Because of that whole Heaven’s Dress Tartan post, and because of that scene where Crowley makes a jab at him for wearing a tartan collar when they switched bodies, imagine Crowley somehow managing to find the meaning behind Aziraphale’s tartan, and all the times Aziraphale has given him that specific tartan through the thermos, bike rack, and collar. And then it clicks for him, and he comes rushing to the bookshop with all the more love for his angel.
It happens when Aziraphale is in Edinburgh. You know, right after that rendez-vous during one of Shakespeare’s play? Yes, you know the one.So. The angel is there, filling up both his job and Crowley’s temptation, being quite busy, really, but still, busy as he is, he gets to take a closer look at life among scottish people. And he can’t help it, because people are always so interesting! He can’t help but talk with them. He gathered so many stories, and books, and memories that way. Just talking. Because, you know. Crowley isn’t always around. Also, he does need to talk to humans to make sure his jobs go along smoothly, so at least he can make the conversations pleasant by chosing interesting nice humans to talk to, right?
So. Aziraphale talks with people in Edinburgh and in the area, and he discovers a new way to look at tartan. He’s familiar with tartan, of course, why with Heaven having its own official tartan used in particular for their war attire.
Aziraphale has never been fond of that tartan. He never tried to articulate why (is it because he doesn’t like war of because he doesn’t like Heaven, or a bit of both...), but he knows he doesn’t like it. The aesthetic isn’t the problem, however, because, surprisingly, Aziraphale does think kilts are rather good looking. There was even a time period Crowley didn’t disagree with him (though the idea that his fashion sense seemed to align with Aziraphale’s for a moment did send some shivers down his spine).
But, right there, Aziraphale got to talk with some particularly interesting scottish fellows. Clan leaders or more humble members of a family -who didn’t need to be bound by blood, mind you-, all proudly wearing their tartan, all showing a sense of belonging, and a feeling of love, and the will to protect those wearing the same tartan they were wearing. Oh, of course, there were often warriors among the Scots, because of their old rivalry with their arch-enemies the Scots, but there was something else that Aziraphale discovered during these conversations. Tartan wasn’t just for fighting. Tartan was for showing whose side you were on. Tartan was a statement. And a stylish one.
In the following years, Aziraphale created his own tartan, and slowly but surely, his own personal pattern invaded his belongings. It became part of him, part of what made him feel at home, and, occasionnally, he would gift something with his tartan to Crowley. He never explained the meaning. Maybe he thought it was obvious. Maybe it was actually not that much of a conscious thing to him. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was foolishness. Maybe it was always a treat to see how Crowley’s face would twist when he was saying “tartan? really?” but would always accept the gift. But. Here is the thing. Crowley, well. He was an angel once. And it was a long time ago. So he knows Heaven has its own tartan. But he hasn’t really actively tried to remember what it looks like. Not a really good memory, when said tartan has been last seen worn by those who kicked you out of your own home.
So, to be entirely honest, at first Crowley thought it was rather distateful from Aziraphale to gift him things that had Heaven’s tartan slapped on them. He wouldn’t comment on the stylistic disaster the angel was making out of his own home and clothes, of course - actually, that’s a lie,he would occasionnally joke about it but never in a cruel way. And he thought, if that tartan ever approached him, he would make a scene. But the tartan did approach him. And he didn’t make a scene.
Either the angel was totally oblivious to what that tartan could actually mean to Crowley, or he had the foolish hope that this was a weird detour to help Crowley reach redemptation in the eyes of Heaven. Redemption through tartan! That did sound like Aziraphale, didn’t it?As hideous the concept and the actual pattern were, Crowley could never refuse the presents. Because they were gifts from Aziraphale, and he was genuine whenever he would offer one to Crowley. And even if he hadn’t been... a gift from Aziraphale is a gift from Aziraphale, and as such Crowley couldn’t refuse any of them.
There comes a day we all know about, when a demon finds his way to Heaven while an angel faces a trial in Hell. Crowley sees a few angels there. Some guards in the distance. “Here is that tartan again” he thinks briefly, even though something clicks in that moment, something that tells him in the back of his mind that the tartan isn’t right, but he cannot really spend too much time dwelling on that thought because, well, here is the Archangel Fucking Gabriel and he is telling him to die already.
Much later on, it clicks again. Crowley brings it up.
“Why are you still wearing Heaven’s tartan, Aziraphale? You don’t have to show your allegiance anymore.”
Aziraphale stares at him.
“I haven’t worn Heaven’s tartan in more than 6000 years. And I will never wear it again.”
“But then... What...” Crowley tries to confusely articulate while making a gesture towards the tartan bow tie, the tartan blanket on the couch, heck, even the kitchenette’s tablecoth is tartan!
That’s when it clicks. It’s not the same tartan. It’s another one. Crowley realizes it right as Aziraphale is about to spell it out for him.
“That’s my tartan, dear. Not Heaven’s. Mine.”
Aziraphale’s tartan. And he’s been gifting it to Crowley for who knows how long.
Could a heart change colors, Crowley thinks briefly that his might be the exact taint of that ugly pattern surrounding him.
“Effing hell man!” The delinquent rubbed his cheek before sighing a bit. “I know I said to hit me, but I didn’t mean that effing hard...That shit doesn’t actually knock away the thoughts ya know?”
“If you can’t even speak Japanese, then why the hell are you here!?”
You were catching the gists of it. It was hard to make out since he was yelling so loudly, but you were quite certain he was upset with the fact that you took more than 30 seconds to formulate a sentence coherently. Which, apparently as you were unaware of this fact that was just too slow for Katsuki Bakugou.
Japanese wasn’t your first language; English was. Born and bred in the USA, baby. And when you decided to join UA years ago, taking up Japanese classes whenever you can was one of your top priorities. Apparently, as you were also unaware of this fact, you needed to cross check this with Katsuki Bakugou and make sure that was just A-Okay for him. Granted, you could write it better than you could speak it. And while everyone else in your class was more than willing to work with you, King of the fucking Jungle Katsuki Bakugou...was not.
...you pulled out your book, letting him yell at another student who had tried to step in and defend you. You used your teeth to uncap your pen and began to scribble in your best Kanji before showing it off to Kirishima. The boy blinked once, making a soft sound as he took the book and read it over. He couldn’t help but bark out a laugh which seemed to catch the attention of Bakugou. “What? What they say?”
“They said, and don’t get mad at me for saying this, I’m just the messagner...but they said ‘if I had a dick in my mouth for every time you screamed in the past 10 minutes, I’d have 8 dicks in my mouth’.”
The room fell silent, the entirety of Class 1-A focused on you. You sat in your seat, calmly taking the book back from Kirishima who was more than willing to step back out against this one. This wasn’t his fight and there was no way he was going to get in the middle of this one. He knew Bakugou enough that his trembling was nothing short of a terrible sign. A few of the students wondered if you knew what you were getting into, others wondered if they should get a teacher to save your life. Others...others were wondering what you were scribbling as Katsuki started off on another tangent.
You didn’t say anything else, instead, holding up the notebook once again with your original statement scratched out.
Your new statement was enough to give everyone pause.
