Characters not mine.

(Originally written for a free-for-all challenge at comment_fic. Prompt was "Crowley actually does like tartan.")

Despite what Aziraphale, in his strange bubble about fifty years out of date, insisted, tartan was not stylish. It had not been stylish for decades, and so Crowley objected to it on general principle. After all, if there was one thing that the human Crowley pretended to be definitely was, it was stylish.

Tartan objects not currently serving a purpose in angelic modesty were, therefore, banished from Crowley's flat.

Aziraphale still managed to leave them there, anyway. Mostly little things - a few scarves, a left glove, on one occasion a tartan-patterned tie that Crowley only found the morning after a night of heavy drinking because he had been looking for his sunglasses underneath his no-longer spotless white leather sofa.

It was not properly demonic behavior to return lost angelic property, so Crowley never swung by the bookshop with a box full of tartan outerwear. Instead, he took them back into the bedroom and put them in the closet.

And sometimes, after Aziraphale had been gone for awhile on a heavenly mission, or succeeded in discorporating himself in an act of stupid bravery, or something of the sort, that box of tartan left the closet after all, and wound up spilled across the black-and-white comforter of a bored and somwhat worried demon, using up the hours with sleep, because whiling was no fun without the thwarting, and really, the angel did such stupid things in the name of Duty sometimes.

He would turn anyone who called it a security blanket into a pile of maggots, despite his own hatred of maggots.

Because it wasn't stylish and it was stupidly, indulgently sentimental, and he wouldn't be caught dead actually purchasing any, but Crowley was, in a way, actually very fond of tartan. Particularly that tartan that had previously wrapped a certain pudgy angel up and protected him the foggy London chill.