench, "yes, I do enjoy it."
"It's lovely," Crowley said as he straightened, then bent slightly again, fishing around in the tote bag, "Reminds me of home. Here," he straightened again and held out a dark bottle to Azariah, "Never come empty handed, they always say."
"Oh, thanks very much!" Azariah took the bottle and went over into the kitchen, exclaiming over the vintage on the label. Crowley followed, his eyes moving over the plants on the windowsill, the perfect organization of the counters, and the gleaming aga on the far side of the room. Azariah deposited the bottle of wine on the nearest counter next to a rack of utensils, remarking on how it would go perfectly with the dinner he was making, then turned back to Crowley.
"Tea? Or coffee if you'd rather."
"Tea's great." Despite the frequency of their outings together for coffee and his own personal proclivities at home, Crowley had started drinking tea much more often since venturing in to the London Library. At first it had been out of politeness after being offered a cuppa by Sandra shortly after the incident in St. James's Park, which seemed like a peace offering. Then one time he'd come just before opening and been invited to join the staff tea. Then Azariah had started slipping him mugs while reading when it was especially cold, and Crowley discovered that apart from the taste growing on him, tea more than coffee warmed him from the inside. Apart from the purely physical, there was something settling and metaphysically warming about it that was different than coffee, and he began to understand the appeal.
As the kettle heated up and they chatted aimlessly about the weather and the library and the state of London traffic, Crowley also began to realize how warm the cottage was. He'd dressed with care for the occasion, both wanting to look nice, and wanting to not be chilly and miserable. Apart from the season itself, he knew that these ancient cottages could be leaky beasts, and had layered up accordingly. But with the windows shut and the fire not only lit but stoked up high at this hour, he found that he was too warm. The kettle whistled, and while Azariah went to deal with it, Crowley pulled off his long black jumper, and deposited it on the bench in the entry. The atmosphere was perfect for the layer below: his favorite black longsleeved tshirt, its v-neck flopping open slightly at the chest with its buttons undone. In fact, he was even able to pull the sleeves up to beneath his elbows as he returned to the kitchen. Crowley glimpsed Azariah's surreptitious grin as the librarian turned away from filling two mugs to return the kettle to its place, and he was quite sure that the fire had been curated for his comfort. The pang that lanced through Crowley this time was not or guilt or grief, but something kinder: the unexpected sensation of being cared for.
He accepted the mug Azariah handed him, and took a deep inhalation of its scent as steam rose from the surface of the tea. Strong, milky, with just a little bit of sugar. Crowley sipped, and nodded approvingly.
"Perfect." Crowley lounged against the kitchen counter, one arm crossed across his chest, its hand resting on the opposite bicep as the other hand held his tea. In the midst of their small talk, a new presence emerged: a large tortoiseshell cat crept down the stairs, padded across the kitchen floor, and began to inspect Crowley's ankles.
"Oh hello," he said, looking down at the cottage's feline inhabitant, "Nice to meet you too." The cat looked up at Crowley and gave a distinct and authoritative meow, before beginning to wind itself through his legs. Aziraphale laughed, and drained the last of the tea from his mug.
"Incredible! Tug doesn't usually like anyone but me. I suppose you must have passed some sort of test."
"I like cats," Crowley said simply, and Tug popped up onto his hindlegs, stretching his forepaws up to reach as high as he could on Crowley's legs, claws just slightly extended, "Even when they misbehave." He arched an eyebrow at the cat, who showed no remorse whatsoever.
"Well, I'd better get on if we're going to eat at a reasonable hour!" Azariah stepped over to Crowley and gently shooed the cat away.
"Anything I can do to help?" Crowley asked, and Azariah shook his head as he straightened up.
"Being here is enough, it's nice to have company while I cook!" He started to move, then stopped, hesitating. Crowley looked at him curiously, but before he could ask if there was something after all, Azariah reached up tentatively and pulled the dark glasses from Crowley's face. His fingertips brushed Crowley's cheekbones as they withdrew, and his smile was slightly shy as his hands lowered.
"There you are," Azariah said softly, folding the glasses and settling them on the counter without breaking his gaze from Crowley's eyes. "Be as you are with me, Anthony."
Without a pause to think, Crowley leaned forward and pressed his lips against Azariah's. They were soft and warm and everything he wanted them to be, and after the briefest of surprised pauses, they pressed back against his. Crowley could feel Azariah shift as he moved closer, hands going to the counter on either side of Crowley. Their bodies touched, and Azariah melted into him as they kissed. Crowley's free hand drifted up to the back of Azariah's neck, where his fingertips lingered in the pale curls at his nape, and he could feel the slight tightening of the skin beneath them as Azariah reacted to his touch. When they broke gently apart a moment later, the familiar blue eyes before Crowley shone like the stars.