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Baltic Breeze - Diamine Inkvent Calendar 2024, December 1
Like last year, I started with Aziraphale. I mean, having an angel at the beginning is always a good start, right?
And I would like to dedicate the first day of Advent to an angel who, in a very short moment, was able to lighten my darkness and make me laugh like I hadn't laughed in ages.
Here’s all of week 2. 2 more weeks to go! I think I can keep this up!
Mistletoe
Mistletoe
The first Christmas after the failed Armageddon, Aziraphale does something he’s never done before and Crowley isn’t sure how to feel about it. The bookshop has felt more or less the same for over 200 years, with one notable exception that Crowley puts significant effort into not thinking about, and now it’s all different and weird. Crowley takes his sunglasses off as soon as he steps into the bookshop as if they’re tricking him into seeing things that aren’t there.
“Aziraphale?” He calls out.
Aziraphale’s head pops out from behind the large Christmas tree in the centre of the shop floor.
“Ah, Crowley! What do you think?” Aziraphale says, brightly.
Crowley blinks slowly and attempts to absorb his surroundings. The bookshop is bright and full of non-book things. The heavily decorated tree is just the beginning of it. There are garlands of seasonal foliage between the bookshelves, up the stairs to the mezzanine, and hanging from the ceiling, little lights twinkle within them.
“It looks like a Victorian Christmas novel threw up in here, angel.” Crowley says as he continues to take in his surroundings.
“Hmm,” Aziraphale sounds a touch put out, “I’m not sure that’s quite the imagery I was hoping to inspire.”
Crowley instantly regrets his choice of words.
“Nah, look, it’s good. Yeah? Very Christmassy. I like the, uh, hangy things.”
Smooth, Crowley, inspired Shakespeare with that eloquence, did we? He berates himself internally even as Aziraphale beams at him.
“Oh, thank you! I was hoping for a traditional sort of feeling. I do hope I didn’t get carried away.” Aziraphale’s ever-present need for validation and comfort presents a distraction that they both need. Crowley stalks around the shop, circling the tree and making a show of inspecting the decorations.
“Hm, looks perfect to me,” Crowley comes to a stop beside Aziraphale and drapes his arm across Aziraphale’s shoulders. “You’ve been working hard. Let me treat you to dinner?”
Aziraphale’s happy little wiggle under Crowley’s arm is all the answer he needs.
“Come on, then. Get your coat.”
Aziraphale ducks out from the casual embrace and steps deeper into the shop for a moment.
“I just need to set one thing straight and I’ll be ready to go.”
Crowley nods and meanders back towards the door to wait, admiring a garland of glossy holly leaves and blood-red berries on the way. Aziraphale catches up with him by the coat stand.
“Oh, Crowley. Really?” Aziraphale chides.
Crowley pauses, confused. He hasn’t done anything, the only thing he’s holding are his sunglasses, he pats himself down to check that nothing obnoxious and Christmassy has got stuck to him. Satisfied that he’s in the clear, Crowley looks back at Aziraphale who is gazing at a little bunch of mistletoe that hangs between their heads.
“Huh? How am I in trouble for your decorating choices?”
“I didn’t hang any mistletoe, Crowley.” Aziraphale says softly, moving a touch closer to Crowley.
Crowley glances up at it again.
“Angel, you obviously did. We’re both looking at it.” Crowley’s confusion grows with each second.
Aziraphale shakes his head, bringing his focus down slowly from the offending vegetation to Crowley’s eyes. Crowley’s fingers twitch around his sunglasses in reflex, warring instincts at an impasse within him. Aziraphale smiles and shrugs.
“’Tis the season.”
He reaches for Crowley’s lapels and pulls him down the couple of inches that make up their height difference. Aziraphale presses his lips to Crowley’s firmly and breaks away with an exaggerated kissing noise. He’s laughing and doesn’t seem to have noticed Crowley’s tightly balled fists, his crushed glasses, or the bright flush that has covered his entire upper body. The shattered sunglasses drop to the floor with a thud which brings Aziraphale’s attention back into the moment.
“Oh dear! Are you quite alright there, Crowley?”
Crowley doesn’t answer with words. Mirroring Aziraphale’s actions of a few moments previous, he grabs fistfuls of Aziraphale’s jacket and bends to press his lips to Aziraphale’s. This time there’s no joking noise, or amused giggles, just a muffled noise of surprise and a soft thump when Aziraphale is pushed against the pillar. Crowley just kisses, chaste and repeated, with his hands holding on to Aziraphale for dear life. He’s waiting for the penny to drop in Aziraphale’s mind, for him to push away or start responding. Please kiss me back. His desperate thoughts are racing, wondering how long he can wait for a reaction, how elastic his perception of time is right now. Finally, Aziraphale’s hands move and take hold of Crowley’s waist. He can’t stop kissing Aziraphale now that he’s started, Crowley knows he won’t stop until Aziraphale makes him but this might be the moment and he isn’t ready. But he isn’t pushed away, he’s drawn closer; Aziraphale holds him tighter and finally, finally, starts to kiss him back. It’s tentative and Crowley has to slow down to match it, but it’s really happening and it’s incredible. Aziraphale parts his lips and touches the tip of his tongue to Crowley’s bottom lip. Immediately, Crowley opens to welcome him, coaxing Aziraphale’s tongue to meet his. His hands slowly unclench and smooth Aziraphale’s jacket before running up around the back of Aziraphale’s neck so their bodies are pressing together. Time loses all meaning, it’s just him and Aziraphale kissing and holding each other. Nothing else needs to exist.
Ineffable Advent Day 1: Mistletoe
I've decided to join in spreading the pain joy that is @drawlight's Good Omens Advent challenge.
Crowley wandered out to the front room of their little cottage in the South Downs, yawning as he wrapped his hands around his mug of steaming hot coffee. He blinked up at Aziraphale, who was standing in the doorway on the library chair they'd brought with them from the bookshop in Soho.
"Wossat?"
Aziraphale looked down at him, hands still busily fluffing the bright red tartan bow that suspended a puff of greenery above the door.
"That, my dear," he said with a smile, "is mistletoe."
Crowley, forgetting that his coffee was still too hot to drink, took a sip. It scalded his mouth, but he didn't want to spit it out in front of the angel, so he swallowed it quickly. Another mistake.
"Yeah?" he gasped, eyes watering. He leaned against the couch, striving for a casual air.
"It's a human holiday tradition," Aziraphale explained, flipping the stepladder back into its chair form and replacing it in its usual spot against the wall. An amused gleam in his eye showed that he was aware of Crowley's struggle, but he pretended to ignore it. "It has symbolism in many ancient cultures," he continued. "It represented peace in Rome. Enemies in wartime used to reconcile their differences under it." He threw a smile over his shoulder to Crowley, who grinned back.
"How appropriate." He came forward until he was standing next to Aziraphale in the entryway and looked up at the mistletoe. There were clusters of tiny white berries peeking out from among the leaves.
"I rather thought so," the angel agreed. "The druids were the first to decorate with it, I believe. They thought it would provide protection from nightmares."
"Good old druids," Crowley said fondly. "Always liked them. So they started the whole holiday tradition, then? Decorating with mistletoe, and all that?" He took another careful sip of his coffee.
"Mmm," Aziraphale nodded. "Although I believe the tradition of kissing under it started with the Greeks."
Crowley choked and coughed, his eyes going wide and bright gold. "K-kissing?" He spluttered. "What?"
Aziraphale gazed at him calmly. "Why yes, dear. That's one tradition that has survived the test of time. Around the holidays, if people walk under a bit of mistletoe, they get a kiss."
"You, you mean to tell me," Crowley wheezed, setting down his coffee mug, "that every time we go in or out that door..."
"Or even if we're just standing in the entryway," Aziraphale nodded. His eyes twinkled as he turned toward Crowley and reached for his hands.
"Or even... just... standing," Crowley repeated, as Aziraphale drew slowly closer. "Just standing... Ngh... Then we... we..."
"Kiss," Aziraphale finished for him. "Just like this."
Hello Steph! I’m sure I’ve seen on your blog (or maybe it was someone else but you’re the one I visit most often) about people doing a December writing/johnlock challenge? Kinda like an advent calendar I guess. Do you know of any in particular? I’m in the writing mood and feel I would actually have time this month to at least try one of these challenges. Thank you in advance!
Hi Lovely!
Okay I’m super annoyed because I KNOW I reblogged TWO advent calendar prompts – one Good Omens and one Johnlock – and I cannot find EITHER of them. It’s pissing me off, LOL LOL. But YES, I know that there is one of each going around and I’m annoyed because I wanted the prompts myself for later. I bet you I queued the posts instead of reblogging, ugh. Can someone direct us to both of those? Thank y’all!! <3
Here’s a summary of week 3! Guess it turns out the theme this week was ‘light touches’.
Snow
Neither of them know when it started snowing. There had been other concerns to be getting on with, like drinking more wine, practising this new kissing business, and laughing at running jokes that had started in languages that no longer exist. Aziraphale notices it first, as fetching a fresh bottle of wine from the cellar takes him past a window.
“Oh, Crowley, it’s practically a blizzard out there. When did that start?” Aziraphale asks as he pours two more glasses of wine.
Crowley looks up from the book he was flicking through and stares out of the window.
“Huh, so it is. No idea, honestly. Couldn’t even tell you what the time is right now.” He waves a hand dismissively as if it’s of no consequence. “You’re right about this book, though. This Dan Snow fellow hasn’t got a clue.”
“Yes, I rather thought you’d agree on that. The things some people are able to get published.” Aziraphale shakes his head, taking the book from Crowley as he sits beside him again.
Crowley bites back his protest at having the offending book removed, realising that Aziraphale means to resume their cuddling. He snuggles into Aziraphale’s side and laces his fingers with Aziraphale’s to keep the embrace going.
The quick evolution of their relationship over the past few hours is both unexpected and relaxingly comfortable. Crowley can almost imagine that he has been kissing Aziraphale since he had lips with which to kiss. The length of their torsos pressing together in easy intimacy is wildly exciting and Crowley fears that he may wake up at any moment to find that this was all a horribly realistic dream. The surreal flurry of early December snow in London and the Christmas grotto feel of the usually unchangeable bookshop weren’t helping his sneaking suspicion that this is the result of a head trauma.
“I far prefer the work of Dan Jones, if I’m honest.” Aziraphale continues after some minutes.
Crowley looks up at him, trying to catch up with the conversation. It takes a second for him to place the name but, as soon as he has it, he smiles widely.
“Oh yes, I remember you inviting yourself over to watch his show at my place. I’m sure you find his research very, heh, revealing.”
Aziraphale bats at Crowley, an admonishment without any bite. There’s a very pleasing pinkness to his cheeks that Crowley reaches up to kiss.
“You’re adorable when you’re embarrassed.”
The tension in Aziraphale begins to release; as much as Crowley enjoys needling Aziraphale, he never wishes to cause actual distress. They relax into each other a little more, a subtle rearranging of hips and arms to better accommodate the closeness. The snow continues to fall outside, now watched by them both.
“I suppose I’d better go, before it gets much worse.” Crowley says without giving any indication that he actually intends to move.
“Nonsense, my dear. Stay as long as you like.” Aziraphale squeezes his fingers reassuringly.
Crowley lifts his head to look at Aziraphale again, he can tell that his face is doing something odd and hopes that he doesn’t look quite as awestruck as he feels.
“You ought to be careful with offers like that, angel,” Crowley’s voice is tight in his throat, “you never know how seriously I might take it.”
From the sappy, soft expression that Aziraphale is wearing, Crowley can tell that he’s missed the mark and his warning hasn’t been heard as he intended. Aziraphale kisses the top of Crowley’s head and whispers into his hair.
“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it. Stay forever, if it pleases you.”
Crowley starts to laugh, a nervous thing that defends him from the sting that is surely coming, the misunderstanding that will have Aziraphale back-pedalling.
“I’d prefer it if you weren’t ever apart from me again, if I’m honest and selfish about it.”
Crowley’s tongue fumbles with sounds and breath, trying to say four cool things and eight love-drunk things at once.
“You’ll get sick of me soon enough.” He finally manages, sounding far more vulnerable and scared than he likes.
“I sincerely doubt that. But do stay until the roads are safe, at least. Please?”
Crowley has never been able to resist that plea, the face that accompanies it, the implications behind it. This is no different and, dimly, Crowley wonders how much Aziraphale might have used this to manipulate him over the previous centuries.
“I’ll stay, angel. I’ll stay.”
Fire
It’s not a decision that he’s conscious of making but, as Crowley comes back down the stairs, Aziraphale knows that he’s not going to be opening the bookshop today. She looks simply stunning, wrapped in chunky black knitwear and still a little sleep-mussed, Aziraphale’s heart does somersaults at the sight of her. Opening his arms to embrace her, Aziraphale waits at the bottom of the staircase. Crowley steps into the welcome of his arms and plants a firm kiss on his cheek. When she pulls back, she looks pleased with herself.
“You look very cosy, dearest. Are you feeling the chill? Can I fetch you anything?”
Crowley shakes her head and then pauses.
“I was a bit cold but you’re warming me up.”
Aziraphale smiles and squeezes her a little tighter. He’s indulging himself in as much physical contact as he can now that the rules of their relationship are evolving. You can’t have too much of a good thing, Aziraphale thinks, breathing the delightful scent of Crowley’s perfume.
A thought occurs to him, something that might be a pleasant distraction for a few hours.
“Would you be a dear and bring down the blankets and pillows from the wardrobe upstairs? I’ve got an idea.”
Crowley grumbles about being sent straight back upstairs, but she goes to retrieve the items that Aziraphale has placed inconveniently far away. As soon as Crowley is out of sight, Aziraphale sets about building a fire in the grate of the old fireplace. It’s been a while since it saw any use, but the image of cuddling in front of a nice fire has Aziraphale determined.
Flames are just beginning to spread from the kindling to the firewood when Aziraphale hears Crowley’s footsteps coming back down the stairs. He turns to see the look on her face, to see if he’s surprised her.
Crowley is deathly pale, her mouth open in mute horror and her eyes are fully yellow and glassy. Her arms drop, letting the blankets fall to the floor in a pile.
“Put it out.” Her voice is small, strained.
“What? What’s wrong?” Aziraphale is desperately confused, torn between going to Crowley and finding what’s causing her distress.
“Put it out, angel. Please, please, put it out. Put it out! PUT IT OUT!” Crowley becomes frantic, her voice pitching higher with each repetition.
Aziraphale’s instinct works faster than his rational mind and the fire has been extinguished before he realises that he’s performed the miracle. Crowley falls to her knees as if she were a marionette whose strings have been cut and Aziraphale is at her side in a heartbeat.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Aziraphale stops just short of touching her, unsure of how welcome his presence is.
Crowley is shaking, sobbing, hyperventilating. She flings her arms around Aziraphale’s neck and buries her face in his chest. Gathering her in his arms, he shifts her into his lap, settling them both on the floor. He strokes her hair and makes soothing sounds whilst feeling helpless in the face of her great distress. After a while, Crowley’s breathing calms and the sobs become the occasional little hiccough.
“Didn’t like the fire, angel.” She mumbles into Aziraphale’s waistcoat.
“I know, dear. I’m sorry. I didn’t think it through.” Aziraphale mentally kicks himself for his stupidity.
“Every time I walk through the front door, I think about that day,” she’s still not looking at him but this is a level of vulnerability that she rarely expresses so Aziraphale isn’t going to push her. “I hate feeling like this, it’s pathetic.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s perfectly understandable. You thought that I had been destroyed. It was the end of the world and you were alone. Those emotions have left strong memories.” Aziraphale kisses the top of her head and takes a deep breath of her hair.
There’s still the smell of smoke in the air, he realises irritably. A flick of one hand banishes it far away from the shop and immediately Crowley is breathing normally again.
“I’m so sorry, my love.”
She stiffens in his arms, freezing for a moment before moving to look him in the eyes.
“Love?”
Aziraphale winces at being caught off-guard by his own tongue but then he sees a flicker of hope in Crowley’s gaze and he steels himself.
“Yes. Love.”
The admission is partial, safer, but Crowley smiles nonetheless.
“What a terrible angel, loving a demon.”
Aziraphale sniffs and raises his chin a fraction.
“I think I’m a very good angel, actually. I must be if I have enough love to spare so much for you.”
Blushing, Crowley gives Aziraphale a playful punch in the ribs.
“You’re a liability.”
Aziraphale can’t disagree with that, not really. But he does manage to get them moved into a snug blanket nest between the armchairs where he spends the day reading Victorian ghost stories to Crowley and kissing her until her lipstick is a faint smear around her mouth.
