Chapter Text
It is half-past four in the morning, and Aziraphale is sitting up on his side of the bed, reading Neil Gaiman’s American Gods (1) and drinking his fourth cup of miracled tea, while Crowley, sprawled diagonally across both halves of the bed, tosses and mutters into the pillow the way he normally does. Crowley has never done anything peacefully, and sleep is no exception—even in his dreams, he is pursued. By demons; by questions. The first night Crowley ever spent in the bookshop, Aziraphale had retreated downstairs with a book, unwilling to press their newfound closeness, but was soon sent scurrying upwards in alarm by the sound of disquieted mutterings in a long-forgotten dialect, followed by a thud as one flailing arm caught the bedside table. This woke Crowley up; Aziraphale’s stricken face, hovering above him, prompted profuse apologies succeeded by an awkward silence, and finally by Crowley climbing into the Bentley and driving off into the early morning mist.
Aziraphale had been nearly frantic with worry by the time Crowley reappeared a fortnight later, (2) still wildly embarrassed, but at least somewhat willing to talk. Aziraphale shouted at him for a good half hour, then went to make tea. Crowley apologised several more times.
Aziraphale had planned to broach the subject of Crowley’s peculiar sleep tendencies with great tact and restraint, but what he actually blurted out later that evening, after several bottles of wine, was,
“But, my dear boy, why on earth do you sleep at all, if that’s what happens when you do? It looks terribly uncomfortable.”
Crowley took a long swig of a Cabernet Merlot. “Oh… practicing, y’know. The vices. Sloth. Indolence. Whatever they call it these days. It’s my infernal duty. Sacrifices—” he burped—“must be made.”
Aziraphale, eyes half-shut, looked supremely unconvinced. Crowley growled.
“Well, angel, if you must know, I had no idea. I don’t actually remember any of it when I wake up. Just feels…peaceful. Feels nice. Better than all the thinking I do while awake, anyhow.”
“Oh…” Aziraphale’s mouth opened in a look of drunken astonishment, and he blinked several times to process this. Then he quietly, and very drunkenly, made his way upstairs to move the bedside table.
It took several more weeks of constant reassurance that no, Aziraphale did not object to the muttering and flailing, and yes, it really was okay if Crowley took a nap in his house, and no, Aziraphale was quite sure that he wouldn’t break anything, since everything breakable had been removed from the vicinity of the bed, but even if he did, it could be miracled back together, and yes, Crowley’s comfort really was paramount to him, before Crowley could bring himself to sleep at the bookshop again. Since then, Aziraphale has discovered that the nocturnal muttering and flailing is less violent if he remains nearby—close enough that Crowley can feel his presence—and that beds are quite comfortable places to read.
This particular night—or rather early morning—of the 1st of December, Aziraphale has only managed to read about ten pages of American Gods, because he is being distracted by a problem—the problem of what activities to do with Crowley to make him enjoy Christmas, or, to put it another way, How To Make A Demon Feel Cherished In 31 Days, or, to put it yet another way, How To Help An Unholy Being Enjoy A Holy Holiday.
Aziraphale runs through possibilities in his head. Shopping is out. So is anything involving churches or carollers. A countryside drive? He thinks of Crowley attempting to break the sound barrier on the highway out of London, and shudders. Besides, they do such trips all the time.(3) No, this has to be special.
What was it Anathema had mentioned that her kids loved doing? (She and Newt had two girls now, four and six.) Ice skating, that was it. And, thinks Aziraphale, Crowley is so elegant and graceful—he’ll be a natural skater. He’ll have the time of his life zooming about on the ice—no demon loved an adrenaline rush more—and Aziraphale will putter along more slowly and bask in refracted beauty. He smiles, gives a little wiggle of satisfaction, and reaches over to brush the hair from Crowley’s forehead and gently shake him awake.
Crowley, still half-asleep, squints at Aziraphale with thinly-veiled suspicion while the angel explains his plan.
“…so, what do you think, my dear?” Aziraphale asks at last, his voice so hopeful that Crowley resigns himself to treading tactfully.
“Be a bit cold though, won’t it?” is all the demon says. Aziraphale immediately launches into an explanation of how you wear warm socks to skate, and gloves if you like, and how in any case you warm up once you get going…from the adrenaline of course, not that he has ever done enough exercise to experience this with his own corporation. So Crowley caves in, and they set off.
Crowley, whose hatred of the winter is not helped by the fact that there is a fundamental clash between his favoured personal aesthetic and clothing made for warmth, does not, in fact, wear thick socks or gloves, only the usual shirt, jacket, and tight jeans. Ripped jeans, actually, because he has recently been occupied with bringing them back into fashion, and because he is stubbornly intent on disregarding the advice on the flyer which Aziraphale has produced from his coat pocket, which counsels the novice ice skater to wear clothing that will protect their corporation from unexpected encounters with the ice.
The first hitch occurs as Crowley is struggling to fit his feet into the skates, irritably waving aside help from Aziraphale, who has already pulled his on over excessively fluffy socks. The staff member on duty catches sight of the snakeskin texture of Crowley’s feet, and suggests that he take his shoes off, and Crowley fixes her with a withering glare through the sunglasses strong enough to make her reel back in dismay. Crowley’s feet are long and narrow, an odd shape which doesn’t quite fit the skates, and Aziraphale kneels down and performs a quick miracle that shapes the skates to Crowley’s feet. Even with the skates fitting snugly, he struggles to balance even before he gets onto the ice, although he is too proud to lean on Aziraphale’s shoulder or arm.
On the ice, he flails—there’s no other word for it. Aziraphale, striking out slowly but confidently along the edge, watches in shock as Crowley’s legs go from under him, and he slides uncontrollably across the ice in a tangle of limbs, unable to stop until he hits the edge of the rink. When Aziraphale reaches him, all concern, he sees that the demon’s hands are turning red from cold and bruising. He is about to suggest that Crowley hold onto him while they negotiate the edge of the rink together, but the stubbornness is already setting about Crowley’s mouth, so Aziraphale has little choice but to stand back and watch.
Crowley’s second and third attempts to skate independently end the same way as does the first. The fourth time, he manages to grab the edge of the rink before he falls, and ends up clutching it like Mufasa hanging off the cliff-edge while his feet slide out from under him. After this, he accepts Aziraphale’s helping hand (quite to his own surprise, the angel has found himself to be instantly competent), and is towed around on the ice, glaring fiercely and clutching Aziraphale’s hands in a death-grip. Shortly after, Aziraphale wisely suggests a cocoa-break, and Crowley visibly sags in relief.
Sat opposite the demon in the little cafeteria, Aziraphale surveys his darling in consternation. Crowley’s lips are turning blue with cold, he is shivering, and his hands and knees are bruised. Aziraphale brushes a hand over them, and the bruising is gone, but Crowley’s hands remain icy. For some reason, Aziraphale has learned, Crowley’s inability to tolerate the cold can only be palliated by human means—a blanket; a fire; a hot water-bottle—and not by miracles. He curses himself for not thinking of this problem when he suggested ice skating. Even after six thousand years more or less spent with Crowley, Aziraphale can still be very careless sometimes—getting excited about something, and not thinking through the implications; forgetting that in some ways, he and Crowley are deeply, fundamentally different.
“I’m so sorry, my dear,” he says now. “I thought you would find this fun.”
Crowley, teeth chattering, tries to grin. “’Twas. Was also pretty embarrassing. Gotta wipe the memories of all those kids now.”
“You know you aren’t going to.” Aziraphale looks at him fondly. “Did you want to go home? I’ll make it up to you. Run you a hot bath. Mulled wine and blankets, and you can curl up in snake form if you like. I’m sorry—this was so silly of me.”
But Crowley has a gleam in his eye. “Y’know, angel,” he drawls, “I did get to see you on the ice. You were quite good. Positively competent. And I think I’d quite like skating, if only I had a pair of legs that knew how to skate…”
Aziraphale catches on now. “We could go with you in snake form, and I’d skate, and you’d stay warm! Would you like to try now?”
Crowley grins. “Why not. Anyone looking?”
Aziraphale puts his fingers to his temples. “Nope.”
Crowley shifts, quickly and quietly, and slithers to wrap around Aziraphale’s neck under the thick jumper, tongue flickering affectionately at Aziraphale’s jaw before he sinks down so as to be fully hidden.
“Where’s your friend?” the staff member from earlier asks as Aziraphale is pulling his skates back on.
Aziraphale shrugs vaguely. “He went home. Ate some bad chicken earlier.”
Crowley is glaring at him from inside the jumper, he knows, and stifles a smile. But all is forgiven—so Crowley will tell him later, over a glass of mulled wine, his eyes warm and golden in the firelight—when Aziraphale strikes out on the ice, faster and faster, eventually spinning in dizzying circles. It might even be better than doing burnouts or doughnuts in the Bentley (Crowley says later, though perhaps this is exaggeration to make Aziraphale happy), because unlike when he is sitting in the driver’s seat of the Bentley, Crowley is right next to Aziraphale, so close he can steal his warmth and feel his heartbeat. In fact—and when the demon says this Aziraphale counts the first day of his mission a success—this might be the best day Crowley has had all year.
(1) Aziraphale does not normally read modern books; but Crowley got him this one, and really, as modern books go, it isn’t too bad.
(2) It was perhaps not entirely coincidental that, around this time, Northern Ireland experienced an inexplicable outage of all cell phone service for five whole days, and that, also around this time, the Queen’s favourite corgi was seized by an uncharacteristic urge to chew on everything in the vicinity, including several priceless pieces of furniture and one of the Queen’s footmen.
(3) Aziraphale with eyes tight shut, clutching frantically onto the door handle with one hand, the picnic basket with the other.