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It starts in early November with the arrival of Christmas decorations in stores. Aziraphale and Crowley have been looking for a few pieces of furniture to round out their décor in the retirement cottage they’d recently acquired in the South Downs. You’d think that with the number of books and plants they have between the two of them, they don’t really need much else, but Crowley insists that their new home needs accent pieces to look “classy,” and Aziraphale insists they buy things like proper home owners rather than miracling them up, so they’ve spent the better part of two weeks visiting antique shops, finally ending up at a store called the White Company that’s leaving Aziraphale more than a little uneasy. Too little color, not enough dust. Thankfully Crowley pronounces everything too cheap, so they’re heading for the exit when they stumble across the Christmas display.
Crowley gets that gleeful look of his that’s so big, Aziraphale doesn’t need to see behind his shades to recognize it. His grin is slow and sly, ticking up a little higher on one side in that way that always makes Aziraphale’s chest feel warm. He’s happy that Crowley allows himself to show his feelings a little more these days, even if they’re still hidden behind dark lenses when they’re in public.
Still, he feels the need to tease, since he’s been hearing nothing but teasing about over-enjoying seasons from Crowley for all of autumn. Turnabout is fair play, and he’s been waiting a month for this.
“Look at that, Crowley! The shopkeepers have started your favorite holiday even earlier this year. Isn’t that nice?”[1]
Crowley wipes the cheerful grin from his face and tries (and fails) to produce a sneer. “Shoppers being annoyed by too cheerful displays, annoying music, and reminders of how shitty everyone’s own lives are? Of course I think that Christmas—at least the modern capitalist version—is the best time of the year.”
Aziraphale smiles but says nothing. He’s been hanging around his demon for the past two thousand years, so he knows the truth: Crowley adores Christmas, and not for the terrible capitalist trappings. He gets dewy-eyed every time he hears “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” and he lights up like a child at every light display. Not to mention, Aziraphale surprised him at his flat a few winters ago and heard him quoting the Christmas episode of that show about the funny, sweet old ladies. It was the most adorable thing he’d ever heard. He’s never mentioned that thought to Crowley, though.
He doesn’t buy any Christmas decorations as they leave the store, but he starts brainstorming on ways to give Crowley the best Christmas ever.
***
A month later, he’s gone into the village to pick up yarn for a jumper for Crowley (his demon gets very cold in the winter, skinny bastard that he is) when he sees the most darling Christmas window display ever at the sweets shop—fairy lights twinkling, fake snow dusted liberally over the scene, and an elaborate gingerbread mansion as the centerpiece. Crowley’s not one for consuming whole meals, but he does enjoy a hint of sweet sometimes, so Aziraphale slips into the cozy, goldenly lit shop, where he’s greeted by the aromas of cinnamon, chocolate, and hazelnut. Oh yes, there’s no way he’s making it home with less than two—make that three, well, four, just to be safe—items from this delightful store. He’s visited before, of course, but not since Christmas descended on the village.
He vaguely replies to the shopkeeper’s greetings as his eyes greedily peruse the shelves and shelves of goodies. How to choose? Hot chocolate is a classic, of course, but so is peanut brittle, peppermint, candied popcorn …
He’s picked up a few things before he remembers that he came in for Crowley, not for himself. He sadly puts away the peanut brittle, but keeps the Belgian hot chocolate set—he does deserve a treat from time to time after all—when he sees it. He smiles. Yes, it’s perfect.
***
He waits a few days, until one morning when Crowley’s had a good night’s sleep, which always makes him soft and amenable. Aziraphale loves that he can see him like this, now that they share a domicile—and the rest of their immortal lives. There have always been hints of Crowley’s soft, lovely nature, but he hides it less now, and Aziraphale adores what he sees.
Crowley saunters into the kitchen—one arm in a stretch and the other hand scratching his belly as he always does when trying to finish waking up—where Aziraphale is sat at the table reading a book while he waits for his chocolate to heat for drinking. The table is covered in bags and boxes, everything carefully covered so they can’t be discovered yet.
“What’s this, angel?” The last word comes out in a yawn, and Aziraphale smiles at the display.
“I was in the village the other day, and I just got bit by the Christmas bug. I might have gone a bit overboard, but it can’t be helped now.” He shrugs in what he hopes is a guileless manner. He knows exactly how to play this. Get Crowley to think it’s what Aziraphale wants, let Crowley grouch and complain, then watch him delight in every step of the process. He can’t wait to see it.
“I had hoped …” He trails off and offers his best puppy dog expression.
Crowley sighs and tries to look put out. “What do you need?” He’s only barely making an effort to appear annoyed while eyeing the corner of a gayly decorated box peaking out of a bag, and there seems to be a glint of hopefulness in his eyes. Aziraphale knows he has him.
“I’d like to put up just a few small decorations, if that’s alright. And I’d miracle them up myself, but this is our first year owning a home together, and I thought it would be nice if maybe we did it the old-fashioned, human way. Put on some Christmas music, light a fire, drink something warm and seasonal, and deck those halls.” He punctuates this last bit with an emphatic swing of his fist.
“Fine,” Crowley concedes, crossing his arms. “But just a few, and I’m not doing this sober, otherwise there will be an entirely different kind of decking going on.”
Aziraphale brightens. “Wonderful. I’ve got hot chocolate and mulled wine on the hob.” He digs through the bags and pulls out a box of colored lights. “The tree and greenery will be here at eleven, so I thought we’d start with the outdoor lights. These will be perfect for the roof, and then I got these for the tree out front.”
There’s a choked groan behind him, and Aziraphale has to push down a humm of delight. Crowley is playing right into his hands. “Something wrong, my dear?” he asks, turning to face his demon only after he’s wiped his grin.
“What happened to ‘a few’ decorations?”
“Well, given the amount I saw in the village, ours will look quite paltry in comparison. But we’re not out to win a contest or anything. I just wanted a small, cheerful display.”
“Wait. Wait. Is there a contest?” The competitive zeal makes Crowley’s golden eyes glow.
“No. That’s what I’m saying. No need to compare ourselves to our neighbors.”
“Could we start a contest?”
Aziraphale sighs. “Crowley! No. This is about Christmas, not one-ups-manship.”
Crowley deflates, but only slightly. “Fine. So, outdoor lights. Tree. What else?”
“A sprinkling of greenery around the main rooms, some more fairy lights. Nothing too ostentatious.”
Crowley eyes the pot of simmering wine, sniffs at it, ladles some into the waiting cup, then rummages around until he finds their bottle of rum. He pours a generous helping into the spiced drink. He gulps the whole thing down in one go. Then he shivers, and a coat, hat, scarf, and gloves appear on his corporation. “Okay. I’m ready.”
“You better be sober enough to get up on the roof.”
“I have to what?”
***
Crowley only falls off the roof once, and Aziraphale is there to miracle him down softly—which is his role here, along with instructing where to place the lights. Having lost all fake grumpiness in the distraction of the work, he’s positively gleeful by the time two boys show up at their front gate, towing a beautifully plump tree and other assorted greenery.
“Oh, that’s lovely. Isn’t it lovely, Crowley? It will look perfect in our sitting room.” Aziraphale claps with joy (Crowley agrees with a soft smile), then guides the teens inside, where they set it up in the corner Crowley deems best for showcasing it.
As Aziraphale ladles more drinks, spiking the hot chocolate with a dab of Irish whisky, much to Crowley’s delight, his demon paws through the remaining bags on the table. He’s not even pretending to be annoyed now. Instead, he’s absolutely ecstatic, proclaiming at each charming ornament, asking where they came from and commenting on color choice.
They argue over whether the lights or the decorations go on first, deciding on the former, followed by ribbons, then by decorations. Sweet violins and piano play in the background, and a merry fire crackles in the fireplace. They bump into each other several times as they round the tree, laughing and teasing, placing ornaments as they see fit. The glass and jewel-toned balls look lovely against the fairy lights.[2]
The final touch is a star on top. Crowley had wanted an angel, but Aziraphale said that wouldn’t be fair, if there wasn’t at demon up there too, and Crowley replied that that’s not how trees were decorated, and the ornament that had started as a star and transformed several times into an angel and a demon during the fight, gave up and turned back into a star and refused to change again. So, a star it is.
Crowley collapses in a chair, seemingly boneless but somehow holding a glass of Scotch in one hand. Aziraphale feels his gaze as he flits around the room, adding greenery and ribbons wherever it strikes his fancy. Crowley occasionally calls out directions, but mostly leaves him to it. And Aziraphale leaves him be, because there’s one more thing on the list of things to do.
When everything is almost done, Crowley starts humming along with the music—which has changed to Handel’s Messiah—and Aziraphale sneaks a peek out of the corner of his eye. He’s still sprawled in the chair, empty Scotch glass now on the table, a small smile playing at his lips as he stares at the glowing lights on the mantel.
He’s so lovely like this, when he’s not got on his public persona, when he’s not the big bad demon. Right now, he’s … he’s as close to human as he’ll ever get, and it suits him. And this. This is exactly what Aziraphale wanted when he suggested finding a cottage together outside London. They both deserve a break—a retirement—after the last six thousand years, but especially Crowley, who has had to watch his every step to avoid Hell’s wrath. He knows they’ll grow bored eventually, but then it will be time for the next adventure, and the next, and the next. In the end, it won’t so much matter what they do, as long as they’re together to do it.
Which reminds him. The final item on today’s list. He turns to Crowley, whose gaze swings to meet his, and they both smile.
“Having fun, angel? Does everything please you?”
Aziraphale scoffs internally. This isn’t about him. It’s about Crowley. But his demon can’t know that. He’s got better, since the move, but he’s still holding on to a bit of that demon costume he wears. Aziraphale twists his face and his hands to look softly pleading.
“Well, there’s one more thing I had hoped to do, but I know it’s not really your thing, so feel free to say no …”
Crowley sighs, but his face is fond. “Not like I’m gonna say no now. What is it?”
“I want to make a gingerbread house!”
Crowley splutters in surprise, mumbling about the work, and the food going to waste and such. Aziraphale pish-poshes the protests. Crowley’s been experimenting with food lately. He still doesn’t eat much, but he likes making dishes for Aziraphale, and he thinks this will be a perfect final activity for them.
“I found a kit at the candy store, with instructions and ingredients and pictures. It will be easy as pie.”[3]
Crowley gives in after another pleading look from Aziraphale, and they set to work.
The kitchen is cozy, lit with golden lighting and filled with the scents of ginger and molasses and a hint of sweetness from the icing. It’s warm from the oven and another batch of mulled wine simmering on the hob. They puzzle through the instructions, but thanks to Crowley’s previous adventures in cooking, it doesn’t turn out as bad as it could. The gingerbread is a tad burnt, and they can’t get the icing to darken from a medium pink to a ruby red like in the pictures, but the result is charming. Aziraphale especially likes how the picture is completed by a demon with mint green icing smeared on his nose, his tongue stuck out in concentration as he carefully places peppermints on the constructed house. It’s so nice, in fact, that he pulls out the Polaroid camera he used earlier to snap pictures of the decorated sitting room, and catches Crowley in the act.
Crowley startles at the flash of light, then mock glares at Aziraphale.
“Be careful with that thing. I almost knocked the house down. Then where would we be?”
“With a slightly crooked, perhaps crumbling, but still scrummy gingerbread house.”
“Angel, you can’t eat a gingerbread house.”
“Why ever not?” What else are they for, if not to eat?
“Because it’ll, like, go stale or something. I think? Plus, it’ll fall apart if you sneak little bites here and there.”
Oh. He hadn’t thought of that. How silly. Why not just construct a miniature house made of wood and paint then?
“But … I reckon that means we’ll just have to make another one.” He says it with forced casualness, but Aziraphale sees the smile in his eyes.
“Well, that wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”
“Perhaps not.”
They grin at each other.
***
Snow falls all afternoon on Christmas Eve. Not so much to cause a white out, just enough for some seasonal cheer. The villagers are talking about how uncharacteristic it is, this far south and so close to the ocean, but they enjoy it all the same. Kids throw snowballs, build snowmen, and make snow angels on the ground. Lights glow from house windows, and the church choir can be faintly heard practicing for their big show.
Aziraphale presents Crowley with an early gift, telling him he’ll need it that evening. A little suspicious, but willing enough, he unwraps it to find a knitted jumper, a little misshapen but made with the softest, warmest, charcoal grey yarn. Aziraphale claps internally at the astonishment on his face. He loves surprising his demon.
“What’s this?”
“A jumper, silly.”
“Okay, yeah, but … Did someone make this?” He’s eyeing the slightly longer right sleeve and the crooked seams. Aziraphale is a little rusty. He hasn’t knitted since at least the 1850s.
“I did!”
Crowley’s gaze swings up, eyebrows arched. “You? You made this. For me?” The words are a little faint.
“No. I made it for little Tommy next door. Of course I made it for you!” Crowley is frowning, and Aziraphale panics. He hadn’t considered that it might be unwanted. “Do you not like it?”
“No! It’s good. It’s great. I love it.” The words sound forced though.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale takes a step closer.
Crowley sighs and all tension goes out of him. Aziraphale places a hand on his arm.
“It’s just. You made it for me.”
“Yes?”
“Everything. This whole Christmas season. You did it all for me, didn’t you?”
Ah. He’d twigged. Aziraphale hopes he isn’t too upset. He just wanted to give him a good first Christmas together in their new home.
“Well.” He pulls his hand back and twists it in the other. “It’s just that you always look so happy when the season comes around, and this is the first year we can enjoy it without work breathing down our necks. I wanted to make sure you got to experience everything you’d pretended to be annoyed by.” At Crowley’s open mouth of protest, he continues. “And I don’t believe for a minute that you enjoy the season for terrible things like shoveling snow and wet socks and cranky furnaces. You can’t fool me, you wily serpent.”
Crowley’s face has transitioned to a grin of fond exasperation. “Fine. You caught me.” He scratches the back of his neck and looks away for a moment. “And … -nk yo- …” he mumbles.
Aziraphale smirks. “What was that, dear?”
“Thank you, Aziraphale, for such a wonderful, beauteous, perfect Christmas.” He leans into the act now, arms flung wide as he gestures to the cheerful room around them.
“You are so very welcome, Crowley. Oh! And one more thing.” He points above their heads to the ball of mistletoe he added earlier that day that will stay up for the next twelve days.
“Lay one on me,” Crowley says.
Aziraphale reaches up to pluck a berry from the poisonous ball, in the old tradition that sadly has gone out of style. Kissing is only allowed until the last berry is removed. He lifts up on his toes a bit to plant a soft kiss on Crowley’s cheek. His demon is blushing a bit when he rocks back on his heels after.
“Merry Christmas, dearest.”
“Merry Christmas, angel.”
Soon, they will take a walk hand-in-hand in the snow-covered twilight, discussing the best light displays and newly erected snow people. They’ll stop in the village green to listen to the carolers while drinking mulled cider. Aziraphale will tuck his hand into the crook of Crowley’s arm, and Crowley will grin so much that others will stare suspiciously, not used to it. Tomorrow, they’ll open presents and laze about. The new year will come, and they’ll get ready to have their first full year free of celestial/occult responsibilities.
But for now, they’re warm and happy in the cozy cottage they share, surrounded by twinkling lights and soft music. Just the two of them. Happy to be here together.
[1] If you were there, you’d hear just how sarcastic he sounds. Because he is a little bit of a bastard after all.
[2] Light strings that will never get tangled, burned out, or even need to be plugged in.
[3] Which Crowley has yet to try making, so there’s not much context for the statement.