Chapter Text
If this is an add-on to your karmic punishment it’s a right shitty one, Crowley cursed at the heavens. It was the midst of December, and Crowley was shivering in his five layers. Though it wouldn’t be exactly right to call the demon cold-blooded, his human body’s circulation was like that of a century old man in the middle of an Antarctic blizzard.
In truth, it was only thirty one degrees[1], but it might as well have been the vacuum of space for all the warmth escaping his body. But, in the way of suave demons everywhere, he wasn’t cold. Of course not. Who would even suggest such an outrageous claim?
“Crowley. You’re shivering.”
Aziraphale, that’s who.
“I’m not,” he lied through his teeth. “I’m shaking the snow off my jacket. You know I don’t look good in white.” That wasn’t exactly a lie; white most certainly was not his color. However, considering it hadn’t actually snowed in several days, the lie fell a little short of its mark. Aziraphale gave him The Look™, that could’ve only meant ‘you’re shitting me right’ but said in a much more polite and calm tone.
“And this snow,” he replied. “It came from….where….exactly?”
“Th’ clouds? I dunno, where does snow usually come from? Geez angel, you’re supposed to be the smart one.” The Look™ intensified. Crowley shuddered under its holy gaze.
“You’re cold. Why can’t you admit it? There’s nothing wrong with-”
“M NOT. I’m fine” His response was punctuated by a strong shiver, the type that made his teeth chatter and his entire body shake. If he could scowl at his corporeal form without looking like an idiot, he would.[2] “Okay maybe...perchance...it might be...somewhat... nippy outside. But that doesn’t mean I’m dying of hypothermia, okay?”
Oh, no. The Look™ was joined by those eyes. Those pitying, ‘dear you really are dense, aren’t you’ eyes. Damn.
They shuffled down the slushy sidewalk for a few blissfully peaceful moments, the sleet making an unappealing squelching sound under his boots. This was always when snow was at its worst. Not solid enough to pack, but not liquid enough to melt and evaporate completely. Instead it settled for soaking him to the bone, adding to the chill he was already feeling. And who makes these blasted socks so thin anyway?
Aziraphale hadn’t mentioned anything since his admittance, at least not with words. Maybe the angel had dropped the argument.
“Well I suppose I won’t offer you my coat, then,” Aziraphale suggested, somewhat smug. Crowley side-eyed him. The angel knew what he was doing. He was trying to get him to admit to something. Well he wasn’t falling for it, absolutely not.
“Ssssuppose you won’t,” Crowley replied, already regretting the words coming out of his mouth. Satan it was freezing out here. He shoved his twice-gloved hands deeper into his pockets. Maybe he should get those little charcoal warming things. That’s an idea. Was that one of his or was that from upstairs? He’d think about it more once his brain thawed a bit.
They squelched on in relative silence again for a few moments. Fucking Central Park. Whose idea was this anyway?[3] A few infernal blocks of greenery in a concrete paradise might as well be a thousand miles in this blasted weather. Crowley retreated as far into his thick black scarf as he could, willing the air to just leave him alone.
Usually around this time he would be brumating. As much as he would’ve loved to hibernate, he couldn’t keep his body asleep for so long (not since the 19th century at least). His body remained lethargic until the season changed, but his mind was forever restless. The perfect Catch 22.
He was just getting into a really good brooding session when he felt a weight about his shoulders. Immediately he felt warmer, almost...miraculously. He looked down to see a snowy white coat draped about him like a lightly smug embrace.
“Thought you weren’t gonna offer, angel,” he said, letting in a lilt to his voice like he just proved his companion wrong. But Aziraphale was always on the uptake.
“I didn’t offer. I gave .” Oh, if looks could kill. Crowley involuntarily pulled the jacket tighter around his shoulders. His angel was quite the space heater, and he felt himself clinging to that warmth as much as he hated to admit it. White was really not his color. How could he think that making him wear white was a good idea? This was terrible. He had an image to keep up, bless it.
But oh, it was warm.
“...thanksssss” he muttered, as quietly as possible. Aziraphale graced him with the sweetest of smiles. Bastard.
“Of course, dear.”
[1] Negative .555 degrees celsius, to be exact. Every fraction of a degree matters when you haven’t got hellfire nearby.
[2] Why did he even have a circulatory system in this corporation? It was inconvenient.
[3] It was definitely Crowley’s idea. New Yorkers are even more cranky in the cold, if you can believe it. (consider: New Yorkers are even more cranky in person, if you can believe it.)