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“Why is it so cold today? It shouldn’t be this cold.”
Aziraphale shoots him an unimpressed look. “I can’t believe you’re still cold.”
To be fair, Aziraphale has a point; Crowley would never admit it, though, so he glares as best he can from under the three throws and two garish patchwork quilts piled on top of him. “You know I get cold easily.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale says, patiently, “so perhaps it was not the best idea you’ve ever had to jump into a snow drift that was as tall as you are.”
“It was fun.” Crowley most definitely does not pout. Or shiver. Or sulk. “Can’t you do something? Miracle the quilts to be extra warm?”
He fully expects Aziraphale to point out, in response, that he could easily do that himself; but instead, his angel pauses, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “I — may have something that will help, actually. But you have to promise not to laugh.”
Crowley blinks, taken aback. “I — alright,” he says, confused. “I promise.”
Aziraphale nods. “I’ll be just a moment.” He stands, a little unsteadily — they have been drinking, though not as heavily as they used to before the averted Armageddon — and heads up the stairs. Crowley has never been there, but he guesses it’s a small, rarely-used flat.
Aziraphale returns a moment later, carrying what looks to be a very large knit something. A blanket, maybe. It’s a deep, rich red, the colour of wine, of rubies, of cranberries, shot through with gleaming gold threads.
“Here.” Aziraphale holds it out towards him, then hesitates, pulling back slightly. “Ah. Actually, it might be easier if I — would you stand up a moment?”
It takes Crowley a few minutes to unwrap himself from his nest of blankets without toppling over, but he eventually manages. As he moves to stand in front of Aziraphale, he very pointedly and deliberately does not suppress a shiver. “I was promised warmth.”
Aziraphale’s lips twitch in a half-smile. “Yes, yes, I’m getting to it.” He shakes out the knit whatever-it-is and wraps it around Crowley’s shoulders —
— and Crowley is instantly comfortable, the pleasant warmth eliciting an entirely involuntary full-body shiver.
Aziraphale frowns. “Is it not working? I’m sorry, my dear, I thought —” He reaches out, as if to take it away, and Crowley backs up several steps, wrapping his arms around himself protectively. “— Oh.” Aziraphale’s frown turns into a small, pleased smile. “I see.”
“Yessssssssss.” Crowley can’t quite manage to suppress the hiss. The knit something-or-other makes him feel like he’s been basking in a patch of sunlight for a few hours. “What is this?”
“Well.” Aziraphale colours slightly, reaching forward to adjust the knit sort-of-garment-shaped contraption a little. “It was originally intended to be a scarf. But then I cast on too many stitches, and by the time I realised I was two dozen rows and several months into it, so I thought I might make it a blanket, but it was too narrow for that —”
Crowley runs a careful hand over the knit. It’s rectangular, vaguely blanket-adjacent, sort of resembling a shawl in the way it’s worn but much longer and narrower, reaching all the way down to his knees both in the back and in the front; the back is all one piece, while the front is split in half. “You made this?”
“I did.”
“For me?” Crowley is almost certain the answer is going to be yes, but it’s worth checking rather than assuming.
Aziraphale nods. “I know it’s not very good. I wasn’t a very apt knitter when I started, and I wasn’t following a pattern. And I know the colour isn’t even — by the time I needed more yarn it was many years later and they weren’t selling the one I’d originally bought anymore. So I had to buy the closest one and miracle it to match, and it didn’t quite work — but that’s when I got the idea, you see, since I was miracling the yarn anyway — I know you get cold so easily. I thought I’d also make sure it would keep you warm no matter how cold it was.”
Crowley is still running his hands over the knit — cape, he guesses the best word to use is. He can feel the unevenness in the stitches, some looser, some tighter, some outright lumpy. He honestly never wants to take it off again. “How long did it even take you to make this?”
“I — well, I only finished it a few years back — I’m not a fast knitter, you see — but I started this quite a while ago — but there were years I didn’t knit at all —”
“Aziraphale,” Crowley interrupts, patiently. “When did you start this?”
Aziraphale squirms and looks down and away, muttering under his breath so quietly that Crowley only catches the tail end of it. “—sixty-three.”
Crowley’s eyebrows go up. “Nineteen sixty-three?”
Aziraphale shakes his head. “Eighteen,” he says, still very quietly.
1863. Crowley had been asleep, then, because it had been only a year since they’d had that argument in St James’s Park, and Aziraphale had — “Oh, angel.”
“I could tell it was going to be a cold winter, and you — the last time I’d seen you was the year before, and I thought surely you’d show up again soon. I wanted to have something for you. But it was nowhere near finished when winter was over, and you —”
“I should not have left you so long alone,” Crowley says, quietly, pulling Aziraphale close.
Aziraphale shakes his head, again. “I should have believed you, when you told me why you wanted the holy water. I should have trusted you.”
Crowley moves a little away from Aziraphale, just so he can drape the front of the cape over his angel’s shoulders and then pull him close again, so they’re both wrapped together in the warmth. “We’ve both done things we regret. We thought they were the right thing to do, at the time.” He takes a long, steadying breath, and feels Aziraphale mirror him. “And we’re here now.”
“We’re here now,” Aziraphale echoes, snuggling closer.
Crowley smiles. “And I do love this… scarf-blanket-cape-whatever you made for me. I’d say I’m never taking it off again, but I’ll have to, when we go out. This is not remotely appropriate for wearing outdoors. You understand.”
“Of course I understand.” There’s a smile in Aziraphale’s voice, too. “You’d rather be cold and stylish than warm.”
“Well, now, I didn’t say that. How long would you say it’d take you to knit me a scarf?”