Work Text:
The first winter in their South Downs cottage was something Aziraphale had been dreaming of ever since the idea of moving in together was first discussed. He’d read all about it in his novels. Romantic strolls on snow-made carpets, gazing into each other’s eyes as snowflakes stuck to eyelashes charmingly, playful snowball fights leading to slow, warm kisses. A picture perfect image, framed in rose-tinted glasses and hung on the front door of Aziraphale’s fantasies. Crowley, of course, had made a token protest when he heard of his angel’s ideas—he wasn’t much for traditions unless they involved alcohol and a good nap. Still, there was apparently something to be said about a custom if it was with Aziraphale .
Now, as Aziraphale stood in the garden watching Crowley, he felt a swell of determination in his chest. Crowley’s boots were sunk into the snow, and his scarf trailed behind him in the light breeze. The sight of his demon, bravely tolerating the chill, only strengthened Aziraphale’s resolve. This winter, their first one spent together, was going to be perfect. He was determined to make it so despite the unspoken doubt in Crowley’s eyes. The angel knew that the demon wasn’t a fan of cold weather, but he was convinced he could make it fun for the two of them.
Aziraphale focused intently on the snowman he was trying to build. He was trying to get it just right, as if the future of the world depended on the quality of his creation. His brows furrowed in concentration, every movement deliberate, every adjustment made with the kind of precision that he usually employed in his book repairs. He’d never been one for doing anything halfway.
Unfortunately, as the creation took form, it became clear that Aziraphale’s perfectionism wasn’t matched by his ability to construct anything resembling a proper snowman. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to give up. It was, after all, a deeply meaningful endeavor. It wasn’t just a snowman - it was a symbol of how the rest of their romantic day would go!
“Angel, it’s leaning,” Crowley murmured, his breath fogging in the cold air. Aziraphale glanced up from his work, his eyebrows furrowed.
"It’s not leaning," he insisted, though his voice wavered slightly. He looked at his creation again, judging it quietly. Despite the stubborn set of his jaw, there was a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, as if the poor wobbling snowman mirrored his efforts to create the perfect romantic moment.
“Looks like it’s had one too many,” Crowley added with a smirk.
The angel rolled his eyes. All of them.
“Nonsense,” he replied, patting a crooked lump of snow that was supposed to be the torso. “It’s got character.”
“It needs an orthopedist,” Crowley muttered, earning himself a sharp look from the angel.
The snowman’s head leaned dramatically, almost falling off with a wet plop, and Aziraphale’s expression crumpled. He rushed to right the poor fellow but his efforts weren’t enough.
A hand covered his, cold despite the glove protecting it from the chill.
Crowley tilted his head, his usual smirk softening into something gentler. It reminded Aziraphale of a beautiful snowflake slowly melting in the warmth.
"You know," the demon said, squeezing the angel’s hand, "it doesn’t have to be perfect. In fact, you made it. It is perfect, angel."
*********
The snowman debacle was only the beginning, though it lingered in Aziraphale’s thoughts, a cocktail made of humor and faint regret. Determined to make up for the experience, he convinced Crowley to try ice skating next, insisting that a fresh start might fix their day of wintry romance.
Crowley had never been ice skating before, and he would have happily continued his streak of avoidance if given the choice. But Aziraphale knew that his enthusiasm was infectious. After pouting sufficiently and batting his angelic eyelashes, both of them found themselves wobbling precariously on a pair of rental skates, with Crowley clutching Aziraphale’s hand for dear life.
“This is delightful, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said brightly as they shuffled onto the ice, his cheeks rosy from the chill and excitement.
“If by delightful you mean terrifying, then sure,” Crowley grumbled, his voice tight as his feet slid awkwardly on the slippery surface. His free hand flailed as if it was trying to grab the air itself, but Aziraphale managed to keep him upright. The poor dear resembled a wobbling noodle at the moment, but the angel hoped that after some time Crowley’s ever-rebellious hips would start to cooperate and keep the demon from falling.
They made it approximately three meters before Crowley shrieked (a very undemonic sound he would surely deny later) and went down in a dramatic sprawl, his long limbs flailing around. Aziraphale had a lot of strength, but his sense of balance left much to be desired.
Both of them landed in a heap, the ice hard beneath them and their breath coming in rapid puffs of mist. For a moment, they just stared at each other, and then Aziraphale burst into laughter—a rich, unrestrained sound that rang across the ice rink.
“Oh, my dear, are you alright?” he asked, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes as his laughter softened to fond chuckles.
Crowley scowled, his pride evidently bruised, but the sound of Aziraphale’s joy seemed to lighten the icy surface of his irritation like sunlight reflecting on a frozen pond. A reluctant amused huff escaped him, and he shook his head.
“Right. That’s enough ice skating for this century for me. Let’s go home, angel.”
*********
The final straw came when Aziraphale suggested they try their hand at making mulled wine and perhaps some hot cocoa—a quintessential cozy winter activity. They gathered all the necessary ingredients: a bottle of red wine, fragrant spices (purchased by Aziraphale enthusiastically weeks in advance), and cocoa powder. What could go wrong here, in the cozy warmth of their home?
The kitchen soon became a flurry of activity, alive with the clatter of utensils and the warm, spicy aroma of mulled wine filling the air. Aziraphale moved with calculated care, measuring out cinnamon sticks and star anise as though performing an intricate spell, perhaps a ritual to summon a winter spirit.
Crowley leaned against the counter, his movements lazy but deliberate as he stirred the simmering pot on the stove. The hiss and occasional pop of the bubbling wine provided a rhythmic calming soundtrack despite the chaos.
A hum of shared anticipation echoed throughout the room, a quiet joy in simply being together amidst the snowstorm of scents, sounds, and shared chuckles.
Aziraphale, sleeves rolled up, measured the amount of remaining spices with the precision of a chemist. Crowley finished his task and stared at the concoction on the stove, eyeing it with distrust as though it might explode.
“Are you sure we need this much clove?” Crowley asked skeptically, smelling the drink.
“Absolutely,” Aziraphale replied with confidence, fixing his glasses in place like a scientist. “The recipe is clear about this.”
“It’s going to taste like the spice section in a supermarket,” Crowley muttered, but he relented, tossing in a few more cloves. He turned his attention to the cocoa Aziraphale was preparing. “What’s that for, again?”
“In case the wine’s a disaster,” Aziraphale admitted, his tone sheepish but determined. He was prepared this time.
As the mulled wine simmered, a wave of an overwhelming aroma of winter spices and citrus hung around them, heavy like a rain cloud. Crowley sniffed the air, wrinkling his nose.
“Angel, it smells like an entire winter market in here.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Aziraphale scolded, though even he wrinkled his forehead as he gave his pot a cautious stir. His project fared better. The texture of the drink was velvety, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but beam as he finally poured it into mugs. He made sure to top his own portion with whipped cream and a sprinkle of additional, powdered cocoa.
He took a look at the pot Crowley was tending to. It looked perfectly tip-top to him, even if the smell was indeed, quite strong.
They poured a glass for each of them and clinked them together. “Cheers,” Aziraphale said, his smile hopeful.
This was it, finally, a winter activity that would inspire romance instead of frostbite or injuries.
Crowley took a sip and immediately coughed.
“Bloody hell, angel. It tastes like… I don’t know. Like I’d like some wine with the spice.” He set the glass down, shaking his head. “Please tell me the cocoa is better.”
Aziraphale brought the glass to his lips slowly, uncertainty pursing his lips. He winced the second the liquid touched his taste buds.
“Well… perhaps I was a bit heavy-handed with the clove. But the cocoa is lovely,” he said quickly, passing Crowley a mug.
Crowley took a cautious sip and sighed in relief.
“Now, this I can work with. Not bad, angel. Not bad at all. It’s even not that sweet.”
A tiny, painful sting of disappointment lingered like a papercut on Aziraphale’s heart. The mulled wine was a fiasco, but the air around them felt affection-warm and loved, a small light beam shining through.
A new, cautious smile stretched Aziraphale’s lips. At least his cocoa recipe remained unshaken in its scrumptiousness. Was it enough to save the day he’d been dreaming of?
*********
That evening, after they had cleaned up the remains of their culinary disaster, they lingered in the kitchen, the air still heavy with the faint scent of burnt cinnamon and cloves.
Aziraphale looked at the mess and let out a wistful sigh, his shoulders slumping a little.
“I only wanted to create something memorable for us,” he murmured and a soft chuckle followed. “I suppose this was pretty memorable.”
Crowley, leaning close to the angel, softened at the sight of Aziraphale’s expression, hopeful but still fragile.
“Angel,” he said gently, squeezing his shoulder, “you’re not going to build a perfect moment out of snowmen or ice skating or liters of mulled wine”
Aziraphale hummed, looking up at Crowley, his lips downturned. All this effort went into nothing!
“You know what I need for a perfect moment?” the demon continued, putting a warm palm on Aziraphale’s cheek, “You. Just you.”
The angel blinked, a huge smile blooming on his mouth. The demon winced at his own words, like the cheesiness stung him but the warmth still lingered in his eyes.
“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed happily, pulling Crowley into a kiss. It remained short and chaste, both of them smiling into each other’s lips.
Aziraphale hesitated for a moment after they broke apart and then laced their fingers together, squeezing gently.
His gaze lifted to meet Crowley’s again, his expression warming. “You really are quite the romantic when you want to be, dearest.”
Crowley huffed a laugh, his cheeks tinting faintly red. Aziraphale gently chased the color with his knuckles.
“Don’t let it go to your head, angel.”
With a soft chuckle and a nod, Aziraphale allowed himself to be guided to the living room, leaving the kitchen battlefield behind.
The fire crackled warmly in the fireplace, casting a golden glow that wrapped the room in a blanket, turning it into a cozy haven. A faint, woody scent of the burning logs mingled with the lingering spice of the wine in the air, making the smell a little more bearable.
Crowley stretched out on the sofa with his mug of cocoa in hand, smiling encouragingly. Aziraphale joined him, wrapping a thick blanket around them both as he settled in close.
“Well,” Aziraphale said, lips turning up sheepishly, “I suppose the day didn’t turn out so well.”
“Speak for yourself,” Crowley murmured, his voice low and contented. He reminded Aziraphale very much of a cat, almost ready to purr. “I’m perfectly happy right here.”
Aziraphale smiled, resting his head against Crowley’s shoulder. “Yes. This is a rather pleasant setup, isn’t it?”
Crowley hummed and pulled Aziraphale closer, his arm curling around the angel reassuringly. His actions did always say more than words ever could.
And as the snow fell softly outside, Aziraphale decided that Crowley was right. Perhaps the best way to spend their first winter together was exactly this: warm, cozy and simply together .