As warm as it had been before, the kitchen seemed warmer now, with the new sensations radiating between Crowley and Azariah. It was a warmth not of heat but of understanding, and it seemed to fill the room with a new glow as Azariah moved about, preparing, seasoning, and popping the goose into the oven; chopping vegetables, keeping a close eye on pots simmering on the stove, and generally wielding a masterful had at everything he touched. Crowley, tea long since finished, now sat on the counter, heels of his hands resting on its edge, an anchor to which Azariah continually returned as he went about his tasks. They joked and laughed amidst the growing delicious smells that swirled about the place, about everything and nothing. Tug had settled himself on the kitchen table, and insisted on tasting a bit of everything that Azariah was preparing, which, Crowley observed was only his due.
Finally, as the sky was darkening with serious intent, Azariah shooed Tug aside, and laid plates on the table. Dish after dish appeared beside them, although Crowley had been sure Azariah was only making a simple dinner. But no: it was a full Christmas spread, and he smothered his instinct to object to the extravagance. Azariah had wanted to do this— for him, for them. Crowley felt his face redden, and hopped down from the counter to retrieve the wine he'd brought. Locating a corkscrew, he opened it with a pop, and set it on the table just as Azariah appeared beside him with two glasses. Their shoulders rubbed together as Crowley poured, and there was a camaraderie in the touch that was foreign and familiar at once. They sat, and Crowley raised his glass.
"To the chef," he proposed, and Azariah raised his glass in return,
"To the goose!" They touched their glasses together with a ting, and drank together. Crowley lowered his glass with a grin.
"Good thing I've gotten through Dickens." Azariah laughed, rolling his eyes roguishly.
"I never could resist a good literary reference. Now, bon appetit!"
Crowley cut into his helping of goose, and the first bite was an experience like that he'd had with the duck at the Ritz. Only this time, rather than an exquisitely crafted gourmet epicurean delight, his mouth was filled with the rustic flavours of herb and fowl and tradition, with a hefty helping of the deep, rich taste that only time spent in consideration of who would be taking part in the meal could impart. He'd heard of people weeping over particularly good meals, and now thought he might understand. He looked up at Azariah across the table, and knew he didn't need to say anything: the librarian was watching him with a soft, embarrassed, flushed with pleasure sort of look that indicated he'd seen the wide range of emotions and delight pass across Crowley's face as he began to eat.
"Delicious," Crowley managed to say anyway, breaking the tension.
"Thank you," Azariah replied modestly, and with that the conversation began anew. Over talk to the meal itself, Crowley learned more of Azariah's garden, from which the root vegetables had come; his neighbour, who had supplied the goose; and the local market where the greens and herbs have come from. Everything was as local as it could be, and this inspired Crowley to ask about the area itself. By swings and roundabouts, like a deep Wikipedia dive, they came back to Austen over the cheese. Pride and Prejudice had been a recurring subject with them, and they debated endlessly over particular plot points and the natures of the different characters. Crowley was quite insistent that Charlotte Lucas had gotten one of the best deals all around, with a good living and a clueless husband, all of which would enable her to do pretty much as she pleased without anyone bothering her. Of course, Lizzie and Darcy had gotten their happy ending, but now Lizzie had to run that big house and do all that lady stuff, and Crowley wasn't entirely sure how much she'd like it. At some point, Azariah mentioned that there had been some rather good film adaptations made of the book, and perhaps they should watch one of them. Crowley leaned back in his chair, stretching with one arm and draining his wine glass with the other.
"Why not? I haven't got anywhere else to be."
Together they cleared off the table, packing away the leftovers into the fridge, but leaving the washing up in the sink for later. Tug contributed to the process with a series of mrows, and putting himself as much in the way as possible. When they had done, they moved over into the living area before the fireplace, and Azariah switched off the kitchen light overhead. With the sky outside fully dark, this plunged the cottage into a state of fairy-lit luminescence, augmented by the crackling flames of the fire. The room seemed smaller, and Crowley breathed a quiet sigh of comfort as he leaned on one of the large, soft arms of the sofa, watching Azariah peruse a rack of DVDs in the corner.
"Ah, yes! This one, I think," he pulled a case from the rack and held it up. Crowley tilted his head slightly to get a view of the cover, which was fairly modern looking, and had an actress on the front he vaguely recognized. Hadn't she been in some pirate films as well? "Some people say it'll never be as good as the BBC one, but I like it very much, and it's an easier watch." Crowley shrugged amiably, and Azariah slid the disc into its player. When the menu had come up, its wistful piano melody filling the room with Restoration anticipation, Azariah settled onto the far end of the couch. It was a long, broad, deep and comfortable piece of furniture, and Crowley realized belatedly that he had a decision to make. Shoving off from the arm he had been leaning against and with an effort to appear as casual as possible, he sauntered the few steps over and sank down next to Azariah. The cushion gave just enough beneath him to pull them slightly closer together, and Crowley tucked one leg up beneath himself, spreading his arms out on the back of the sofa, as he tended to do on the park bench. Azariah pressed play.
The story unfolded much as it had in the book, and Crowley found the experience of watching a story he had only consumed on the page before unfold onscreen fascinating. Obviously he knew what was going to happen, but still found himself reaction with suspense and anticipation, and shouting out at the characters when they were being idiots, as if there was anything he could do about their decisions. Azariah did the same, and the first half or so of the film was a Rocky Horror-like interactive experience. But around about the time that Lizzie, her aunt, and uncle arrived at Pemberley, Crowley began to feel the effects of the large amount of good food, wine, and warmth. Gradually he slumped lower and lower on the couch, pulling his arms into himself, until his head touched down on Azariah's shoulder. He jerked up, realizing what he had done, but Azariah's arm came down on his shoulder, draping over his arm as Crowley leaned against him.
"Make yourself comfortable," Azariah said quietly, and Crowley did not object. He blinked hard now and then, fighting to stay awake. But by the time Lady de Burgh came to visit Lizzie, even this position had become too much effort, and giving in fully to Azariah's invitation, Crowley wriggled and scooted on the sofa until he was stretched out along the empty side, arms and legs curled up slightly, and his head rested in Azariah's lap. He felt Azariah's arm come to rest on his shoulder again, and this time the librarian's fingers began to comb themselves through Crowley's hair. He sighed, this time a gesture of deep content and relaxation. The rhythmic passage of Azariah's fingers in his hair lulled Crowley to sleep, just as Darcy emerged from the mist.
When Crowley awoke, it took a moment for him to realize where he was. There was a strain of familiar music repeating itself in the background, the still-radiant warmth of a low-burned fire, and as he blinked a few times, the amber glow of— fairy lights? Abruptly Crowley pushed himself up, in the process waking Azariah, who had nodded off with his chin on his chest.
"Ngk— sorry, I should—" Crowley sputtered, but Azariah stopped him with a hand on the side of his face, pushing the hair out of his eyes.
"Shh." Azariah took Crowley's hand and pulled him off the sofa. Pausing only briefly to shut off the television, Azariah led Crowley up the stairs, which creaked with age, and into the large bedroom above. It was warm, heated by the pipes the fire warmed, and moonlight streamed through the open curtains. The bed itself was large, not so massive as Crowley's own oversized domain, but with plenty of room for two. Silently Azariah pulled back the covers and slid beneath them, turning to hold them up for Crowley in an invitation that did not need to be spoken. In his drowsy state, Crowley was easily able to put aside any misgivings that might have begun to rear their heads, and climbed in beside him. The room might have been warm, but the sheets beneath the covers had a slight chill, and Crowley gave a tiny shiver as he settled in. At once, Azariah turned to drape his arm across Crowley's torso, resting his head in the crook of Crowley's arm, and pressing his own chest and belly to his side. The warmth of him pulsed into Crowley, driving away the chill. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled, sounding the new day. Sleepily, Azariah murmured into Crowley's chest,
"Happy Christmas, Anthony." Crowley let his arm curl around Azariah's shoulder and tilted his head on the pillow, sinking back into sleep as he exhaled his reply,
"Happy Christmas, Azi."