#idk none of it works really i just liked the idea of snuff finding out he’s royalty but deciding to travel with moomin instead

[skruttet]

hmm

[infinitevariety]

Camp

"Ah, here we are, this one looks good!"

Crowley just groans as Aziraphale drags him towards yet another outdoor shop. It's three o'clock. They have been to Trespass, Millets, Go Outdoors, Blacks, and now—Crowley glances up as they pass the threshold—Decathlon. The only thing they've stopped for is lunch.

Aziraphale makes a beeline for the cooking equipment, and Crowley is left milling about awkwardly just inside the door. He briefly considers ducking into one of the tents set up near the entrance to get his head down for a nap. Instead, he traipses slowly after Aziraphale.

"Look at this cutlery, Crowley, it folds up small enough to fit in a small snuff box!"

"Wonderful. Look, angel, are you ever actually going to buy anything?"

Still fiddling with the cutlery, folding and unfolding, Aziraphale doesn't look at Crowley when he answers.

"Of course I am. But one needs to research and find out everything that’s available before making a decision on which to commit to."

"We could have done this online from home. All these shops have websites."

"My dear, that's not the same at all. You need to see things, feel things, use things."

Fiddle with things, Crowley doesn't say, as he watches Aziraphale's hands still absent-mindedly folding and unfolding.

“I need wine, which none of these places have,” Crowley grumbles.

“Come on, lets look at the sleeping bags—you’ll surely have an opinion on those.”

“Yeah, I want the comfiest one.” Despite his petulance, Crowley dutifully follows Aziraphale.

There are a dozen or so sleeping bags unrolled and hung up for customers’ perusal, and Crowley begrudgingly admits this shop at least has a larger range.

“Crowley, look, there are plenty of black ones for you to choose from!”

Aziraphale is already rifling through the display of sleeping bags and Crowley can’t help but smile a little. Damn the soft adorable bastard.

Aziraphale’s enthusiasm for a camping trip has not waned at all in the numerous hours and multiple shops of the day. Despite himself, Crowley isn’t actually as fed up as he’s claiming to be. A small part of him is even, kind of, maybe, looking forward to it. To seeing Aziraphale cooking scrambled eggs and beans on a little camping stove, seeing Aziraphale trying to put up a tent, seeing Aziraphale snuggled up in a sleeping bag he has no intention of sleeping in.

But they’ll never get there if they never buy anything.

“This one,” says Crowley as he snatches a random sleeping bag from the shelf.

“Oh, that was quick. Are you sure?”

“Yep. So sure, in fact, I’m grabbing one for you too.” Which he does, holding a packed sleeping bag under each arm. “You’ll love it, angel. What’s next?”

“Well, oh, erm...” Aziraphale stumbles, clearly taken aback by Crowley’s sudden enthusiasm. “Rolling mats, for sleeping on?”

“Brilliant! Let’s go.”

Crowley charges off, leaving Aziraphale to trail after him for a change. He detours to pick up a trolley, dropping the sleeping bags into it and pushing it towards the rolling mats.

By the time Aziraphale catches up, bustling and only slightly out of breath, Crowley has two roll mats, one ground sheet, and four travel pillows in the trolley with the sleeping bags.

“Are you quite sure about this, Crowley?” Aziraphale eyes the contents of the trolley with some trepidation. “It’s sleeping in a bag, on the ground. Will you be able to cope?”

Crowley shrugs. “I’ve slept in worse places,” he says, thinking of the first few years on Earth when he spent a lot of time as a snake, sleeping under rocks and in the hollows of trees. Also that week in 1972 he spent curled up cosy and warm in someone’s compost bin.

“Well, yes, but you’ve grown accustomed to something more luxurious in recent years, haven’t you?”

Crowley concedes the point with a nod and a grunt.

“Would you perhaps prefer if we were to do—oh, what did the gentleman in the Millets call it?—glamourous camping?”

“Glamping?” cries Crowley. “Fuck no. Glamping’s one of mine—I’ll stick to the compost heap.”

“What?” Aziraphale scrunches his face in puzzlement before shaking it out. “Never mind, what do you mean glamour—glamping is one of yours? I thought it was supposed to be fancier and more comfortable than regular camping?”

“Supposed to be, sure. But do you really think a slightly comfier surface to sleep on, a couple of extra blankets, and a little extra room negates the fact you are outside in the middle of nowhere trying to sleep on something that isn’t supposed to be a bed? Plus, glampers usually have a heaping dose of pride, thinking they’re better than others because they’re sleeping in a yurt or a tree house or whatever. And everybody hates it, no matter what they say, because it’s still just camping in cold wet places away from the real comfort of their own home.”

Aziraphale listens to Crowley’s speech in silence, the wringing of his hands the only indication of his unease.

“Still want to go camping, angel?”

“Well, you see...” Aziraphale sighs, dropping his hands to his sides. “I’m not entirely certain I ever wanted to go at all.”

For a long moment, Crowley doesn’t react. He takes a steadying breath.

“Are you telling me we’ve spent hours trudging around outdoor shops looking at but not buying any equipment because you’re not even sure you want to go camping?”

“When you put it like that it sounds silly, but Crowley I love the idea of camping. The cosiness, the closeness, the intimate space. I’m just not sure on the whole… outside on the ground in the cold part of things.”

Crowley just looks at Aziraphale for a few seconds. The earnest hope and resignation in his soft, beautiful face. Crowley sighs.

“We can work with that,” he tells Aziraphale.

“We can?”

“Yep. Come on, lets put most of this back.”

-

That evening finds Crowley laying on his side, gazing fondly at a much more happy and content Aziraphale. They are both nestled comfortably in their sleeping bags. Aziraphale is burrowed so far into his only his nose and closed eyes are showing out of the hole at the top.

“I could stay here all night.” Aziraphale’s words are muffled through the sleeping bag, but Crowley hears them clearly enough.

“That’s sort of the idea, angel.”

Crowley watches Aziraphale give a happy little wiggle inside his sleeping back and smiles. He rolls on to his back, met with the softness of his mattress, and stares up at the inside of the tent. Crowley’s smile only gets bigger. He’s more than happy to claim indoor camping as one of his, too.

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Written for the Summer Omens challenge that @thetunewillcome is hosting. IDK. My notes for this one were just “Aziraphale dragging Crowley around camping shops. ?Crowley invented glamping” and I went feral from there.

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(Sand) (Ice Cream) (Burn)