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It was a quiet kind of evening, the kind where the streets of Soho were decorated with soft snow blankets and humans rarely stepped outside. Instead, they found solace under warm covers with a cup of hot tea or cocoa in their hands. The cold pressed against the windows of the bookshop but didn’t dare wander in, intimidated by the angel guarding it. The wind howled outside, but didn’t even rattle the glass. Inside, the lights were soft and warm, wrapping everything in a protective embrace. The smell of old books and tea hung in the air, mingling with the sounds of one retired celestial being clearly fretting.
Aziraphale himself wouldn’t admit to the fretting, but the sleeves of his sweater would call him out if they could, tired of constantly being tugged by nervous angelic hands. He stood in the bedroom above the shop, cheeks faintly pink from exertion, fluffing the pillows for possibly the tenth time. No matter how many times he did it, it still didn’t feel perfect enough. If one of his human friends were in his shoes—not literally, of course, because Aziraphale would gasp in horror at the very thought—they would surely tell him it was the gesture that mattered, not the flawless configuration of every item.
As it was, the angel was alone, and anxiety wrapped its fingers around his heart, speeding it up. It all had to be as perfect as possible for his demon.
After a few increasingly nervous bouts of pillow-adjusting, he took a step back to admire his work. Cushions of every possible kind covered the huge bed, displaying every pattern and texture known to mankind. A few were shamelessly floral, others tartan, and some whimsically shaped like plants, but all of them were extremely soft and cozy. A huge blanket lay underneath, thicker than anything found in a human-run shop. On the wall behind the bed, a few glow-in-the-dark stars decorated the surface—another action he now questioned. Should he rearrange them into actual constellations? He looked at his pocket watch.
No time.
He allowed himself one fretful sigh, letting the warm, fresh air wash the anxiety from his lungs. He adjusted one of the pillows—again—and looked at the door. Crowley should be arriving any moment. If he hadn’t changed his mind. Again.
He bit his lip, thinking back to when he first noticed something was wrong.
Crowley had been jittery and grumpy lately, with less liquid grace and more sharp, anxious movements—like a snake ready to strike. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to do about it.
Whenever he tried to get the demon to talk, Crowley would quickly change the subject.
“Are you alright, my dear?” he asked one evening. They were sitting on the sofa together, the angel with his nose buried in a novel. Time passed slowly, pleasantly, the way it only can when one is spending it with a loved one. The peace was disturbed only by the soft rustle of turning pages and the background hum of the TV, which Aziraphale mostly tuned out. Crowley, holding the remote, kept flipping through the channels. That wasn’t unusual, but this time he changed the channel every few minutes. Weather report—click. Soap opera—click. Murder mystery—click. It concerned the angel.
Crowley grumbled, “Fine, angel. Just bored.”
That made Aziraphale realize that whatever was bothering Crowley had been going on for days, maybe even a week. He was quieter, less animated, and not teasing as much. Something was wrong. It felt like watching Crowley through a fogged-up window—distorted, dull, the colors muted.
It hit Aziraphale one day when a customer asked for books about snakes. “Isn’t the cold hard on the poor creatures?” they said. With Crowley being one at his core and the winter settling in, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together. After Crowley cancelled plans three days in a row and holed up in his flat with the heating cranked and the windows sealed, Aziraphale knew he had to act.
He missed him—ached for him, even—and couldn’t bear watching him suffer any more. So tonight, he made sure the invitation was firmer than usual, hoping Crowley would actually come.
Still, he couldn’t be sure. That’s why he went downstairs a few minutes before the appointed time.
A low knock came at the door. After a pause, it creaked open.
Crowley stood there, draped in his long coat like a shadow. His nose was red, which Aziraphale might have found charming under other circumstances. As it was, it only made him fret more.
"... It’s warm in here," the demon said, narrowing his eyes. His hands were shivering; he shoved them into his pockets quickly. Aziraphale noticed.
He smiled gently. "Yes. Come in, won’t you?"
Crowley hesitated, looking around as if trying to identify the source of the warmth. The angel chuckled.
"I used a miracle. All the warm air stays inside."
Crowley hummed, sceptical. "You’ve turned the place into a furnace."
"I have," Aziraphale agreed cheerfully.
Before Crowley could respond, Aziraphale took his hand and led him upstairs. There was no protest.
He opened the door and waved Crowley inside, widening his hands in a ‘ta-da’ gesture encompassing all the changes inside.
The demon stared, taking it all in. There was no denying everything was to his benefit, with the star motif everywhere and the pillows less liked by Crowley underneath his favourite ones. A plush snake Crowley once gifted Aziraphale lay in the middle of the bed, which the angel suspected was the main cause of the blush that quickly climbed Crowley’s cheeks.
“… Why?” he asked eventually. His shivering settled down a bit ever since he stepped into the warm space, but it didn’t stop completely, which made Aziraphale feel the urge to take this darling creature into his arms.
He had to be patient, however. Crowley still wasn’t used to anyone doing anything nice for him, even Aziraphale. He had to be mindful of it, let the demon process.
“I thought you might like it,” he answered, fiddling with his sleeves again, waiting for the verdict.
Crowley narrowed his eyes further, if possible.
“I don’t need fussing over.”, he muttered. He was looking down, avoiding eye contact.
Oh, he still didn’t understand how much kindness he deserved.
Aziraphale tilted his head. “It isn’t fussing. It’s… something nice. For you.”
“I’m the one who fusses,” Crowley grumbled. “I look after you, angel. That’s the arrangement.”
Aziraphale’s smile faltered in initial irritation and then softened. Shyly, he reached out for the demon’s hand again, squeezing it gently and waiting for Crowley to look up.
He did, eventually, golden eyes a bit shiny in their corners, which he pretended not to notice.
“There isn’t an arrangement any more,” he said quietly. “There’s love. And I’m allowed to show it, too.”
Crowley’s shoulders stayed hunched, but he squeezed Aziraphale’s hand back. He stood as still as possible, as if he was afraid that if he’d moved a muscle, everything in the room would vanish.
Finally, he took a reluctant step inside.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered.
“But it’s warm,” Aziraphale countered. Slowly, he put his arm around the demon’s frail frame and led him further into the bedroom. They sat on the bed and Crowley stepped out of his boots, shrugged off his coat, and dropped it over the nearest chair. He was taking his time with it, but Aziraphale stayed patient.
When the demon turned around, Aziraphale raised the blanket up and settled under it, opening his arms. Crowley’s eyes got a bit more glassy now, as he saw the gesture for what it was. The angel didn’t just offer a hug - he offered up his heart on a silver platter and now waited for Crowley to pick it up gently.
The demon didn’t say anything as he crawled onto the bed, long limbs folding awkwardly into the nest of softness. He sank halfway into the pillows, leaning into Aziraphale and looked betrayed by how good it felt. He let the angel put his arms around him and closed his eyes for a moment.
The demon looked beautiful. The warmth seemed to seep into his bones, softening the wrinkle between his eyebrows and pulling his mouth the tiniest bit upwards.
After a minute or two of the two of them just existing together, peacefully, Aziraphale clicked softly, allowing a miracle to change the two of them into some more comfortable clothes. Soft flannel pyjamas enveloped the angel, bathing his world in comfort. Crowley’s arms were now visible thanks to the tank top he was wearing, and Aziraphale’s eyes were drawn to the silvery freckles covering the skin. They looked just like the constellations the demon once created.
Oh!
With another click, the projector on the bed turned on and painted the ceiling in shining stars.
“Look up, my dearest” Aziraphale whispered.
Crowley looked.
The stars moved across the ceiling—slow, impossible constellations, glowing faint and lovely. Not real, of course, but just as stunning.
Wonder loosened up Crowley’s guard, letting admiration bloom on his face. Aziraphale let out a long breath. His muscles slowly started to let go.
“Snake instincts,” Crowley muttered, after a few moments. “That’s what this was. Cold-blooded. I can’t regulate temperature properly. S’undignified.”
Aziraphale hummed.
“That’s alright, dear. But please, communicate with me in the future.”
His arms enveloped Crowley even more, turning it into a warm hug. The demon leaned into him more.
Crowley turned his head to look at him—eyes surprisingly vulnerable in the fake starlight.
“You didn’t have to,” he said. “Do all this.” The angel knew that what the demon truly meant to say was a ‘thank you’ but it was alright. They had all the time in the world to figure out how this new relationship thing worked.
“I wanted to,” Aziraphale said simply.
A silence settled between them—comfortable now. Crowley let his head rest on the angel’s arm. Aziraphale squeezed him gently.
They lay there together, under indoor starlight, wrapped in miracled warmth. Outside, the wind continued to howl. Inside, they breathe together, their artificial heartbeats mingling together into a love song.
Crowley closed his eyes.
“...Not telling anyone about this,” he muttered.
“Of course not, dear.”
Quietness wrapped around them, lulling the demon beside Aziraphale to sleep. The angel stroked his cheek softly, admiring how his whole world could fit into his arms.