⭐ Usually it was him that laid on the sofa, his head resting against his angel's thigh while the divine read whatever book that interested the ancient serpent. However, this time around, it was the angel that laid on the sofa, head resting on the demon's lap though it was still his beloved's job to read. This gave Crowley some freedom to play with Aziraphale's hair, often short and curly, but still soft to run his fingers through while he continued to listen.
SEND IN ⭐ TO TOUCH MY MUSE’S HAIR.( quotes are from “stopping by woods on a snowy evening” by robert frost )
❝ ❛Whose woods these are I think I know. / His house is in the village though; / He will not see me stopping here / To watch his woods fill up with snow.❜ ❞
the blond read, familiar words slipping off his tongue like the humming of one’s well-learned favorite song; each word favored && caressed, visited again like saying hello to an old friend, as he found new meaning in each syllable as they were revisited.
though the angel had these words memorized, it was still a unique experience in itself to read them from a page. he had always loved robert frost, && found that as he read now he could focus on the calligraphy of the letters on the page, on the beautiful illustrations drawn into the margins of this edition.
❝ ❛ My little horse must think it queer / To stop without a farmhouse near / Between the wood and frozen lake / The darkest evening of the year. ❜ ❞
aziraphale had spent an embarrassingly long amount of time at dinner ( which is to say, about 90% of the entire evening ) ranting on && on about how just the other day when he was reorganizing the nature section of his shop he had stumbled across frost’s work again, && oh how could he have forgotten just how much he loved the man’s work? he hadn’t forgotten his love for it entirely, of course, the poet had left a lasting impression on him that he could never forget, but this much!
he had gushed to crowley over the choices of rhyme scheme, of the act && art of mixing it up within one poem itself so as to highlight a tonal shift, had discussed the imageries the man had weaved && waxed of nature && seasons, of life && death, && the history behind metaphors which had been misinterpreted over time, as well as how fascinating that was to him.
❝ ❛ He gives his harness bells a shake / To ask if there is some mistake. / The only other sound’s the sweep / Of easy wind and downy flake. ❜ ❞
on their car ride back to his shop the blond had actually felt quite guilty for having commandeered the entire conversation only just one subject ╾╾ no matter how truly fascinating that subject happened to be ╾╾ && had worried that crowley might be upset or annoyed at him, or even worse, TIRED of mr. frost.
when he had invited the demon in for wine, as was their ritual, aziraphale had told himself that he wouldn’t say one more word about the poet, at least for the next few days. && then when they had settled into his couches && he was asking crowley which book he && read, if he wanted any at all, crowley had said robert frost ╾╾had actually cited a specific anthology of the man’s work, one that aziraphale had a creeping suspicion the other new was the angel’s favorite, mainly due to the illustrations.
he was quite sure that the look on his face was rather dumb struck with overwhelming love && appreciation, but neither had mentioned it. instead aziraphale had asked if the other would mind terribly if this time aziraphale rested his head in crowley’s lap for a change.
now the evening had carried on && aziraphale’s voice was muffled within the little burrowed space that his bookshelves created. a feeling of peace rested around him as soft as cotton, && aziraphale read.
❝ ❛ The woods are ╾╾❜ ❞ he was almost at the end when a certain sensation made his words falter. long, bony hands had slipped through the top of his curls. they continued in a repetitive motion, && aziraphale found that his eyes were slipping shut, unable to stop the automatic reaction. crowley’s hands were impossibly gentle as he brushed out the curls before they simply bounced back. aziraphale leaned into the touch.
he was flooded with so much adoration at the tender gesture that he was sure crowley would be able to hear the uneven staccato beat of the angel’s heart in the now quiet bookshop.
his eyelids felt heavy like the protective covering of blankets on a cold afternoon. but with a soft smile resting serenely on his lips, aziraphale set the book down on his lap && finished reciting the last stanza of the poem.
❝ ❛ The woods are lovely, dark and deep, / But I have promises to keep, / And miles to go before I sleep, / And miles to go before I sleep. ❜ ❞
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