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“My dear, you must be freezing.”
“I am not!” Crowley protests, shivering. “Hell freezes over all the time. I’m used to cold.”
Aziraphale purses his lips, though the muffler protecting his mouth and nose hides the expression. “In that case, it’s all the more inexcusable that you don’t know how to dress for it.”
“Are you, of all people, criticizing my style?”
“I am not criticizing, I am concerned.” Aziraphale huffs, droplets of his breath freezing on the edge of the woolen wrap. “Have you never heard of a scarf?”
Crowley opens his mouth, doubtless to say something snarky — and winces at a particularly stiff gust of wind. He tries hiding his face in the collar of his coat. It’s a futile effort.
Needs must; duty calls. Aziraphale sighs and snaps his fingers.
Crowley makes a startled sound, then stares down in indignation at the thick fabric suddenly tied around his throat. It’s not positioned quite right — an end hangs loose, letting in the chill, He fiddles clumsily at it with gloved hands.
“Here, let me.” Aziraphale’s mittens hardly lend themselves to greater dexterity, but he has the double advantage of an outside angle and prior experience tying scarves. He tucks both ends in securely, adjusting the rest so the fabric will shield Crowley as much as possible without risking obstructing his vision.
That done, he pats the demon on the shoulder. “There. Better?”
Crowley treats him to an outraged glare, presumably for the principle of the thing, and mutters a series of rude comments that Aziraphale pretends not to hear.
But he wears the scarf for the rest of the day.
And the next time they meet for a winter walk, Aziraphale sees it immediately: a warm tartan wrapping, wound ‘round Crowley’s neck as if it always belonged there.