Chapter Text
celestialcomestibles.blogspot.com
Dear readers,
As another lovely winter day dawns here in my idyllic little cottage, I’m reminded to take a moment to be thankful for all the blessings that surround me—my dear husband, our little son, and our health and happiness.
Now I’m certain many of you, like me, are starting to plan your holiday menus. It’s important to remember not to bite off more than you can chew (no pun intended!) by planning too many complicated dishes. Here are some tips on keeping it manageable…
Aziraphale Fell pushed back his desk chair, stretched, and stood up. Ever since he’d quit his day job to focus on blogging full-time (not long after the cookware companies had started reaching out about spon-con), he sometimes passed days without seeing anyone else. It was time, he figured, for a short walk. Some fresh air, a little exercise—maybe he’d even stop for a cup of cocoa, exchange a few words with an actual human.
Unlike the Aziraphale of Celestial Comestibles, the real Aziraphale lived in a cramped flat in Soho with a rather stupid cat and a collection of wilting houseplants that he kept forgetting to water. It wasn’t so much about deceiving his readers as it was creating a more relatable—or even aspirational— image of himself. Suburban mothers didn’t want to read tips on The Perfect Pot Roast from a single, urban gay man. So he’d invented a husband for himself—always carefully referred to as “my dear husband,” never by name, and who was supposedly “camera-shy”—and, about a year ago, he’d announced that they’d adopted a little boy, who’d supposedly just turned six. (Aziraphale kept a document of Blog-Aziraphale’s life story saved on his computer, full of pertinent information about his supposed existence. It wouldn’t do to contradict himself.)
He pulled on a jumper, shoved his feet into a pair of shoes, and headed out into the hallway.
He was locking the door behind him when a familiar voice drawled, “Venturing out of your cozy little nest, are you?”
“Crowley!” said Aziraphale, startled, and dropped his keys. He made to pick them up, but Crowley got there first, stretching a long arm down and then extending his palm towards Aziraphale.
“Oh—thank you,” said Aziraphale, taking the keys and trying not to notice the spark of heat when their hands touched.
“Of course,” said Crowley.
“You’re—” Aziraphale checked his watch. “You’re home early, aren’t you?”
Crowley, who’d lived in the flat next to Aziraphale for a little over two years, worked in Finance doing something-or-other, and kept ridiculous hours. Sometimes he didn’t make it home till two or three in the morning (not that Aziraphale stayed up to listen for him, or anything. He just didn’t sleep much, himself).
“Yeah,” said Crowley, leaning against the wall between their doors. “Finished with the project earlier than we were expecting. So. They’ve let the hounds of hell roam free for the night.”
“Oh, that’s good then,” said Aziraphale, managing to actually lock his door properly on the second attempt.
“What’re you up to?” Crowley asked. ”Got a date?” He enunciated the ts.
Aziraphale felt himself blush. “Not exactly dressed for it, am I?” He plucked at his jumper, which, he was now realizing, had a hole in the left arm. A far cry, certainly, from Crowley’s sharply tailored suit.
Crowley shrugged. “I dunno. I think you look—” He broke off. “Fine,” he finished, a trifle lamely.
“Oh,” said Aziraphale, keenly aware of how red his cheeks must be. “No. I’m just—off for a walk. Need to stretch my legs.”
Crowley nodded. “Blogging getting a bit solitary, is it? Oh wait—I’d forgotten. You’ve got your husband, haven’t you?”
Aziraphale had made the mistake of telling Crowley, early into their acquaintance (friendship? Were they friends?) about his fictional blog family. (There had been wine involved.) Crowley had subsequently developed a most vexing habit of making snarky comments about Aziraphale’s husband and son at every turn.
“Ha ha, very witty,” he said. “I’d better be off, then. Before it’s too dark.”
“Right, yeah,” said Crowley, and something had shifted in the air, some new awkwardness, and Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure of the source. “Oh—while I have you,” he added, “just so you know, my nephew’s coming to stay for a few weeks. Over the holiday. Parents booked an adults-only cruise, and I’m stuck on child-minding duty.”
“Oh,” said Aziraphale, wrinkling his nose, “rather rude of them, isn’t it? Inconsiderate?”
Crowley shrugged. “I like the kid. But, just wanted to give you a heads-up, should you hear the pitter-patter of little feet cavorting about, or whatnot. That’ll be him.”
“Well, you must bring him by,” said Aziraphale, without really thinking about it. “I’d love to meet him.”
Crowley grinned unexpectedly. “Maybe I will, then,” he said, and disappeared into his flat.
Aziraphale looked down again at his jumper, resolving to bin it at the next opportunity. He had plenty of hole-free clothing, after all. Somewhere.
celestialcomestibles.blogspot.com
Dear readers,
Things are getting a bit hectic here at the cottage! The little one is ill, and I’ve been on chicken soup duty for the past three days. Far from our usual culinary variety, but it’s difficult to argue with a sick child, isn’t it?
Before we launch into today’s recipe (duck breasts with cherry sauce, perfect for a dinner party—or just dinner for two, as we have it here), I’d like to remind you that you can pre-order the Celestial Comestibles cookbook now for delivery by Christmas—60 all-new recipes, plus a few of your favorites from the site. And I’m happy to announce that I’ll be doing a small tour to promote the book—watch this space for cities and dates!
Aziraphale’s phone rang. He jolted backwards in his chair— why was the ringer on so loudly? Ah, yes, it was because he’d constantly been missing calls when it’d been on vibrate, and now that he had a book to promote, he’d been informed by the marketing department at his publisher’s that answering the phone was not, in fact, optional.
“Hello?”
“Ah, Aziraphale, excellent!”
Aziraphale winced a little at the preternaturally cheery tones of Gabriel, the marketing rep from his publisher and a constant thorn in his side. The book tour had been Gabriel’s idea, and Aziraphale had fought it tooth and nail—it wasn’t that he didn’t want to meet readers, he’d insisted. He just didn’t want to meet hundreds of them at a time, queued up inside a bookshop for a quick scribble in their cookbooks and a few awkwardly exchanged words. But it was, apparently, the done thing, and Aziraphale had allowed himself to be persuaded in exchange for a higher royalty percentage from all sales made at tour stops.
Gabriel was running through the details of the tour, which was scheduled to start in January, and Aziraphale listened with half an ear and made vague noises of comprehension and assent.
“And,” Gabriel said, “we’ve just come up with this really excellent promotion to run over the holidays.”
“Oh, yes?” Aziraphale asked politely.
“Yes,” Gabriel said. “I’m calling it Christmas with Aziraphale— really helps that your first name is so distinctive, looks better on the ads—or maybe A Celestial Christmas, we’ll see. But anyway. Everyone who pre-orders your book before December 20th will be entered into a contest to come spend Christmas with you!”
“Christmas with me,” Aziraphale said faintly.
“Yeah!” said Gabriel, altogether too enthusiastically. “At your cottage! You’ll cook for them—don’t worry, I’ll give you full discretion over the menu, I know how fussy you get about that.”
“My cottage,” Aziraphale repeated. The publishers, when they’d approached him about doing the cookbook, had taken it for granted that the life he’d presented on the blog was real. (Why wouldn’t they, after all?) They’d never actually asked if it was all a lie, and Aziraphale had never found the right moment to proactively enlighten them. But. This was all right, this was fine, he knew a few people with cottages that he could call, and surely at least one of them wouldn’t be there during the holidays, so he’d rent it, and make dinner for whoever this lucky fan was.
“All right,” he said. Now that he thought about it, it didn’t sound half bad—built-in excuse not to visit his family over Christmas, only the one reader instead of a bookshop full of them. The whole thing might actually be quite pleasant.
“Great!” said Gabriel. “We’re describing it as the full Aziraphale experience...stay in your guest room, eat your food, meet your husband and kid…”
“Hold on,” said Aziraphale, “my…”
Gabriel sighed. “Look, Aziraphale, I know he’s shy, or whatever, but people love your stories about him. And the mystery aspect to it, that’s only going to make people want to meet him more! You’re a charming guy, I’m sure you can talk him into it.”
“But—” Aziraphale started.
“It’s really not negotiable,” said Gabriel, in that cheery tone edged with steel. “Actually, we’ve already put out the press release. So, come December 23, I want to arrive at that cottage with our lucky winner and find you and your little family all ready to welcome her in. Or him. But, you know, it’ll be a her. Got it?”
“You’re coming?” Aziraphale asked.
“Yup,” said Gabriel, and didn’t elaborate further. “All right, sounds good, talk to you soon.” He rang off.
Aziraphale sagged backwards in his chair. His first instinct was to immediately call Gabriel back and, in no uncertain terms, decline the whole thing, to Hell with the consequences. But he hesitated, because he’d gone up against Gabriel before, and never quite managed to come out on top (see: the book tour). And what would he say, anyway? “Sorry, my whole persona, the one you’ve built all the marketing for my book around, it’s a lie? I’m actually pathetic and single and most of my conversations are with my cat?”
Terpsichore, as though she knew he was thinking about her, trotted over and wound her way around his legs. Aziraphale reached down to pick her up and held her in his lap, stroking her absentmindedly as he thought. If he wasn’t ready to tell Gabriel the truth, what was the alternative? Go through with it? Somehow acquire a husband and child before December 23rd?
Actually, he realized, if he placed an ad now, he’d very likely be able to find some out-of-work actor ready to play husband for a modest fee. Yes, that might work, he’d have to give them the whole backstory on his fictional relationship, but—
But, he realized, that didn’t solve the problem of the child. Because, how would he find a child with parents willing to put it in the care of a complete stranger—and over the holidays, no less.
He heard the door to the flat next door swing open, just then, and an unfamiliar, youthful voice ask, “Uncle Anthony, can we go to the cinema today? I want to see Frozen again.”
Aziraphale jumped out of his chair, sending Terpsichore to the ground. She hissed in disapproval, and he muttered an apology before darting towards his door and out into the hallway.
Crowley was just locking the door behind him, a small child tugging on his sleeve and repeating his Elsa-related wishes.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, half-breathlessly.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, turning, and smiled slowly at him. “Just heading out. This is my nephew Adam.”
“Hi,” said Adam, waving a sticky-looking hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Aziraphale hurriedly.
“What’s gotten into you?” Crowley asked, raising his eyebrows.
“I need you to marry me,” Aziraphale said in a rush.
Crowley blinked slowly. He had lovely eyes, Aziraphale thought irrelevantly, a shade of brown that caught the light and turned into a deep honey-gold. “Very flattering,” he said, at last, “but it does seem a little sudden, don’t you think? I believe it’s the done thing to, I don’t know, go to dinner first, or—”
“No, no,” Aziraphale said, cheeks flaring hot, “not—not for real. I need you to pretend to be my husband.”
Something shifted in Crowley’s gaze. “Oh,” he said. “I see.”
“Really,” said Aziraphale, attempting to make light of it, “as though I’d ask you to marry me for real, just like that! Would be rather forward of me, wouldn’t it?”
Crowley shrugged. “Right, course, you don’t—go that fast.”
“I shouldn’t think anyone does,” said Aziraphale, “but, more importantly, will you do it?”
Crowley held up a hand. “Slow down. You want me to—pretend to be your husband?”
Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, it’s—well, I’ve got a book coming out, a cookbook,” he said, “and Gab—the publishers have decided that they’re raffling off an opportunity for one lucky fan to come and spend Christmas with me. As a promotional sort of thing. Only, they expect—”
Crowley made a comprehending sound. “And they expect your perfect little life that you write about on the blog, yeah?”
“It’s not perfect,” Aziraphale began automatically, then realized that arguing with Crowley was perhaps not the best way to persuade him to help. “Yes. They expect my husband.”
“And your son,” Crowley added. “Just how do you—” He glanced at Adam. Terpsichore had followed Aziraphale out of his flat and was purring loudly at the boy, who had begun to pet her with evident delight. “Ah. I expect you’ll be wanting him too, then.”
“Yes,” said Aziraphale, glad not to have to explain, “that’s why I thought to ask you, of course. Since you’ve got your nephew.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “How devastating,” he said, sardonically. “And here I was thinking it was my personal charms.”
Aziraphale blushed furiously. “I don’t mean—” he began. “It’s not that—of course you’re very— handsome, and, and debonair, please don’t think that I wouldn’t—”
Crowley held up a hand to stop him, a faint smile creeping over his face. “Only joking,” he said.
“Right, of course,” said Aziraphale, really, as though Crowley would need reassuring about his personal charms, he was obviously very—well, never mind. Aziraphale was uncomfortably aware that the heat in his cheeks had begun to radiate downwards in most inconvenient fashion. (Particularly given that there was a child present.) “At any rate,” he said, hurriedly, “will you? Do it? Pretend to be my husband?”
Crowley shrugged. “Yeah,” he said, casually, but Aziraphale thought he detected a strain of— something, anyway, in his tone. “Sure, why not, sounds a lark.”
“Oh, splendid,” said Aziraphale, and broke into a smile.
Crowley grinned back at him, and they stood there for a moment, just smiling at each other.
The moment was rather definitively ruined by a disgruntled meow from Terpsichore. Aziraphale looked over, alarmed to see that Adam was holding the cat in what looked to be a most unpleasant position for her.
“Here,” Aziraphale said, rescuing her. “Let me. Anyway,” he added, turning back to Crowley, “thank you. So much.”
“When will you be needing me, then?” Crowley asked.
“Ah. Well, I’ve got to get a cottage, as well, but I believe the winner’s supposed to join us there on the 23rd.”
“Head down on the 22nd, then, yeah? Assuming you’ve got a place by then.”
“Yes, that’ll do nicely,” Aziraphale said. “I, ah, I rather think we should meet, though. Beforehand. If we’re to be convincingly married, there’s lots of things we’ll have to decide on. A whole history, a whole backstory. I’ll gather all the details from the blog, and give them to you, but we’ll have to be more thoroughly prepared than that.”
“I agree completely,” said Crowley. “Why don’t you pop by round nine, after Adam’s in bed. I’ll find us a nice bottle of wine and we can chat about our relationship.”
“Our fake relationship,” Aziraphale said, laughing, “when you say chat about our relationship it sounds like—”
“Course,” Crowley said, tone detached, “sorry I, y’know, misspoke.” He took Adam’s hand. “For the time being, though, we’d better be on our way, if we want to catch that Frozen showing.”
“Of course,” said Aziraphale. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”
“See you tonight,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale watched him and Adam disappear down the stairs.
For some unaccountable reason, Aziraphale changed clothes no fewer than five times before heading over to Crowley’s. He settled, eventually, on an oatmeal-colored cardigan over his most comfortable trousers. He also rummaged around in his kitchen for something to bring over. Crowley was doing him rather an enormous favor, after all, and a tin of homemade biscuits was really the least he could do to thank him.
Crowley had changed clothes, too, Aziraphale noticed upon his opening the door. Instead of the expensive-looking suits he wore to work, or the tight (frankly, obscenely tight) jeans that characterized his weekend outfits, he’d got on a faded T-shirt and joggers made from some soft jersey material. It was a rather pajama-like ensemble, which prompted the realization that, oh yes, they were quite likely to see each other in their pajamas, given the nature of the upcoming trip.
“Come in,” Crowley repeated, and Aziraphale realized he’d been standing there gawking.
“Yes, thank you,” he said, and stepped in. He’d been in Crowley’s flat on several previous occasions, and the decor hadn’t changed much—stark and minimalist, a strong contrast to Aziraphale’s own cozy clutter. There were, he noticed, now a few more signs of actual human residence—a toy fire engine rolled into a corner, a stuffed elephant laying on the couch.
Aziraphale gingerly removed the elephant and sat down.
“I brought biscuits,” he said, placing the tin on the coffee table. “Homemade.”
“And which recipe would that be?” asked Crowley, who had disappeared into the kitchen and was now emerging with two glasses of wine. “Ultra-buttery shortbread? Chocolate-hazelnut linzer stars? Brown-butter—”
“Gingerbread,” Aziraphale said, cutting off the recitation of Aziraphale’s Greatest Dessert Hits. “Spicy, dark, full of molasses. You’ll like it, I think.”
“Dark and spicy?” Crowley asked. “Hmm, that does sound intriguing.” He handed one of the wine glasses to Aziraphale, placed his own on a coaster, and sat down on the opposite end of the couch from Aziraphale. “Oh—gingerbread men,” he said, reaching into the tin, “you didn’t say, how sweet.” Aziraphale had the distinct feeling that he was being mocked.
However, he needed Crowley, so he just nodded, and proffered a stack of papers.
“What’re those?” Crowley asked, around a mouthful of gingerbread. “This is fabulous, by the way, you weren’t lying.”
“Thank you,” said Aziraphale. “And this is your study guide. I gathered together everything I’ve ever mentioned on the blog about my husband, our marriage, our life. I’ve always been fairly vague about it, about him, so mercifully I don’t believe there’s anything in there that’ll contradict it being you.”
Crowley swallowed the last of the gingerbread. “You printed it?” he asked. “You could’ve emailed.”
“Ah,” said Aziraphale, “yes, well, didn’t think of that.”
“You make your living on the Internet,” Crowley said, “and you didn’t think to use it for this?” He took the papers from Aziraphale and started flipping through them. “Although, by the looks of your blog, you peaked during the Geocities era, so…”
“People visit my blog for the content,” Aziraphale said haughtily, “not for flashy bells and whistles.” He took a sip of wine. “Ooh, this is lovely, thank you. And. My publishers have hired some graphic designer or other to do a full website makeover before the cookbook release, so it’ll be up to date soon enough.”
“End of an era,” said Crowley, lightly. “Anyway. Thanks for this information. I’ll make a detailed study.”
“We should—” Aziraphale took another, larger sip of wine. “We should agree on some other things, too. That aren’t in there.”
“Such as?”
“Well—” he started with one of the safer ones— “how did we meet?”
“Mmm,” said Crowley. “How about, it was raining, and my umbrella blew inside out, and you very gallantly offered me yours.”
“Ah—yes,” said Aziraphale, swallowing, “that’s—very good. Very romantic.”
“What else?” Crowley asked, taking another gingerbread man.
“Pet names,” said Aziraphale, looking doggedly at his wineglass, “like—like sweetheart, or darling, or—”
“Angel,” said Crowley.
Aziraphale glanced up. Crowley wasn’t smiling, just gazing thoughtfully at Aziraphale, his hands fiddling with the gingerbread man.
“Angel,” said Aziraphale faintly, “that’ll do.”
Crowley bit the gingerbread man’s head off. “Great,” he said. “How long have we been married for, again?”
“Ten years,” said Aziraphale, promptly, “that’s in the documents.”
“Ah,” said Crowley, “the tin anniversary.” He tapped the biscuit tin. “And you’ve come through nicely, haven’t you?”
Aziraphale laughed nervously. “That’s—that’s funny.”
“Is it in the documents,” Crowley asked, lightly, “who proposed to who?”
“To whom,” said Aziraphale, automatically. “And, no, I hadn’t quite...gone into that much detail.”
“Any thoughts?” Crowley held onto the s a trifle longer than was necessary.
“Erm,” said Aziraphale, because the truth was, he had had thoughts. It went with the territory. Make up a fictional husband, force yourself to tell adorable stories about your domestic life, and it was altogether too easy to find yourself embellishing where it wasn’t actually needed, coming up with stories that wouldn’t be shared in blog posts, just the more private corners of your mind. And so, yes, all right, Aziraphale had given a fair amount of thought to imagining his husband.
But, that nebulous tall-dark-handsome-never-hogs-the-covers husband was one thing, and the very real person sitting in front of him, decapitating another gingerbread man, was another.
So Aziraphale thrust the “he proposed privately, while we were having a picnic, just the two of us, and I said yes immediately of course and then we kissed in the grass while the ants got at the foie gras” fantasy aside, and said, instead, “Ah, yes, I think I did.”
Crowley looked pleased. “And how did you propose, then?”
“Er,” said Aziraphale, rummaging about in his brain, “I think...perhaps, we were—we were in a boat, in the middle of a lake, and I did it there.” Aziraphale didn’t even like boats. They made him nauseous.
Something like disappointment fluttered across Crowley’s face. “Right. Boat it is. And, our wedding? Church? Registry office?”
“Registry office,” Aziraphale said, carefully—he didn’t know, he realized, whether Crowley was at all religious—“um, small affair, just our families and a few close friends.”
“Sounds lovely,” Crowley said, without irony. “And we honeymooned in…”
“I’ll let you decide that, I think,” Aziraphale said, because really, did he have to do all the work here?
“Is Paris too cliched?” Crowley asked, raising his eyebrows.
“No,” said Aziraphale, and felt the need to clear his throat, suddenly, “no, I—I’ve never been, actually, so—”
“So we shouldn’t use it, then.”
“No, no, it’s good, I’d like to go—”
“But we’re not,” Crowley said, an edge in his voice, “going for real, this is our fictional honeymoon that took place ten years ago. So it probably shouldn’t be to a city you’ve never visited.”
Aziraphale blushed deeply. “Oh, quite—quite right. Silly of me. Not thinking straight. Ah. Rome?”
“I’ve been to Rome,” Crowley said, “that’ll work. In spring, yeah?”
“In spring,” Aziraphale said, “oh, yes, that would’ve been very nice, I think.”
Crowley nodded. “We’ll have to say it was.”