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Crowley rubs his freezing hands together, as he slowly walks into the bright, warm room. His whole body is tense and shivering from the unbearable December cold outside and the past few days that he had to spend in the snow, hiding under bus stops shelters and in empty, usually trashed and run-down hallways. It’s not how he imagined his life would be only a few days after he had turned 18.
The choir is singing a charming Christmas song, harmonizing as if they are all angels that had just fallen from heaven and dropped in the middle of the small church, their voices blending into a perfect celestial harmony. Crowley secretly hopes no one will notice his pathetic existence, so sits isolated at the end of the row on the hard, wooden bench.
At first Crowley is steadily focusing on his calloused hands, too embarrassed to look up, but then his curiosity piques and sneaks a peek at the humble room, illuminated by warm candles and covered in colorful frescos with Biblical figures. Crowley doesn’t know most of them, but he recognizes what must be Jesus painted right on the top in between cherubs and angels.
Crowley has never entered a church before and definitely wouldn’t have under normal circumstances, but now the invitingly warm building was calling his name in the icy blizzard outside. It was either getting hypothermia and freezing to death or humiliating himself in front of all those strangers, probably looking unkept and filthy, with his hair matted and clothes covered in dirt and stains. So, eventually, despite all his effort and will, Crowley chose the latter.
Fortunately for him, nobody seemed to pay attention to his presence. The singing had stopped and now the priest was reading something from his stage. To Crowley, the man in front looks like a literal angel that came out of one of the paintings on the wall, with his cute face and blond curls and white robe. And he seemed so invested and enthused that his chubby cheeks have turned rosy. A little smile curves Crowley’s cracked lips. The man looks somewhere around his age, but seems to be impressively knowledgeable in the matter he is teaching.
Crowley tries to listen carefully to the story the young priest is telling, but the combination of the pleasant warmth and smooth, caring voice allow him to finally rest and in no time his consciousness drifts away.
….
Aziraphale bends forward and gently nudges the sleeping man with the flaming red fair. His heart is breaking for the poor fellow, but he had let him sleep for the service and for a short time after, yet he was beginning to worry the man would wake up all sore from sleeping in a sitting position on the uncomfortable, wooden pew.
“Excuse me, dear sir,” Aziraphale whispers, nudging him again. “I’m afraid—”
In the next moment the man opens his eyes, startled, looking at him terrified.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” he manages to say quickly, sitting up on the pew and fixing his stained jacket.
“It’s alright, don’t worry about anything—” Azirphale tries to reassure him.
“My bad for falling asleep, priest,” The man runs his finger through his crimson, wavy hair nervously, his face blushing. “The story, I mean the ceremony was amazing, really inspiring.”
“Oh, really? Glad to hear you found it so.” Azirphale smiles, fully aware this person hasn’t heard even a word of it, but appreciating his attempt at being nice.
“Yeah, sure, ‘course,” the redhead blurts out as he stands up. “Anyway, thank you very much, I better go now.”
“Are you in a hurry, dear?” Aziraphale asks politely. He might be young and naive, but he can very well recognise when a member of his flock might be needing his help. The man clearly feels uncomfortable about it, but Aziraphale can notice the worn-out clothes and greasy, tangled hair.
“Yeah, uh, my family is waiting for me actually,” the man says in a flash. He then quickly turns around and hurries towards the big, wooden door.
“Lucky you, I will be celebrating all alone this year,” Azirpahale says in one last, desperate attempt. It’s not a lie anyway.
The man stops halfway and hesitates for a moment then turns around, his eyes filled with compassion and deep understanding.
“You’ll be alone?” he asks quietly in disbelief. “A priest all alone on Christmas Eve?”
“Yes, I mean I am technically not a priest but an associate pastor,” Aziraphale clarifies. “But anyway, yes, I was about to spend the holiday by myself, by some unfortunate circumstances.”
“That sounds lonely,” the man says quietly, as if he is speaking more to himself than anything else.
“If you’re not in a rush, maybe you could keep me company for a little bit? I would enjoy a pleasant chat. And I have too much leftover food that I won’t be able to eat by myself, ” Aziraphale offers, fidgeting with his fingers, hoping the stranger agrees to the subtly offered help.
He seems to be giving it some thought for a few moments, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders slumped.
“Too much food you’re saying?” he asks in a bit.
“Ohh, puff, way too much for a humble pastor as myself.” He smiles warmly, as the man seems to really be considering the offer.
“I guess I have some extra time to help a person in need,” the man replies with a faint smile, his eyes filled with gratitude.
…
Crowley slowly enters the cozy, warm room with wooden floors and humble, yet comfortable furniture. There is a single bed with a woolen blanket on top, with a pile of books and an unfinished tea on the nightstand next to it. On the other side of the room he sees a sofa next to a coffee table and more piles of books on and around it.
“Please, make yourself at home.” Aziraphale’s face beams with a smile.
“You like reading?” Crowley asks, completely forgetting about his manners.
“Oh, yeah, absolutely. I enjoy learning more about art, history, religion, anything really,” the blond man replies as he takes his shoes off. Crowley follows his example, listening carefully and basking in the warmth.
“Alright, dear.” Aziraphale claps his hands enthusiastically. “What about we do this: you can take a nice warm shower, get all ready and meanwhile I will prepare something for our festive dinner.”
Crowley blinks in confusion. He knows some people can be friendly or even caring, but he has never met someone that welcoming. Unless they wanted something back.
“You are offering for me to use your shower and eat dinner at your place, why exactly?” His eyebrows frown, fires catching in his amber eyes. “I am not going to provide any services for you, if that's your goal,” he adds before Aziraphale manages to reply. He didn’t do it to stay in the shelter, he wouldn't do it now, no matter how desperately he needs a room and some food.
“What services do you mean—Oh, dear God, no, absolutely not.” Aziraphale pieces his words together and steps back horrified. “I would never require anything of the sort, I can assure you.”
Crowley is still looking at him with suspicion.
“I can promise you, I have no other intentions than sharing a meal with you and providing you with some basic necessities until the blizzard is over. And you are free to leave any time you want.” He looks at Crowley with his bright, big, doe eyes, his tone and words sounding genuine.
“Fine,” Crowley agrees, taking off his jacket. “Until the storm is over.”
“Of course.” Aziraphale gives him a faint smile. “May I?” He reaches out for the jacket and Crowley gives it hesitantly.
“Bathroom is that way. And you can use the brown towels, they are freshly washed.” Aziraphale points towards the only other door in the room. “Any preferences on food? Dietary needs? Allergies?”
“Not that I know of,” Crowley replies, still shocked by the whole situation. “I can help with the cooking though.”
“Oh don't be ridiculous, you're my guest!” Aziraphale waves his hand as if chasing away any doubts. “Feel free to take it easy.”
“Yeah, sure,” Crowley replies and heads towards the bathroom. “Thank you,” he says quietly before shutting the door behind him.
….
Crowley quickly removes his clothes and manages to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Did he always look that skinny and fragile with his bones sticking out and his hair looking like a tangled nest? He definitely remembers having better periods.
Crowley takes a deep sigh and gets under the shower, running the scorching hot water, finally allowing himself to take a deep breath and enjoy what feels like Heaven on Earth.
He takes care of his body and spends extra time conditioning and combing his hair, managing to salvage it only by a miracle.
He then stays for a few more minutes in a pure bliss, until his skin gets so red it starts matching his curls. He gets out of the divine, steamy shower, feeling as if he has been reborn. He then wraps himself in the soft towel, letting out a quiet, delightful sigh of relief.
Crowley then looks at his dirty clothes on the ground, groaning in disgust at the realisation he will have to put them on again right after getting fresh and clean. Maybe he can ask Aziraphale for some. But that would be highly inappropriate and he wouldn't like to abuse the hospitality of the gentle man.
A subtle knock on the door startles him.
“Dear, are you ready?” the man asks through the closed door. “If so, I can lend you some clothes; we can put yours in the laundry room, they will be ready in a few hours.”
“Ngk.” Crowley raises his eyebrows, still shocked by Aziraphale's generosity and cleverness. “Yeah, that's a great plan.”
“Jolly good!” the man exclaims and it makes Crowley chuckle.
Crowley cracks the door open, as Aziraphale hands him the soft, fluffy clothes.
….
Crowley sits on the cushy couch, feeling all cozy and comfortable in the soft, fresh, oversized clothes Aziraphale had given him. His hair is tied in a messy bun, soft and shiny once again.
The table is humbly covered in home cooked meals, wine, snacks and fruits, which to Crowley seem like a feast. Only now he realizes how empty his stomach is, once the poor thing starts loudly rumbling. His will and manners are the only thing preventing him from gorging on all the food.
“Please, enjoy.” Aziraphale smiles and sits next to him, filling his own plate.
“You’re being really generous,” Crowley says, his mouth watering already.
“Oh, nothing of the sort. I am just being a decent human being.”
Crowley wants to protest, but instead he indulges in the delicious food, his mouth full, as he lets out a deep sigh of delight.
“Glad you are enjoying it.” Aziraphale hums after taking in a bite, appreciating the food himself.
A vintage record player is accompanying the two men's savory dinner with some cheerful classical tunes.
“So, my dear, would you like to tell me what brought you to the parish so late on such a bright holiday?” Aziraphale asks while patting a napkin on his mouth.
“Well, I, uhm—I don’t have exactly anywhere else to go. The shelter was not an option and it was freezing outside. I’m not, like, religious or anything.” He looks at the other man cautiously, expecting to either be kicked out or be given a detailed lecture.
“I see. What about your family, parents, are they still around?” Aziraphale asks softly, his tone easing up Crowley’s tension. He does feel safe in his company.
“I wouldn't know, I come from a foster care center,” Crowley admits, lowering his eyes to the table. “Never got adopted or anything. Was quite the troublemaker there, so the social workers got fed up with my shenanigans and with beating me up every time they felt like it, so the moment I turned 18 they kicked me out. Which was a week ago, if I’m counting it right.”
“Oh, dear, I am so sorry to hear it.” Aziraphale’s voice is tender and trembling and Crowley raises his gaze only to meet his pure, watery eyes.
“It’s alright, I’ll figure something out. I always do.” Crowley gives him a faint, yet confident smile.
“I am sure of it.” Aziraphale’s eyes twinkle.
“What about you, angel?” he swiftly changes the subject, using the opportunity to learn more about the charmingly soft guy. “You grew up in a church or something?”
“I do come from a religious family. My folks were very strict and conservative, so I didn’t follow their denomination. Consequently they weren’t very happy with my choice.”
“You still talk?” Crowley asks.
“No, they cut me off once—” Aziraphale hesitates for a moment, fidgeting with his ring anxiously. ‘“Once I came out as gay.” His whole body tenses, probably unsure what Crowley’s reaction would be.
“Fuck them, then,” he replies, while taking a sip of the red wine. “They don’t deserve a nice son like you.” He flashes a smile at Aziraphale whose cheeks blush. Must be the warm food and the wine, Crowley thinks.
“Thank you,” he replies softly.
“Sure, just stating the obvious.” Crowley continues eating, sensing he might blush as well soon.”Yeah, in the center they didn’t treat us queer kids very well either. But we had our ways to survive.”
He raises his glass, to Aziraphale’s pleasant surprise.
“To us, queer folk who always manage to overcome all the obstacles and still thrive and find happiness,” he says.
“To us.” Aziraphale clinks their glasses with a beaming smile.
“Oh, and, Crowley,” Aziraphale begins speaking once the glasses are down. “If you ever like to consider it, our congregation is looking for a gardener to take care of the grounds around the church. It won’t pay that much, but it offers accommodation nearby. And everyone is very accepting and welcoming, and you don’t have to belong to the faith.”
Crowley barely contains his excitement, all written with a bright smirk on his face.
“Yeah, sounds like a good idea.” He takes another bite of the tasty food. “Might work out.”
….
10 years later
Aziraphale is sitting on the sofa, his comfy winter socks on, the warm cocoa in the mug with angel wings that Crowley gave him for their first anniversary on the table right next to him. He is reading his favourite book, while his now-husband is lying on his lap, snuggling closely.
“Can you read to me, angel?” Crowley asks, while Aziraphale is lazily petting his long, lush hair.
“Of course, darling,” he agrees gladly, pausing for a moment to fully take in and appreciate this wonderful, special moment of their Christmas together.
Then Aziraphale starts reading, still fondly holding his lover, only his mesmerising, soft voice and Crowley’s relaxed breathing to be heard in the silent, holy night.