crowley knits. youâd think on first glance it would be aziraphale, but aziraphale has his books, and he doesnât have that same anxious energy that turns crowley to knitting. he can sit for days without movingâcrowley can sit for about three minutes.
so crowley knits. socks and scarves first, because theyâre simple. he does plant cosies to keep his greenery safe in winter. then he does a tea cosy, for aziraphale; then a miniature dog sweater, for the shih tzu down the hall from his flat. as he gets better he knits his own skinny scarves in thin metallic grey yarn, and he knits gloves and scarves and socks in excess and then abandons them, cruelly, outside shelters and schools where they may or may not ever be found. (they are: aziraphale makes sure of it.)
heâs pretty good at it, and it clears his mind. and thereâs nothing like stopping by the shop with a thick warm pair of socks on the night of the seasonâs first snow, watching aziraphale light up at the sight of them.
after armageddon, aziraphale clears a shelf off by crowleyâs usual sofa and puts in baskets instead, so crowley can keep his knitting things there. ânot a word to the customers, mind,â crowley says when he sees them, but he settles in, looking pleased. itâs nice to knit with Aziraphale sitting close by: it feels warm, and not just because of the yarn.
he starts a big project there, a complicated pattern, changing colors, a complex set of knits. it grows and grows and grows, and if aziraphale thinks it looks awfully familiar, he has the grace not to say.
when itâs finished, crowley puts a miracle on it to keep it soft and clean and to protect the stitches. and then he gives it to aziraphale: a big, warm blanket, knitted in aziraphaleâs favorite tartan pattern.
âitâs lovely,â aziraphale says, blushing. he looks at it, beautiful and intricate, and looks at crowley as he tries to be nonchalant about it. âdo you know,â he goes on, âi think itâs big enough for two.â
and he sits next to crowley on the sofa, spreads it over both their laps. crowley looks utterly pleased, and leans into him a little, pretending like heâs not.
âstay with me,â aziraphale says after a while, one arm around crowleyâs shoulders, mumbling into his hair. âstay here and share this with me.â
crowley looks up at him, searches his eyes, finds nothing but truth, and want, and love. âall right,â he says.
aziraphale grins. âall right,â he agrees, and then slowly, carefully, he kisses crowley. holds him under the blanket, safe and warm, and kisses him, wrapped up in proof of crowleyâs love, and kisses him, and crowley kisses him back.
