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“That one would look quite smashing on you, actually, my dear.” The angel gestured a gloved hand to a knee-length black wool & cashmere men’s coat in the window of Harrods. The collar was flipped up, and the crimson lining displayed underneath may or may not have been part of the original design— but, if it caught the demon’s fancy…
Next to him Crowley shuddered violently, bare hands crammed as far as they could get into his skin tight skinny jeans (hint: fingertips only), face burrowed into his thin-but-stylish blazer. He said nothing, but the long, suffering exhale that crystallized in the air before him did not escape Aziraphale’s notice.
The angel rolled his eyes and snapped his leather clad fingers, materializing the coat onto Crowley’s frame. The demon grumbled, but immediately straightened up as the cold in the air left him.
“Really, my dear,” the angel chastised. “I know you’re put out enough joining me for this. No need to freeze to death as well.”
“Not put out,” the demon countered. “Always like to see how the humans have managed to commercialize this holiday. Look at these crowds!” He gestured widely to the sidewalks around them, his hands now mysteriously clad in black leather gloves of his own. “All here to see Christmas display windows? Fantastic. Amp up the greed, I say.”
Aziraphle smiled softly, glancing at Crowley out of the corner of his eye. “Well, still. Very kind of you to agree to come with me.”
The demon only huffed in reply and moved towards the next window in the display.
This one featured a faux holiday dinner; Christmas goose with all the trimmings, presided over by a family of faceless mannequins seated on three sides of a heavy wooden table decorated lavishly with mistletoe. Aziraphlae clucked his tongue.
“What a foolish choice,” he muttered to his companion. Crowley turned slightly to look at him, one eyebrow cocked in question. Without turning his face to him the angel explained, “The table decoration. You know, mistletoe can be deadly if you eat it.”
Before his brain could stop him, Crowley’s movie loving, quote dropping instinct kicked in, right there on a freezing, overpopulated high street, to the angel he’d been trying to play it cool with for millennia, and without missing a beat he purred, “But a kiss can be even deadlier, if you mean it.”
The angel gasped in a stuttered breath and turned his head in fits and starts to stare at Crowley, his blue eyes wide, his voice soft. “What?!”
Crowley whipped his face to the angel, thankful for the high collar of his new miracled coat, thankful for the lenses of his sunglasses, endlessly unthankful for his stupid, lose, quick tongue. “Wot?!” He parroted back weakly.
People shuffled around them, exclaiming at the beautiful Christmas windows, making plans for their gift wish lists, making suggestions about what might be good for whom or how they ought to decorate their homes this year. Azirphale’s breath was not blowing out in a fog in front of him, indicating he was not breathing. Crowley was considering vanishing himself to somewhere that doesn’t now and never had celebrated Christmas, and never returning.
Aziraphale suddenly, surely, reached out to Crowley’s new coat, grabbed a pristine lapel, and dragged him the half step forward to meet him. Crowley ducked his chin in the same motion as Azirphale tilted his face up, and their lips met perfectly, warmly, chastely. Azirphale lingered for longer than a moment, then pulled away enough to gaze half-lidded eyes up to Crowley’s glasses. Crowley held his breath.
“There,” the angel finally breathed, “not dead. So much for that theory then.”
The angel released Crowley’s jacket and smoothed down the lapel he’d had fisted in his hand. Then with a quick flick of his eyes back to Crowley’s face and a gentle smirk, he stepped around the demon to look at the next window. Crowley spun in place, eyes never leaving the angel, brain once again working slower than his lips as he squeaked out one more “Wot?!” and stumbled after the angel.