Chapter Text
TW: None apart from the author's inability to use google prior to drafting a chapter
Four months later
September
Crowley had invited Aziraphale for dinner. He knew what this dinner meant. He knew Aziraphale knew what this dinner meant. And he knew Aziraphale knew that he knew what this dinner meant. It wasn’t a test, Crowley thought to himself. It was hopefully something far different. Tonight, tonight felt like coming home.
Aziraphale fretted all week about the dinner. He knew exactly why Crowley had invited him and the significance of this particular date. He picked out the best wine in all of London as well as the finest and crispest apples. He also was able to locate (with considerable effort and expense on his part) [1] acquire something that he hoped would show Crowley how he felt about this particular day, this dinner they were about to share.
He also went through about a dozen cards, trying to come up with words to express how he felt. He was good with words, especially those that were written. He owned a bookshop, for Heaven’s sake. Yet this time, he was unable to find the words and all he had been able to come up with was fairly nonsensical and repetitive.
It’s the new year
I regret everything that happened
I need you to know this
It’s why I brought the wine
I remember- I didn’t forget- I never forgot
and I’m so so sorry for everything
In the end, Aziraphale did not bother with a card. He knew that he was just rehashing old wounds and that it wouldn’t change anything or make anything better. He had to hope that Crowley knew by now how sorry he was for everything all those years ago, and how much he regretted the majority of the decisions he made back then.
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The afternoon of the dinner plans, Aziraphale took deliberate pains in getting ready. He had purchased a new bowtie for the occasion; gold, red and cream. The red matched the apples he had purchased for the occasion. He fidgeted and fretted with it, his waistcoat and anything else that was near his hands while he anxiously paced the bookshop floor. He finally decided to leave before he did the new bowtie any damage. He gathered up the wine and apples and headed for Crowley’s.
Crowley was just as anxious as Aziraphale. He triple-checked the roasting chicken- it would be ready right on time. The kugel, his mother’s recipe, was ready and chilled [2] to just the right temperature. The table was set with crimson and white candles. Crisp apples were ready to be sliced and dipped into the most golden of honey; the challah was the best he had baked in years, so everything was in order. Yet, Crowley was ready to crawl out of his skin. He adjusted his dark crimson tie for the umpteenth time. He hadn’t bothered with his sunglasses; it would be dusk soon enough.
And then the door buzzed.
Crowley glanced one final time in the mirror and went to let his Angel inside.
Aziraphale grinned broadly at Crowley as he was led inside. “Oh, my dear, you look lovely. And is that roast chicken? It smells divine,” the bookseller gushed enthusiastically.
Crowley blushed. “Thanks, Angel.”
Aziraphale was led into the kitchen where he handed over one of the three bags he was holding. “This one first, dear.”
“Aziraphale, you didn’t have to bring anything.”
“I know you said you had everything, but I couldn’t resist.”
Crowley opened the bag and laughed.
“You can’t have enough apples this time of year,” Aziraphale remarked, smiling.
Crowley felt overwhelmed with love for his angel. He wanted to take Aziraphale into his arms and never let him go.
“Now the second,” Aziraphale said, handing over a second bag that was suspiciously shaped like a bottle of wine.
Crowley opened the bag, which contained a chilled bottle of white wine, which would most definitely compliment the chicken currently roasting in his oven. He wondered if Aziraphale remembered that they always had chicken on this particular holiday. He was sure that he did.
“Thanks,” he said, turning and placing the bottle down next to the waiting wine glasses. When he turned back around, he found Aziraphale fidgeting with the handle of the remaining bag.
“I hope I didn’t do the wrong thing,” Aziraphale murmured. He then quickly handed over the bag to Crowley before he lost his nerve.
“Oh, Angel. You could never do the wrong thing.”
“But, my dear, we both know I have.”
Unsure what to say to that, Crowley opened the final bag. He pulled out the bottle of wine and stared at it in surprise.
“I can’t remember the last time I saw a bottle of this,” Crowley exclaimed. “I honestly don’t know what to say.” He put the bottle down.
“Just please tell me you have some ginger ale, if you plan on opening that,” Aziraphale quipped.
Crowley began to laugh, otherwise he would cry. Memories of previous holidays flashed through his mind.
The pair of them laughing like loons, drunk on Manischewitz and ginger ale
The delight on Aziraphale’s face the first time they successfully baked challah
Crowley tripping over his own feet in his haste to beat Aziraphale in finding the afikomen
Aziraphale’s look of pride when reading the four questions every spring
“I never forgot,” Aziraphale began, breaking into Crowley’s thoughts, almost as if they were both sharing the same memories at that very moment. “Not one thing.” He stepped forward and squeezed Crowley’s hands. His blue eyes were shimmering with unshed tears.
“I know, Aziraphale. I know. It’s all behind us now, alright?” Crowley brushed away a tear that had escaped and made its way down Aziraphale’s face.
Crowley took a deep breath. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.” He reached for the white wine that Aziraphale brought, uncorked it, and poured them each a glass.
Before they drank, Aziraphale reached out, taking Crowley’s free hand in his.
“Happy New Year, my dear. To new beginnings.”
“Happy New Year, Angel. To the world.”
[1]The author didn’t realise when she was drafting this that you could buy this particular wine on bloody Amazon. So let’s just pretend, shall we?
[2] This being nicely chilled, as he remembered that both his mother and Aziraphale liked it that way