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Little of London’s skyline could be seen through the arctic blizzard that swept through England. Even Father Christmas would need more than one very special-nosed reindeer to see through the storm, which welcomed the darkness of night far earlier than what was custom. Anything flying through the air would have to squint through the buffeting wind and be lucky enough to dodge the shadows of looming buildings that suddenly emerged into view. It would take a miracle to see anything more than five meters in front of oneself.
Streetlights gave up the effort to burn through the pelting snow. The cold had sapped all of their power. The ice had caked the roads. The storm had triumphed over nearly everything-- except the cozy hearths and warm hearts of those that sought shelter inside their homes, snuggled up with their families by a fire.
Snow frosted the corners of the windows to a cozy little bookshop of snowed-in Soho, where inside, light triumphed. Shaded lamps and a calmly burning inglenook illuminated the space in amber hues and sunny glows. Aziraphale did not often use his fireplace (and had nearly forgotten that he had one,) but a storm such as this either required a miracle or a blaze to endure, and he had chosen to save his angelic powers for better things.
In the center of the bookshop the spire of a Fraser fir reached heaven-ward, as green and full as the richest boreal forests of the earth and decorated with ornate gold-imbued bulbs, tinsel, feathers, garlands, boughs, and balls. Atop the tree perched a star of woven straw, strengthened with simple wire and blessed with an ethereal light that shone without the aid of any Earthly source.
Dust rose into the air as the bookkeeper blew a mini Sahara storm away from the surface of an old piano. The man then cleared it of some stacks of old but never-forgotten books, brushed it off once more with a gentle sweep of his hand, and settled himself upon the bench. After giving the 19th century antique a fond look-over, he cracked his knuckles and lifted the fallboard.
The heavy keys plinked along as he commanded them with great care and meticulous accuracy. His hands floated along the length of the keyboard, wrists poised in proper form and his slippered feet gently pressing upon the necessary pedals beneath. The angel played to the tune of O’ Come, All Ye Faithful, and then The First Nowell , though he followed no book and needed not be reminded of the notation, the majority of which he embellished. He’d memorized the carols as he had memorized all of the classic Christmas hymns.
Aziraphale had personally known a good portion of carols’ composers and lyricists, including John Francis Wade, James Chadwick, and Adolphe Adam, to name only a few. He had been there when the carols were first written and performed. He’d seen all of the translations and changes made to pieces of music, which evolved and grew over time just as anything else. The Principality even knew carols that had never achieved widespread fame-- carols that had been forgotten by the minds of humans and that would never be played on the gramophone or radio or whatever newest listening device had been invented in the past twenty years.
The carols (and the holiday season itself) reminded him of many things, places, and people. He was reminded of Bethlehem, the deserts of Israel, and The Garden of Eden. He was reminded of God Almighty, and the other angels of Heaven. Some of his memories were fond memories, such as the memories of humanity first discovering how delicious roasted chestnuts were, or memories of having drinks with Charles Dickens late into the night. But some memories were sorrowful, or bittersweet, such as the memories of the actual Saint Nicholas of Myra, and of course, Jesus Christ himself, who had been a very kind young man indeed.
Yet, even through all that, he was also reminded --somehow-- most prominently of Crowley.
Smiling softly, his blue eyes passed across the ivories before closing in serene enjoyment of the music he played. His fingers coursed over the keys with just the right speed, applying a practiced touch and loving pressure upon each note. And still, he found himself making a few mistakes once in a while, though they would have been nearly unnoticeable to anybody else. He didn't mind the errors. In fact, in the rare moments when his pinky did slip or when a chord wasn’t pressed in perfect unison, his smile brightened and he embraced the flawed humanity that he’d earned over centuries.
Toasty and comfortable in his sweater vest, the angel presided in his reverse oasis, giving life to his lonely bookshop with his spiritual presence and music. His books kept him company-- each one a polite audience member to his music-making. They surrounded him by the hundreds like they were his loyal children, making him their loving father from Heaven. Together they enjoyed their time in their own private little world, safe and cozy in their isolated corner.
Their sanctuary was interrupted by a sudden rapping upon his shop door, a sound that was far too direct and rhythmic to be made by the howling wind of the storm. Aziraphale stopped playing abruptly in the middle of the song, throwing a perturbed expression over his shoulder. His shop was very much closed, and no one should have been out in a blizzard of that ferocity. Concerned, the bookkeeper stood up, glided over to the door, and opened it to permit a bit of the cold to invade his shelter.
“Crowley?!”
There the demon stood-- for once, clad in more white than black, and not because of any change from his usual apparel. His wings were completely iced over as if they were part of a winter sculpture, poised rigidly behind his back. Dangling icicles hung from every feather like wind chimes. His frame was dangerously frigid, and there was no possible way he could see through the circular ice cubes of his glasses. The edges of his clothing and the corners of his elbows, knees, and shoulders seemed crisper than usual. All around, he appeared like the goth cousin of the Snow Miser.
“M-m-m-mind if I st-t-t-top by?” the demon shivered through blue lips.
“Oh, my dear, come in, come in!” Aziraphale hurriedly guided him inside, closing the door behind him. Anyone else would have had to fight against the strong winds to do so, but the gusts were no match for an angel. A flurry of snow tracked into the entryway as Crowley shambled inside, his joints creaking as the ice encasing them cracked and began to melt.
“Crowley, you’re mad! Did you fly here?” the bookkeeper scolded, looking him over with appalled worry.
“You think I c-could have d-driven in th-this?” It was difficult for Crowley to express himself when he was forced to stutter so harshly, but he was deeply wounded by the idea of his beloved Bentley enduring that kind of wintry torment. “I would have h-had to t-turn her into a s-snow plow.” He was quite talented at the wheel, and his car was one tough girl, but even the trail-blazing Bentley was no match for this storm.
Aziraphale hesitantly reached forward to open the man’s jacket (which was fashioned only for style and not for keeping any warmth whatsoever) and began slipping it off his skinny arms. The icy fabric cracked and crinkled as he handled it. “Why on Earth have you come all the way here through that dreadful blizzard?”
“W-well, I… I needed to ask y-you a q-question,” the demon blubbered again, though not solely because of his chilled temperature. Aziraphale thought that the man had put himself through an awful lot of trouble only to ask a question. Then again, the serpent had a history of getting himself into trouble because he was so passionate about that sort of thing.
“Then why didn't you call?” the angel asked, hanging the snow jacket on a coat rack, where it began dripping.
“The ph-phone lines are d-down,” Crowley shivered, unable to move a muscle to aid the bookkeeper in undressing him. “Not my fault, this time.”
“Oh, well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Aziraphale mumbled, proceeding to remove the man’s bohemian scarf next. It too cracked like an ice pop as the angel forced it off from the demon’s neck and over his frosted head. “Sorry.” He ensured the delicate silver weave was not damaged and then hung it up with the coat to thaw. “It’s total chaos out there. I do hope everyone is alright."
“Oh yeah, every sensible person is holed up in their home,” Crowley sneered in disdain. His expressions were starting to return to his reanimated face. “With their families and pets and warm fuzzy pajamas. Playing games and drinking hot cocoa and singing bloody carols. Everyone having a downright splendid, jolly, holiday season,” he listed with laden bitterness.
Aziraphale's voice came from the direction of the nearby coat rack. “What was it you needed to ask me, dear?”
Crowley’s spiteful trance was broken as he searched for where the bookkeeper had gone. It was difficult to do, through his glacial glasses. “Wot?”
“You had a question?” Aziraphale was now in front of him again.
“Oh, right, yes, I needed to ask you….ah,” Crowley continued rotating his cold cranium to search for where his storm-enduring question had run off to. “Ah…. about that old chap Bartholomew!” he ‘recalled.’ “Remember him?”
“Saint Bartholomew, one of the apostles?”
“Yeah, him,” Crowley nodded.
Aziraphale blinked and held back a sigh. “Yes, of course I do. What about him?”
“D’you remember…” Crowley shuffled his feet, causing the icicles in his wings to clink together musically. “What kind of fruit he liked best? Was it pears, or pomegranates?”
Aziraphale winced and cocked his head, repeating, “What kind of fruit he liked best?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, Crowley, I… I don’t--” Aziraphale released that sigh he’d been holding back. “That was all the way back in the first century, my dear, why would I remember what his favorite fruit was?”
It was definitely the most obscure, irrelevant, random question imaginable, and Aziraphale hadn’t expected it at all-- and couldn’t believe a question of that sort was why the demon had flown through a frozen Hell to get to the bookshop at this hour.
“I was just wonderin’,” the demon made a great effort to shrug, causing the remainder of the miniature Himalayan mountains upon his shoulders to shift and crumble in an avalanche of snow. Neither man noticed the mess it made upon the soaked rug underfoot.
In fact, Aziraphale reached forward again to brush off the rest of the snow and ice from the man’s shoulders “What even brought that into your mind?”
“Well, I saw a basket of fruit the other day.”
“And it reminded you of Saint Bartholomew, of all people?” Aziraphale scoffed incredulously.
“Well, yes,” Crowley muttered. “And... you, in fact, but-- look, I can’t help where my mind wanders, alright?” the demon snapped defensively.
“Alright dear,” Aziraphale calmed him with a gentle murmur while finishing with his dusting. His eyes passed over the redhead as he sighed again. “Well, I’m confounded that such a small thing brought you all the way through a blizzard to my shop.” The bookkeeper paused for a moment, and drew his eyes back up to Crowley’s. There, Aziraphale noticed that the demon’s glasses were still caked in ice.
He lifted his hands to gingerly touch the edges of the frozen frames and delicately slip them off Crowley’s face. The demon’s revealed eyes sheepishly glanced up, but remained low and sidewards for the most part, looking a mite guilty and miserable. Aziraphale didn’t notice, thawing the lenses with the corner of his sweater vest. “But now, you’re stuck here,” he murmured as he worked.
Crowley glanced to him once more, looking less miserable and guilty.
“There’s no way you’re going back out there in that storm.” Aziraphale smiled and looked up to hand the man back his glasses, though they were now folded closed. The angel wasn't handing the lenses back for the demon to put them on. “I won’t allow it.”
The demon took his glasses and pocketed them, failing to hide a surreptitious smile.
“Best make yourself comfortable, hm?” Aziraphale invited, gesturing deeper into the bookshop where the hearth and the piano lay in the far corner. “Come, the fire will warm you.”
Crowley was guided to the rug in front of the hearth, where he settled in with a distracted and dazed silence as Aziraphale began calmly buzzing around him, arranging a nest of pillows and draping a blanket over Crowley’s shoulders like a cape. “Rest your wings,” the angel encouraged, helping them forward to lie limply in front of the fire. The ice upon their feathers was already starting to shift into water. The bookkeeper bestowed a couple of well-placed touches to their joints, and they relaxed further. “There you are. They’ll be warmed up in no time.”
Crowley stared blankly at the blaze in front of him, which perfectly matched his own eyes. The flame greeted him like an old friend, or a more docile and kind cousin of Hellfire. Warmth soaked into his clothes, wings, and very bones, bringing life back into his soul.
None of this was necessary. Either of them could have miracled the ice and moisture away with a snap of their fingers. Yet Aziraphale still went to the trouble of arranging all this, and Crowley didn’t make any effort to relieve him of the task. His external excuse was that he didn’t care about himself enough to bother miracling his own problems away, or that he was too stunned from the cold to think of it. But really, he was too stunned from being so pampered by the angel. He didn't know how to take it, as it was not often that he found himself in such a position. So he let Aziraphale perform his compassionate work, and figured it probably made him feel like he was doing some kind of angelic good.
“Would you like some tea? Or would you prefer brandy?”
“Um, b-brandy would be nice,” the demon stuttered, caught off guard by the question. Aziraphale poured the demon’s usual choice of brandy, and then handed it to him. The demon accepted it and cradled it in his lap for a moment as the firelight danced off the reflective glass. The firelight also danced off the reflective water that was spreading across the hardwood floors from his primaries as ice melted from their barbs. Aziraphale contentedly busied himself by bringing out some towels to mop the water up, still not bothering to use a miracle. Crowley figured it was because he liked playing human, but really, the angel simply liked giving extra special attention to his friend.
After a few moments, Aziraphale was at his shoulder again. “Feeling warmer?”
It would have been rather difficult not to feel warmer but Crowley flexed his wings, curling them slightly at their knuckles and wrists. The joints did not creak, and he had successfully thawed into a sopping wet, reheated demon. “Yes.”
The angel nodded, “Good,” and then dropped another pillow down, easing himself upon it with his own mug of cocoa in one hand. Crowley realized he hadn’t taken a sip from his cognac glass yet, and did so. They weren’t sitting terribly close. Perhaps each of them noticed that, and then tried to ignore the ridiculous dash of loneliness they felt along with it.
Neither of them would mind if they were trapped there together for days while the storm raged. Aziraphale began making small talk and Crowley easily found himself wrapped up in it, and then leading it as his wily tongue got away from him, sending him on various random tangents. With talking came laughing, and with laughing came more drinking. Round and round they spiraled together, until they were both sore from smiling so much.
Aziraphale stood up to go fetch some more drinks while Crowley moved his wings, stretching them skyward as if they’d just woken from a long nap. During Aziraphale’s brief absence, the demon willed them back into the metaphysical realm so there was more room for the angel to sit beside him. He adjusted the blanket in a certain way over his back, and when Aziraphale returned with two steaming mugs of cocoa, he opened one arm to drape half of the blanket around the bookkeeper’s shoulders.
“Oh.” With his hands full, Aziraphale was unable to do anything more than simply sit there and allow the gesture to happen. It surprised him merrily. “Well, thank you,” he beamed.
Crowley hated that phrase, but ignored it, asking quickly, “What concoction is this?” He slipped his arm back to his own side of their shared blanket fort and took his mug, observing, “You put crumbs in the cocoa.”
“This is s’mores cocoa,” Aziraphale announced, being careful not to move too suddenly in case the blanket edge fell from his shoulders. He felt as if that would be quite a tragedy. It tenderly perched there until he discreetly tugged it more securely around him. The blanket bonded them together like two peas in a pod. “It’s graham cracker crumbs. It’s a biscuit,” he explained. “You’ll love it.”
Crowley did love it.
The snow outside soon piled up to cover the first panel of the windows, which was eventually noticed with a great scoff from the angel, “It’s ridiculous. What if it never ends?”
“Oh, it’ll end,” Crowley assured. “Even if it turns into the next ice age, it’ll end. Eventually.”
“We could make a whole army of snow angels,” Aziraphale chuckled, adding diplomatically, “And demons.” Then, he pondered aloud, “How does one even make a snow demon?” If they both collapsed out there, their impressions would look exactly the same-- even if they sprouted their wings.
“I dunno.” Crowley made a face and guessed, “Lie there and burst into flames? You’d melt a great big patch of it.” They snickered together, but as Crowley continued staring at the piling snow, he murmured, “You’d think God’s trying to flood the Earth again.”
It really was just a great big sea of frozen water outside, wasn't it? Aziraphale’s laughter transitioned into something more nervous. He focused on his cocoa instead of the memory of The Flood. Crowley, however, did not make an effort to ignore the memories. He turned to the angel beside him and asked with a layer of concern, “She hasn’t said anything, has She?”
Aziraphale almost coughed through his drink. “No, no.” He ended up chuckling at the silly thought of Her doing it again. She’d promised She wouldn’t. Never again. That’s what rainbows were reminders of. But the angel’s smile faded. “At least, not to me.”
For a moment, they wondered if they should be worried, but then it was Crowley who moved on from the topic, spotting a relic behind the angel. “Is that your old piano?”
The bookkeeper followed his gaze, eager to jump to another subject. “Yes, it is.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. You still have it,” Crowley breathed with a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips-- which had now regained their proper color.
“I do. It’s been buried in newspapers for two hundred years,” Aziraphale proudly claimed.
“What a wretched old thing, look at it.”
“She’s still in tune. I’ll show you.” The angel set his mug down near the fire and stood up, unfortunately allowing the blanket that they were sharing to fall. Crowley stood up too, following after him. The redhead hovered behind the man as Aziraphale sat down and took a reverent moment of contemplation before playing a rendition of Veni Emmanuel. Despite all odds, the instrument was indeed still in tune-- and sounded divine. That might have had something to do with the fact that an angel was caressing it.
“Marvelous,” Crowley murmured.
“I used to play her for a church choir,” Aziraphale reminisced. “I conducted that choir, too, for a time.” He smiled softly down at the keys as he passed his hands over them, wishing that Crowley would have been able to be in the pews-- if not as a worshipper, then at least as an audience member.
But Crowley had still been present at the time, at least in some small way as a watchful outsider. “You saved this piano when the cathedral was demolished,” he recalled.
“I did,” Aziraphale nodded as he continued playing. He missed that cathedral. It was a shame that the humans thought it necessary to destroy it.
“You also sang in that choir, before you weaseled your way up to leading it.”
“I did.” The skin at the corners of the angel’s blue eyes crinkled with his smile, though it was unclear whether he was admitting to the singing part or the weasel part. “I was a tenor.” At the time, he liked to believe that he was only doing it to please Headquarters. It did make for some nice memos back up to head office. But the truth was, “I quite enjoyed it, actually.” The people he had worked with in that choir were actually very pleasant, kind, and forgiving-- unlike those in the choirs of Heaven.
“Sing something,” Crowley requested, smirking as if he were presenting a challenge. It was clear that he would make a show of pestering the angel if he dare refused.
Aziraphale abruptly stopped playing the keys once more, concealing his smile and mumbling excuses about it having been so long, and he probably shouldn’t, et cetera, et cetera.
“Come on, sing something,” Crowley grinned, nudging him with his elbow.
“Oh, alright,” the angel exhaled a false sigh, surrendering his little game and replacing his hands above the keys. “But you’re not going to like it.”
The demon continued grinning behind him, pulling his gaze from the soft curls at the back of the bookkeeper’s head to his hands as he began to play. The fingers of his left hand weighed down the chords while his right hand climbed and descended six steps of an arpeggio in a blissful prelude. After a few measures, and with all the serenity of a flowing river, he sang.
“O’ holy night, the stars are brightly shining. It is the night, of our dear Saviour's birth.”
Aziraphale smiled in the vocal rests, but the expression slowly faded away as he listened to the song that flowed through him. “Long lay the world, in sin and error pining. Till He appeared, and the soul felt its worth.”
His voice held the depth of an ocean, but there was a dash of color hidden beneath his low tones. “A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks, a new and glorious morn.”
Chills were painted down Crowley’s spine as the bookkeeper held the beautiful notes, some with just a touch of vibrato. “Fall on your knees, O’ hear the angel voices. O’ night, divine, O’ night... when Christ was born.” Aziraphale’s lashes lowered as he fell helpless to the soothing rhythm of the keys he played.
The angel carried the song through the rest of the chorus, his voice soaring in a gentle rise only to taper down into a calm conclusion. “O’ night... divine, o night. O night divine.”
Crowley watched him from behind, subtly smiling the whole time. But before the bookkeeper brought the keys to rest, the demon slunk forward, taking a place beside him on the piano bench. Aziraphale’s personal trance was softly broken as he smiled over in surprise. Crowley’s own fingers began fluidly caressing the keys alongside the angel’s, also without need of any sheet music. Before long, he led them into the chords of another song, sprinkling in a melodic hint as he seamlessly transitioned them over to a slower song.
The angel gave him a mischievous, twinkling smile as his introduction was so courteously played. And then, right on cue, he dipped into song once again. “Silent night, holy night.”
Crowley remained silent, hiding his smirk and taking over the bulk of the instrumental responsibility as he embellished the slow hymn with a variety of playful notes. Aziraphale pressed an easy set of low chords as he sang. His blue eyes turned down to watch Crowley’s boney knuckles and long, slender fingers. “All is calm, all is bright. Round yon virgin, mother and child. Holy infant so tender and mild.”
Every book in the shop seemed to lie extra quietly to listen to the pair’s musical duet. The demon was just as mesmerized as the artifacts in the bookkeeper’s shop. He turned his head to watch the man beside him sing. Aziraphale met his gaze with tender delight, touched that the creature knew the tune by heart, and impressed that he had such improvisational skill with the instrument. “Sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace.”
With an array of sweet lullaby notes, Crowley drew the song to an early close.
Aziraphale grinned and removed his touch from the keyboard, pressing his palms together and tucking them between his knees to hide their joy. “That was lovely, dear.”
Crowley’s droning voice crawled up from his throat as his usual air of sass returned to his demeanor, “My side would flay me alive if they saw me doing that.”
Aziraphale chuckled with a tilt of his head, “Well, good thing they didn’t, then.”
Crowley peered over at the man’s uncontrollable smile, feeling a flare of defensiveness crop up from within himself due to minor embarrassment. “Don't be smug, angel.”
“I’m not!” the angel protested with a happy scoff. “I’m simply enjoying myself,” he gestured to the piano before nodding over at his duet partner, “And I like that you’re enjoying yourself too.”
Crowley didn’t object to that statement, but he did sigh and glance around as if he were contemplating leaving the bench. “I don't think I can take much more of these holly jolly hymns.” He was truly demonic at heart, and could only indulge in saintly things for so long.
“Fair enough,” Aziraphale chirped, honored and grateful that the better side of the redhead had lasted this long. With a wink of sinful delight, the blonde offered, not wanting their musical activities to end just jet, “How about Deck The Halls?”
Crowley grew a grin as full as he grew his ferns. With a flourish of his hands, Aziraphale plucked a quick series of introductory chords, and then the two of them converged onto the keys in merry assault, both singing in an ecstatic frenzy, “Deck the halls with boughs of holly! Fa la la la la, la la la la!”
Crowley pounded the notes with as much rock-and-roll energy as he could. The angel grinned as his own fingers flowed through the gentle underlying chords, leaving Crowley to handle the upbeat melody. His classical training (and preference) gave way to a more unconventional and disorderly countenance, for the sake of fun. There was rarely anything proper about fun, but he indulged in it for a while. “Tis the season to be jolly! Fa la la la la, la la la la!”
They were more or less in synchronization with each other, until Crowley boldly blurted the original Welsh lyrics “Fill the meadcup, drain the barrel!” while Aziraphale stuck with the more modern, “Don we now our gay apparel.”
The angel chuckled at Crowley’s exuberance through the following Fa la la la la, la la la la’s. They both agreed on the next line, “Troll the ancient Christmas carol,” but then diverged once more as Crowley preferred the topic of drinks. “See the flowing bowl before us!”
Aziraphale’s “See the blazing yule before us,” was broken by his laughter. Too tickled to sing, he allowed Crowley to energetically carry them through the next, “Fa la la la la, la la la la!”
“Strike the harp and join the chorus.” Crowley sang with a nod to the bookkeeper, and Aziraphale jumped back in with a proud, “Fa la la la la.” Crowley tagged on the tail end of it, “La la, la la!”
They harmonized rather well during, “Follow me in merry measure,” and then separated once more to take turns; Crowley first, “Fa la la,” then Aziraphale, “La la la,” then together, “la la la!”
Both raised their singing voices to triumph their version of the lyrics. “While I tell of Christmas treasure!” Aziraphale emphasized.
“While I sing of beauty's treasure!” Crowley crowed simultaneously.
The song eventually built into a grand closure, with Crowley running his fingers down along the keyboard and back up again as Aziraphale banged on a few deep chords to add to the ridiculous drama of the finale.
“Fa la la la laaaaaa,” they wailed, filling the empty bookshop with a delightful racket. “La laaa, la laaa!”
They needed no applause, though if the books possessed tiny little hands, an uproarious clapping would have filled the space. Instead, only the angel and the demon’s laughter echoed through the air, but it was more than enough to satisfy them both.
The pair quickly lost track of time together, which they often did. But at some point into the night, they had decided to play a guessing game of charades.
Aziraphale fetched a small hourglass and ensured that all of the sand within it was settled in the bottom chamber, ready to be overturned as soon as their game started. “Now, no cheating!” He warned with a point in the demon’s direction.
Crowley was spread across a sofa as if expectant of a lap dance, his knees apart, his arms resting over the back ridge of the furniture. “Cheating?” he barked.
“No miracles,” Aziraphale elaborated with a look.
Crowley tossed a sour look around the room, but grumbled, “Alright, no miracles.”
“And no shapeshifting!”
“Oh, that takes all the fun out of it!” the demon whined.
“House rules!” Aziraphale insisted, one hand poised on the hourglass, the other reaching for a card from the box of items to act out.
“Fine!” Crowley agreed, ready to get on with it.
The angel drew a card, read it, and then lit up with excitement. “Oh, oh!” He set the card face down on the table, flipped the hourglass, and stepped back to present his clue. “This!”
Aziraphale’s wings erupted into tangibility, lifting to fan behind him. Their tips crossed above the bookkeeper to give him a full backdrop of feathers.
“A porcupine!” Crowley cried.
“What!?” Aziraphale winced. “What about this makes you think of a porcupine?”
“Well because of the…the...” Crowley struggled to find the right words, gesturing with a spread of his fingers to try and mimic whatever the pokey things were on the back of a porcupine.
“No, guess again!” Aziraphale shook his head and gestured hurriedly. “Hurry, we’ve little time!”
“Ah, uh… the… a…” Crowley shifted in his seat, then burst, “Hedgehog!”
“No!”
“A…. he...hrmmm...midge….” The demon’s expression scrunched and warped as he wracked his tipsy mind.
“Come, on, guess!” Aziraphale pleaded, stretching his feathers out even more as if it would help the man identify what he was trying to mimic. He also straightened his back, holding himself in a poised fashion.
“A showgirl!”
Aziraphale’s pose deflated. “What?”
“So that’s a no, then, ah…” Crowley began thinking again. But the hourglass had run out of sand. “Bollocks.”
“No, it was a peacock, you ninny!” Aziraphale lamented, gesturing to his wings. “The feathers!”
“A lot of things have feathers!” Crowley defended.
“Not porcupines or hedgehogs!”
“Whatevah.” Crowley heaved himself onto his feet, determined to do better and have Aziraphale easily guess his clue. “My turn.”
They traded spots, the angel perching on the sofa in the polite way that he always sat and Crowley staggering his lanky self to the clearing. He drew a card, eyeing it as if it were one of his houseplants, then set it down and firmly turned over the hourglass. “Go.”
His clue was simply the lifting of one leg and the placing of his wrists at his hips.
Aziraphale looked over him quickly and guessed with a bright smile, “A one-legged man!”
Crowley scoffed in dismay, “Oh, you’re rubbish at this.
“No talking!” Aziraphale hypocritically ordered.
Crowley continued standing there on one foot, balancing remarkably well for how tipsy he was. Aziraphale pondered, pressing a knuckle to his lips and tapping it there occasionally. “Uh, ooh, ooh, an, um.. A cripple!”
“No!” Crowley wailed with an ‘ew’ tagged on the end of it. He set his foot down and assured, “Alright, I’ll try another hint. Here, how’s this?” His wings materialized and reached forward so he could grab their leading edge. He swished them as if they were black silks, rotating like a performer. After a stage-worthy twirl and stomp, he presented his arms forward and let his wings return behind him.
Aziraphale leaned back slightly and blinked, charmed by the unexpected dance. “Oh, well, that was very lovely.”
“No, no guess what it is , Aziraphale, it’s part of the game!” Crowley reminded him.
“Oh, right ah… the Flamenco!” the angel identified rather easily.
The demon pointed at him eagerly. “Yes! Good! Close! Now--” he returned to his original pose, with one leg lifted, but this time he folded his wings and tucked them tightly to his sides.
“Ah ah!” Aziraphale stood up excitedly, pointing as he cried, “A flamingo!”
“Yesssss!” Crowley seized in a victorious tension, drawing a fist down to his side. He opened and raised it to give the bookkeeper a hearty high five. “That’s it, angel!”
“Fantastic!” Aziraphale was aglow, shuffling in happy celebration. “Ah, good idea with the… the dancing.” He eyed the demon, having greatly liked what little of it he’d seen. “When did you learn the Flamenco?”
Eventually, the cocoa stash had been depleted, the rum gone, and the piano abandoned. The pillows had all been moved back to the sofa, where Aziraphale and Crowley lay.
Crowley was laying on the other end of the couch from him, both drunkenly sprawled and rambling with their legs tangled together in the middle. Aziraphale sagged against the right arm of the couch with a depleted mug of alcoholic eggnog resting on his chest, cradled in his hands. Sullenly, he blinked and dragged a slow, “He was a good lad. Christ,” into the conversation.
Crowley lost his previous train of thought and processed what the angel had murmured. Finally, he agreed lowly, “He was.” A mostly-empty glass of something similarly festively delicious dangled in his hand as his arm rested outwards from the couch. He gently sat up and concentrated on setting the glass somewhere out of the way, where it would not fall, break, or spill. “Though, I’m not a fan of what he was put through,” he muttered bitterly.
Aziraphale watched the man sadly, recalling the day of the crucifixion, where they had stood together and witnessed the boy’s fated death. He still felt terrible about it. He still felt guilty about having very little to answer Crowley’s questions with. They were all the same questions he himself had, but had been too afraid to ask.
“He’ll come back, one day,” the angel weakly smiled, trying to cheer the both of them up.
“Foretold, innit?” Crowley pitched in indifferently.
“Yes.”
“That’ll be interesting,” Crowley grumbled before looking at the angel inquisitively. “But the world will have to end first, right?”
Aziraphale’s weak smile crumbled. “Something like that.” They both dipped into a somber mood, until the blonde sighed, “Let’s not worry about it now.”
The demon nodded, then glanced to the hearth-- which was not all that far away, but was apparently unsatisfying nonetheless. “Is it just me, or is it still bloody cold in here?”
“Well, you are the one who is cold blooded, dear.”
“Can’t help it.” Crowley shrugged defensively.
“I know.” There was a peaceful adoration in the angel’s eyes as he gazed at the man. He reached over to set his own glass down on a table, nudging aside some papers in the process. Then, he welcomed, “Come here.”
Crowley looked over at the bookkeeper’s open invitation, slow to believe that the angel meant what he offered. But he did. So Crowley hesitantly leaned over as his skin shifted into scales. The serpent weaved forward to lie across the angel’s chest, settling in a Celtic shape of alternating curves as Aziraphale drew a blanket over them-- the same blanket they had shared at the fireplace.
“Feeling warmer?” the blonde smiled as he tucked the blanket around the reptile, ensuing his little head was not tickled by the furred edge. The serpent exhaled an affirmative hiss and nestled into the man's sweater vest. “Good.” Aziraphale smirked drowsily, running his hand down the creature’s back. He was glad that the demon had braved the storm to fly all the way over to the shop. The angel knew that it hadn't been because of any silly old question about Saint Bartholomew's favorite fruit. It had been for an entirely different reason-- one which Crowley wouldn't admit. Not anytime soon. It was the same reason that he lied there on his chest in that moment, cozy and warm. It was also the reason that Aziraphale had welcomed him into the shop, onto his chest, and close to his heart.
It was the reason that the bookkeeper murmured, “Merry Christmas, my dear," and meant it with all the affection and forgiveness of the holiday's spirit.