When Crowley next awoke, it was to the pale-gold light of morning, diffused by the thin curtains over the window. He realized where he was more quickly this time, and turned over languidly, stretching his limbs beneath the covers, to find the rest of the bed empty, but for a disturbed impression in the sheet. This was not entirely surprising— he could sleep like the dead, so the fact that Azariah could have gotten up without waking him was no big accomplishment. What it did mean what that Azariah had woken up first, and made a choice to leave the bed, and there were a great many things that could mean. Crowley did his best not to allow his brain to start spinning on that. He'd just begun to wonder how he felt about it all, when the creak of the stairs forestalled that train of thought. Again he turned over, propping himself up on his elbow in time to see Azariah coming through the bedroom door, the handles of two steaming mugs in his fist.
"Morning," Azariah greeted cheerfully, separating the mugs and extending one to Crowley, "Coffee?" Crowley pushed himself further up to sit leaning against the headboard, and accepted the mug. Azariah sank down on the edge of the bed next to Crowley, cupping his mug in both hands. Crowley sniffed the mug appreciatively, took a deep swallow, and exhaled in satisfaction. Azariah laughed.
"Sleep alright?"
"Like a stone," Crowley replied, taking another sip of coffee. Before he could say anything more, a soft patpatpatpat on the floorboards announced the arrival of Tug, who jumped up onto the bed between them, arching his back and wrapping his tail around Azariah's wrist. He stepped over Crowley (taking care to place one paw on his leg with unnecessary force), then doubled back on himself and climbed onto Crowley's lap, where he situated himself into a loaf with his paws hanging over a leg, and began to purr. Crowley snorted, but let his hand drop to the vibrating creature and began to stroke it from head to tail.
"Why've you called this cat Tug?" He asked, looking back to Azariah, "I'd have expected something like Azrael, or Djibi, or Ches, or something."
"Ahh, but he is!" Azariah grinned with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, "Have you read any Eliot yet?" Crowley shook his head. "Ah, well, there you are. Ever heard of Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats? No? What about the musical Cats?" Crowley grimaced, and Azariah chortled. "Well it's passed on the book, believe it or not. This fellow's full name," he reached out of stroke and pull on Tug's ears lightly, "is Rum Tum Tugger, the Curious Cat who simply must always be difficult, and wants something different than what you've offered. Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat," Azariah recited in a teasing voice to Tug, "And there isn't any use for you to doubt it, For he will do, As he do do, And there's no doing anything about it!"
It was Crowley's turn to laugh, scratching hard at the base of Tug's tail as the cat arched up against his hand.
"Sounds like my kind of book." Azariah grinned and rose from the bed.
"Come on Tug, give the man a bit of peace and come have your breakfast," the cat leapt from Crowley's lap to the floor at once upon hearing the final word, in a single powerful jump. "I've left some things for you in the bathroom," Azariah said before following Tug to the door, "there's breakfast when you're ready." Then Crowley was alone again, in the warm, sunlit room, that now smelt of coffee and pine, drifting up from the tree downstairs. He stayed where he was for a few moments, drinking his coffee and reflecting on the pleasant feelings that were swirling around inside him. There was something to be said for spending the night next to someone warm and welcoming, who cared enough to bring you coffee in the morning. Although he'd never been in this room before, it felt homey, both in its physical atmosphere of sun and low cottage roof and wooden beams older than many countries, and because it reminded him to the bookshop. There were shelves built into the long wall across from the bed, crammed with books, packed in at every imaginable angle. Despite the multiplicity of it that would make owners of chained libraries weep, Crowley could easily imagine Azariah placing each volume with care and knowing exactly where everything was, just as Aziraphale did in the bookshop. With a final gulp of coffee, Crowley swung his legs out of bed, and went to investigate the bathroom.
Within, he found an unopened toothbrush and a squat glass on the counter beside the sink, and next to them a neatly folded pair of pyjama trousers. The toothbrush was easy enough to deal with; he opened it and ran it under the water for a minute, ruffling its bristles with his thumb, before depositing it into the glass. Like many other maintenance needs of his corporation, he took care of his teeth with a tiny miracle so routine he hardly even noticed doing it, and far more effective than manual human methods. He had remembered to excuse himself to the loo once or twice the previous evening, and repeated the same performance now of standing about for a minute or two before pressing the flush on the toilet.
The pyjamas, however, presented more of a conundrum. Neither he nor Azariah had bothered to change clothes before crawling into bed the previous night,and Crowley of course hadn't been expecting to stay, so it wasn't like he'd brought anything to change into. When Azariah had come up with coffee, Crowley had observed that he'd changed, into plain, dark pyjama trousers, a shirt reminiscent of Crowley's own, but cream-colored, and a thin brown dressing gown that hung past his knees. This made sense, though, for it was his house, and if he was planning to spend the day lounging, he might as well be comfortable. The soft brown trousers with their thin blue stripe awaiting Crowley, though, meant something different. Crowley hadn't a change of clothes, yes, but he couldn't exactly go home in these. They were an invitation to stay a while. The sound of an impatient mow! from outside the bathroom door broke through his turmoil and, once again giving in to temptation, Crowley wriggled out of the black jeans that seemed to have become part of his skin overnight, and pulled on the pyjama trousers.
"Okay, okay," Crowley said as he opened the door, to be greeted by Tug's waving tail, "I'm coming." He retrieved his now-tepid coffee mug and followed the cat down the stairs, yawning as he came into the living area. Azariah turned from the pan he was minding in the kitchen, his eyes flicking briefly to Crowley's attire, and crinkling into a smile as he raised a cafetiere full of dark liquid.
"Top you off?"
"Ugh, please." Crowley strode into the kitchen and held out his mug, which was replenished with hot, fragrant coffee. Azariah returned to the stove, and after an invigorating swig from his mug, Crowley poked his head over the librarian's shoulder. "Whatcha cookin'?"
Azariah had made bacon and beans and toast and poached eggs with lemon-bright bechamel, which he insisted when this time Crowley did protest that he shouldn't have gone to all the trouble, was the simplest thing in the world when you knew how to do it. Crowley, unused to having any kind of breakfast at all, was a bit overwhelmed by the intake of two sumptuous meals in as many days, but devoured everything that was put before him. After breakfast they retired to the couch, lounging to the soft background noise of a Welsh male voice choir on the old-fashioned radio on top of a low bookshelf. Crowley normally objected to carols and Christmas music in general, but there was something about the choir that made him feel easy, and added to the atmosphere of Azariah's cottage as a haven of festive warmth and comfort.
They laughed and talked and played at cribbage, a game both Crowley and Aziraphale had learned in the 17th century after noddy went out of fashion, and the love of which had apparently been retained by Azariah. They watched A Mupper Christmas Carol, which was one of Crowley's favorites, and Azariah thought would scar little children. They drank tea and wine and ate jaffa cakes and rather more chocolate than was good for them, as well as cheese and crackers and pickles and whatever other little bits they could find. The hours passed without notice in front of the fire, until finally Azariah set aside his mug of tea and straightened up on his end of the couch.
"I have something for you," he said, words underlined by both excitement and nerves.
"Oh?" Crowley said, watching as Azariah got up and reached under the tree, where a small parcel had hidden beneath the boughs. He returned to the sofa and sat, holding it out to Crowley with flushed cheeks. Crowley scooted closer and took it. It was light and neatly wrapped in green paper, with a white ribbon embroidered in scrolling silver tied around it in a bow. Crowley pulled the end of the ribbon, turning the parcel over to slit his finger neatly under the folded paper as the ribbon fell away, and pulling the paper of in one piece. Inside was a thin cardboard box, which he opened to reveal a piece of clothing. He lifted it from the box and shook it out to see that it was a cardigan, made of thin, finely woven cashmere that practically melted beneath his fingers. He could tell at once that both body and sleeves would be long enough, and noted that the row of shiny buttons down the front led to a v-neck above. In fact, he realized, it was nearly identical to one he often wore, except that this one was a deep ice-blue, like the bottom of a glacier exposed to light.
"I know it's not your usual colour, but—" Azariah's voice came from behind the upraised cardigan, and Crowley dropped his hands at once. Gripping the bottom of the previous day's shirt he still wore, he yanked it off in one smooth motion, threaded his arms through the bottom of the blue cardigan, and pulled it over his head. When he emerged from the neck, pulling the hem down to his hips, he saw Azariah looking both flustered and pleased, beaming from behind his blush. Feeling his own cheeks redden, Crowley got up awkwardly, shuffling paper and box around so as not to throw them to the floor.
"Er, I have something for you as well." He hadn't been sure if gifts were happening as part of the invitation to come for Christmas Eve, but had come prepared just in case. Once again he'd gone to the bookshop, this time telling Muriel that he was looking for something very particular for a bit of research he was doing— which wasn't entirely untrue, and was sufficient to fob them off on the increasing numbers of customers who came in trying to buy things as Christmas had approached. Crowley fetched the parcel from the tote he'd left on the entryway bench the day before, and extended it to Azariah as he sank back down on the sofa next to him, leaning against its back, head propped up by his hand. A flutter of nerves came up in his stomach again for some reason as Azariah unwrapped it. It was noticeably less neat than the parcel the cardigan had come in, but Crowley had done his best.
"A bible?" Azariah said curiously, turning the volume over in his hands, caressing the old, supple leather covers.
"Yes, but it's not weird or anything, I promise. Look inside." Azariah turned the book back over to its front cover, and carefully opened it, thumbing through the first few onionskin pages. And there, on the register common for so long in these books, was written in elaborate, scrolled script, the name Austen, followed by the litany of ancestors and descendants carefully recorded for posterity. Azariah gasped.
"Jane Austen's family bible!" He breathed, stunned, fingers trembling on the page, "but where— how—"
"I have a friend who deals in antiquarian books." The corner of Crowley's mouth tugged up. Again, not untrue. He barely had time to register the slap of the leather cover closing before he realized that Azariah was kissing him, having lunged across the space between them to cup the side of Crowley's face as he brought their lips crashing together. The force of it drove an unprepared Crowley back slightly, but he caught himself by propping one hand on the couch behind himself, the other arm coming around to grip Azariah by the waist, pulling them together to stabilise himself as the librarian poured out many unexpressable things in his kiss. Crowley gasped slightly when they broke apart and, before sitting back, Azariah said softly,
"Thank you."
When Crowley did eventually leave, it was with reluctance. Dusk was falling, and the cottage was transforming back into the ethereal state of the previous evening. He stood in the entry, having just pulled on his boots, as Azariah returned with his coat. The librarian held it up and Crowley obligingly faced away and slid his arms in the sleeves. He turned back around, but before he could begin to do up the buttons, Azariah slipped inside the coat, threading his arms about Crowley's slim waist, pulling him to a firm embrace, tucking his head against Crowley's neck.
"Thank you," he said, pulling back just slightly, "for coming." Azariah tilted his head up, and Crowley inclined his to meet it, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, during which Crowley found himself wishing he could simply wrap Azariah up in the coat and take him home. But they separated, Crowley did up his coat, and Azariah let him out into the cold waving and calling farewell as Crowley hurried to the warmed-up Bentley. He waved back as he slid inside. The care roared to life, gravel crunched beneath the tyres, Azariah disappeared from the rear-view mirror. And as Crowley drove away into the darkening streets, he reflected on the true meaning of Christmas.
Old things die.