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"They're calling it a snowpocalypse," Crowley informed Aziraphale without looking up from his phone. "No wonder we can't make it stop."
The angel, puttering about the kitchen making tea, hummed a small sound of acknowledgment before the words caught up with him. "Excuse me," he said indignantly, "we stopped the actual apocalypse. We should be able to handle some snow."
Crowley shrugged, not willing to argue the point. "Maybe we should be able to, but we can't. We tried."
"I know we tried, Crowley, I was there," Aziraphale snapped. "We don't need to keep talking about it."
"Right," Crowley muttered. "Sorry."
Aziraphale let loose a sigh. "No, I'm sorry. It's not your fault." He picked up two mugs of tea and returned to the living room, handing one cup to the demon and taking a seat on the opposite end of the sofa from him. "It's a bit frustrating, is all."
"Being stuck here with me? Yeah, I know."
"No, not that. Just – the powerlessness of it."
Crowley nodded, taking a sip of his tea to hide a smirk. "You like being in control," he said, simple and matter-of-fact.
His brow wrinkling, the angel hesitated and thought on it. "I suppose I do, but only because I'm used to it," he said at length. "It's not as if I think I'm entitled to change the weather; it's just that I don't like suddenly not being able to something I've always done. And I don't want to dwell on it when there's nothing to be done for it."
"D'you think –" the demon cut himself off, biting his lip, and continued much less sure of himself. "D'you think it's got something to do with the – you know, the actual apocalypse?"
"How so?"
"Like a punishment," Crowley explained, "or some kind of message, somehow."
Aziraphale frowned, staring into the bottom of his cup rather than meet Crowley's eyes. "I think… I think it's a bit subtle, as far as messages go. My lot would be more direct about it."
Some of the tension left Crowley's posture as he realized the angel was right. "Yeah, mine too," he agreed quietly. "So, what? The snowpocalypse is just more powerful than all the hardships we've faced before?"
"That hardly seems likely," Aziraphale replied skeptically. "Anyway, I don't see why it matters. We're stuck; we don't have to figure out why."
"But if we figured it out, maybe we could fix it," Crowley protested.
Aziraphale set his jaw, his eyes hardening in an expression that was indecipherable until he spoke. "Honestly, Crowley, if you want me gone that badly, then I'll go sit in the hall until the snow dies down."
Surprised by the angel's suddenly darkened disposition, Crowley's mouth hung open for a long moment, long enough that Aziraphale took it as an answer. He scoffed, a soft noise of disgust in the back of his throat, and shook his head as he stood from the sofa.
It all happened rather quickly, but Crowley thankfully managed to catch up before the angel actually made it out the door. "Wait, angel," he called out, scrambling to go after him. Aziraphale turned around, placed his hands on his hips and gave the demon an expectant look, the kind that says This better be good, and it was all Crowley could do to choke out a strained, "Stay. Please."
Aziraphale looked unconvinced, narrowing his eyes and not moving an inch. "Why? So I can sit and listen to you complain about me being here?"
"I – I don't – I'm not complaining," Crowley stammered helplessly. "I just wanted to – I don't know. I wanted to make you feel better. Not so powerless."
"Well," Aziraphale said haughtily, trying not to instantly melt at the demon's kindness. "I've decided to take control of the situation by being alright with it, rather than by changing it."
"Okay," replied the demon with an earnest nod of his head. "That's fine. That's good. Come back and hang out with me, please."
Having moved past his righteous anger fairly quickly, the angel allowed a slow smile to spread across his face and followed Crowley back to the living room. For his part, Crowley seemed to have forgiven him just as easily, because he had already begun rambling about wine and popcorn pairings by the time they sat down.
"Buttered popcorn goes with a pinot grigio, or maybe a chardonnay," he was saying, and as he spoke, a bowl of popcorn and two bottles of wine appeared on the coffee table. "Caramel corn could use a prosecco. Kettle corn is more sauvignon blanc, I think. Then there's cheese popcorn, which begs to be eaten with an Italian zinfandel."
Aziraphale surveyed the table with a glint of amusement in his eye. "And who's going to eat all this popcorn and drink all this wine?"
Crowley rolled his eyes loudly, flopping back on the sofa and turning on the television. "You and me, angel, obviously."
"Alright," the angel smiled, reaching for the white cheddar popcorn. "I must say, this is a much better way to work through a crisis than some methods we've used before."
"Oh, really? Like what?"
"Let’s see…” Aziraphale made a show of being deep in thought, rubbing his chin and humming dramatically, and then raised a finger in the air as if a lightbulb had lit up over his head. “Popcorn and wine is more effective than dedicating eleven years of your life to influencing the upbringing of a child who turns out not to be the antichrist.”
Breathing out a small laugh, the demon shook his head and took a sip of wine. “That’s true. What else?”
“It’s more fun than sleeping through an entire century.”
“Okay, you got me there.”
“And far healthier than your method of coping with the Spanish Inquisition.”
“Hey, to be fair,” Crowley said, raising his hands in protest, “that also involved a lot of wine.”
Aziraphale looked at him with wide eyes and a furrowed brow, almost a look of genuine concern, but steering well clear of pity. “Drinking alone for a week straight to forget your trauma is not the same thing as drinking with your friend to pass the time.”
Crowley gasped. “You think we’re friends?” he asked in a breathy tone, wiping an imagined tear away with a finger. “That’s so sweet, angel.”
“Shut up,” said the angel, nudging Crowley lightly with his foot. “We’re past that point, my dear. What I’m saying is this isn’t so bad, really. We’ve gotten through a lot worse than a little snowstorm before, and we will again.”
“I’m glad you think so,” the demon replied, first with a glance out the window at the unceasing barrage of snow, then at his phone. “Looks like it’s a Chanukah miracle, angel.”
“What kind of miracle?”
Looking up at Aziraphale, Crowley smiled, the type of grin that comes when one can do nothing but laugh at a situation because to take it seriously would drive them crazy. Only when Crowley did something like that, he also genuinely enjoyed it, because he found impossible circumstances quite amusing. Not to mention that this particular circumstance was difficult to not find amusing.
“The snow was only supposed to last one day,” Crowley explained with joy, “and now they’re saying it’ll keep going for the next week.”
Aziraphale hesitated, waiting for Crowley to say that he was just joking. After several long moments of silence, he accepted that the demon was either telling the truth or very committed to his bit. In either case, Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to feel.
“That’s uncanny,” he said, his voice soft and disbelieving. “That can’t be true, Crowley, it’s too – too…”
“Too perfect,” Crowley supplied.
“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, “too perfect.”
Crowley shrugged and shook his head, laughing. “Might as well lean into it, I suppose. L’chaim.” He raised his glass to Aziraphale and waited for the angel to do the same before clinking the glasses together and draining the rest of his wine.
Offering up a warm smile, leaning across the sofa to refill the demon’s glass, Aziraphale echoed the toast. “It’s about time to light the candles,” he added, nodding in the direction of the clock.
“Yeah, it is,” said the demon, standing to grab candles and matches from a cabinet while Aziraphale took the chanukiah down from the mantel where they had placed it the night before.
When they said the blessings over the candles, Crowley lowered his voice nearly to a whisper and replaced every reference to the Almighty with another word, which Aziraphale didn’t quite catch over the sound of his own voice. He considered asking about it, but chose to leave it alone, realizing that any mention of it from him would come across as judgmental or accusatory. Crowley seemed happy, bouncing around the kitchen talking about making stew as soon as they were finished with the candles, and the angel decided it was better to let him be happy.