Chapter Text
Inside the warmest shop on Whickber Street, Aziraphale was humming.
He hadn’t meant to be. Yet, it simply just…happened. It was a soft, absent-mided tune of a generic Christmas tune under his breath, that had sort of drifted out when one was alone or not paying any particular attention to oneself. Although, he would not have been able to name if, even if asked.
There was something comforting about how the bookshop smelled at the moment. There was the reliable smells of old paper and tea, yet there were newer scents that traced around the room as well. Gingerbread and pine from his new addition to the shop.
He adjusted the bulbs on the tree’s branch for a second time. Not because it needed it, as they were objectively perfect in their own right), but because his hands required something to do. Aziraphale arranged the ornaments with care and precise precision so that everything was spaced just so, yet no tinsel graced the tree. The angel sighed and glanced at the table to his side. The glittering string remained untouched.
“Well,” he said to no one in particular, “that part does rather seem like a two-person job, now doesn’t it.” Naturally, the table and chair did not respond.
The angel sighed and went back to fussing with the small bulbs and then moved onto the lights. They were LED but in iridescent mode. It was tasteful, warm and omitted a gentle glow rather than the aggressive blinking harsh toned ones most had on their trees these days. Aziraphale had tried the blinking new LED version one year and immediately needed to apologize to the empty bookshop aloud.
He stepped back and admired his work. It looked nice. Festive and civilised. He smoothed over his waist coat as he fidgeted with his golden pinky ring. He reassured himself, quite firmly, that he was in fact not waiting for anyone in particular. That he was simply merely enjoying the season. One was allowed to do that. It was Christmas, the birth of his dear friend Jesus after all.
And yet…
Aziraphale found himself glancing towards the shops door whenever the floor boards creaked. The blonde moved to the small kitchen in the back of the shop and poured hot water into two cups that sat adored the table out of habit. He paused halfway through pouring, hesitated, and then finished pouring in the contents anyways. He watched as the two cups sat there, steam drifting up into the air about him. He picked up the mug with the small angelic wings and dipped in a bag of Darjeeling.
He carried it to his usual chair, curling his fingers around the mug for the comfortable warmth and hummed happily. He glanced up at the other cup, far away now, yet still steaming on the counter where he had left it.
Aziraphale took a careful sip of his tea and sighed contentedly.
Darjeeling. It had always been one of his favourites, even though if he had to suspect as to why, and if he was being honest, it had a lot to do with who had introduced him to it.
It was a beautiful tea. Light-bodied, floral, with just a touch of muscatel. It proved to cure the itch for wine when it was unavailable, much like during the 1930’s prohibition era. He had been called to North America to snuff out some rather unfavourable situations that were taking place and for the first time missed the taste of fine wines. Dajeerling had filled that void for him.
Darjeeling was bright without being sharp. Comforting without being dull. A tea that knew what it was doing to a refined palette. He smiled fondly remembering his first sip.
It was 1773, during what history would later insist on calling the Boston Tea Party, even though Crowley was adamant that this time period was always more of a simple “tea-related misunderstanding with very enthusiastic costumes.” While everyone else had been busy flinging crates into the harbour with a revolutionary passion, Crowley was busy doing what he always did best, salvaging.
He had managed to spirit away, which is a fancy way of saying stealing, an entire crate of Darjeeling before anyone had even noticed. Crowley had been grinning like he had just won a particularly satisfying bet where all the odds had been stacked against him. Aziraphale had fretted about the historical integrity shaking the manifest towards the surely demon while also very much not letting go of the crate.
Aziraphale felt himself smile from the memory. Crowley had looked unfairly handsome that evening. He had worm a long black coat that was cut fashionably close to his form, his boots polished by the local boy to a mirror shine, and a crimson waistcoat. His hair had been pulled back to the nape of his neck, wild curls escaping just enough to suggest he was on the side of rebellion rather than the side of carelessness.
The angel remembered thinking, quite specifically, that he had never seen anyone look more at home during a scene filled with chaos.Crowley had handed him a small indigo tin with gold filagree embellishments and said, “Trust me, Angel! This one’s worth stealing a piece of history for!” with a subtle wink.
Aziraphale had trusted him then. Or was it the wink? Either way, he still trusted him after all these centuries. He smiled at the thought. His eyes drifted around the shop knowing his demonic counterpart would probably complain about his choice in lights, perhaps the wreath and maybe even the entire concept of Christmas decorations, to be honest. But all that answered back was the silence, as silence often would in the bookshop.
Aziraphale sipped his tea again and tried very hard nopt to think about how cold the other cup would be by the time-...
Well…
If Crowley would show up, that is.