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24th December:

"Twas the night before Christmas..." Aziraphale started.

"BOOOring." Crowley drawled. "Why do you insist on reading this dirge every year?"

"It's tradition, my dear. Besides, there are worst things associated with Christmas." Aziraphale replied. "Take the twelve days of Christmas, for example. Now that's-"

"Oh, no, no, no..." Crowley said in a slightly panicked voice which Aziraphale totally ignored.

"Now, did you know that on each of the twelve days of Christmas, 'my true love' is supposed to be giving a new present along with all the presents from the previous days."

"Not gonna happen" Crowley muttered under his breath.

"What's that, dear?" Aziraphale asked, totally oblivious, as he poured himself a ludicrously tall glass of port and picked a mince pie from the tray before pushing it invitingly towards Crowley. "I mean, if you prefer coming to midnight mass with me instead..." he offered with a mischievous spark in his eyes. "Might still make a decent angel out of you."

"No thank you, angel," Crowley replied as politely as he could muster, his legs swung slightly suggestively over the arm of the armchair in the bookshop.

Aziraphale had their routine down to a "t". A fire was roaring in the hearth (at the very affordable cost of 0.01 lazarus, courtesy of Crowley). There were stockings marked A and C hanging from the mantlepiece. Not that they ever put anything in them. There was mulled wine and tea (which would likely never be drunk), and mince pies and an assortment of 'amuse-bouches' that Aziraphale had bought from Harrods ("Only the best for you, my dear. After all, it's only once a year" had he said when splashing out on tiny nibbles that cost an arm and a leg.).

Aziraphale would read that dreaded poem now, whether Crowley wanted it or not, and then talk about the meaning of Christmas and how Jesus wasn't even born anywhere near 25th December ("I would know, Crowley, I was there, singing with the throngs of - well - angels"), while getting increasingly inebriated. They'd then part ways until the next day. Which reminded Crowley-

"How about you come to mine tomorrow for Christmas day. I know it's not what we usually do but-" Crowley suddenly felt the whole endeavour had been ill-advised, especially as Aziraphale's face melted in a small pout of disappointment that did things to his stomach he didn't want to contemplate.

"Oh, I'd got some food for tomorrow," Aziraphale started, before registering Crowley's unease. "I guess it would be nice to do something different this year," he corrected course as smoothly as he could. "What time should I arrive?"

"How about twelve? We'll have a couple of drinks and a nice meal, if... if that's ok with you?" he replied in a stupidly tentative way. Demons weren't supposed to get flustered. Fallen angels were all brimstone and fire, not cowering sheep. Crowley downed a huge mug of whiskey (yes, a mug, it wasn't like the tea would get drunk, was it?) to tamp down his shame and discomfort. "Come on, angel, you're burning to read that blasted poem. Go ahead. I'm all ears."

Aziraphale took a larger than necessary sip of the sherry and looked affronted for a moment.

"If you prefer, I can read A Christmas Carol, instead. I'm sure I've got a copy-"

"No, no, no... The poem will do just fine, angel."

Aziraphale knew when he'd lost a battle. He huffed, rolled his eyes and placed a finger on the page. He cleared his throat and started reading.

"'Twas the night before Christmas..."

And for once, the adage held true, as all through the house, not a creature was stirring.

25th December:

The street was disconcertingly quiet. Aziraphale hadn't gone out of the bookshop for years on Christmas day. The city was unusually quiet, and Aziraphale almost missed the hustle and bustle of the crowds, the ballet of buses gracing the main thoroughfares of London, the agitation and excitation that had pervaded everywhere in the run up to the big day.

It felt like a bit of an anti-climax, especially as they wouldn't be celebrating at his place this year. Aziraphale rang the bell of the large building. It felt quite posh on the outside, and Aziraphale remembered vividly the cold and modern surfaces all over Crowley's flat. It really wasn't his thing, but he'd asked, and Crowley rarely asked anything. And if there was anything Aziraphale couldn't resist, it was the thought of making his friend smile.

The buzzer indicated that the door had been opened for him. He slipped in, holding a few small packages tightly against his chest.

Crowley's flat was two floors up. Aziraphale had never liked climbing those beautiful Art Nouveau stairs. It felt a bit like walking backwards into the circles of hell. On reflection, maybe that's what they were.

He knocked on the door and before he had time to utter Crowley's name, the flat owner opened the door with a flourish. Aziraphale noticed that, for once, he was not wearing his glasses.

"Aziraphale!" he all but shouted enthusiastically before checking himself. "I'm really glad you came. I thought-"

Aziraphale would never get to know what Crowley thought. He was divested of his coat and scarf and invited to step into the dining room.

Crowley had clearly made an effort. A table was laid for two, and the cold blue decor had been tampered down to feel almost cosy, if not particularly warm.

Crowley was hovering, jumping slightly from one foot to the other, as though his soles were burning.

"Smells lovely," Aziraphale provided politely.

"You think so? Well, I'm- errr, thank you." Crowley answered. The foot tapping stopped and he looked slightly more comfortable for a moment.

"I brought you some gifts," Aziraphale said as he proffered the little parcels towards their intended recipient.

Crowley took them and, just as suddenly as he had stopped, started fidgeting again.

"You shouldn't have, angel, I-"

"It's nothing, my dear. Just a few things I thought you would enjoy."

On the table in front of them, were laid out a 19th century framed map of the stars (the day they were made, the scribble at the back of the frame purported), a small black leather case for Crowley's sunglasses and a tiny wind-up snake toy Aziraphale had found in an antiquary's shop a few months back.

Crowley looked crestfallen.

"What's the matter dear?" Aziraphale enquired in a worried voice.

"I don't- That's- Err- I don't have all your presents today. In fact, I don't-" Crowley started pacing. "Argh, I should have known it was a bad idea!" he grumbled to himself, still pacing through the rather roomy dining room."

Aziraphale chuckled. "There's no need to fret, dear. I don't expect presents at Christmas. Neither from you nor from anyone else."

"You don't?" Crowley sounded surprised.

"No, I take pleasure in gifting, I don't need anything in return."

"Sounds like a lame excuse to spend money and a lot of time at Harrods, if you ask me," Crowley muttered.

"I concede I really like Harrods. If that's a sin, then-"

"I'll stop you there, angel. It is a sin. But nothing that can't be expiated by the distribution of said gifts." It struck Crowley that he hadn't really shown the requisite amount of gratitude. "Thank you for the presents," he said swiftly, almost as if he'd swallowed something deeply unpleasant and tried to get rid of the taste.

Remembering his manners, Crowley handed Aziraphale a glass of port and invited him to get seated at the table.

Aziraphale knew something was afoot and could see that, despite appearances, Crowley had gone to a lot of effort to accommodate him on Christmas day, and it brought a warmth to his heart he hadn't felt for quite some time. He was fond of the fallen angel, and knowing that someone would get out of their way for him, especially on Christmas day, was a lovely feeling to experience.

After a couple of hours of chit-chat, during which the port was thoroughly depleted, Crowley brought in their starter. It was-

"Oysters!" Aziraphale's eyes lit up at the sight. He didn't miss Crowley's smile, and the way his eyes twinkled in the dim December light. It was so nice to see Crowley's eyes.

They chatted while they (well, mostly Aziraphale) ate the oysters, after which Crowley stood up and came back with a big casserole dish.

"Smells divine," Aziraphale said. Crowley blushed as he removed the lid.

"Oh!" the angel's eyes lit up, "how did you get hold of partridge!"

Crowley mumbled something unintelligible which satisfied the angel's interest, as his attention was rooted to the dish.

"And what's that with-" he started.

"Roasted pears, angel. Just pears." he replied quietly.

Aziraphale was mesmerised by the food and didn't notice Crowley's unease.

Fortunately, whatever ailed Crowley melted when he saw how much Aziraphale enjoyed the food. Conversation and wine flowed in equal measures and the company was very pleasant and amiable.

There were some chocolate things for pudding, although Aziraphale would struggle to describe them more specifically. However, he remembers clearly the bottle of Monbazillac that Crowley opened to accompany the individual bûches.

The afternoon dissolved before he knew it, and Aziraphale found himself unexpectedly reluctant to leave the flat that, for once, hadn’t felt cold at all.

26th December:

Crowley arrived quite early for lunch on Boxing Day. It had been decided the day before that Aziraphale's unused Christmas banquet would make a fantastic Boxing Day offering and so, at about eleven, the Bentley parked itself outside and Crowley appeared through the front door, all bundled up in a coat and a thick black scarf to match, which the angel remembered gifting him last year. He was carrying a small brown paper parcel and a large-ish Tupperware container.

"Morning, Crowley." Aziraphale greeted. "You're a bit earlier than I expected, but I can make tea while everything gets ready in the kitchen. Or would you prefer a sherry? I know it's not noon yet, but, as they say, 'it's five o'clock somewhere in the empire'." For some reason, the angel blushed at that. Maybe it wasn't the most angelic interpretation of rules, but what was the harm in sharing a small glass of something with cherished company?

After shedding off his coat and uncoiling the scarf around his neck, Crowley cleared his throat and, with a kind of determined casualness Aziraphale found immediately suspicious, slipped his sunglasses off and tucked them neatly into the little leather case Aziraphale had given him the day before. Aziraphale’s heart gave a gentle thump at the sight; Crowley had remembered, and more importantly, he had chosen to use it.

Crowley settled on pouring himself a whiskey and settled in his usual armchair, one leg resting over the arm of the chair while his other foot was tucked against him. It didn't look comfortable, but then Crowley didn't look comfortable today either, Aziraphale noticed.

The explanation came soon enough when the little brown paper bag was pushed across the table.

"Present for you, angel." Crowley mumbled as if the words physically hurt.

Aziraphale's eyebrows rose so high his hairline could have receded in fear.

"A present? For me?" he asked, as though Crowley's meaning hadn't been clear. For some odd reason Crowley couldn't quite fathom, the angel got all teary-eyed. Damn weepy celestial creatures! There was no need for all this outpouring of emotions. Crowley's features almost crumpled in disgust at the thought but he managed to school his features just in time, smiling instead at Aziraphale's look of wonder as he opened the small parcel.

"Oh, these are beautiful." he said as he brushed the merino wool.

He had uncovered the most lovely pair of woollen gloves and was now admiring them and trying them on.

"Look, they fit perfectly." Aziraphale was beaming and the gratefulness on his face tugged something in Crowley's chest that somehow made him want to cry. Gift giving wasn't that bad, he thought quietly. Though he'd have to find a way to offset the joy this small act of kindness had procured (let alone the act of kindness itself, Hell had firm rules against that kind of frivolous enjoyment of life).

"It's an unusual colour, not something I wear usually, but I guess variety is the spice of life," Aziraphale commented, still smiling.

"It's, err, two purple gloves," Crowley said as it explained everything.

"Yes, I can see that dear."

Crowley rolled his eyes. Time for another clue.

"I've brought what's left of yesterday's lunch. Partridge and pears." he said. Aziraphale was still focused on the gloves on his hands. For God's sake, focus angel! "I thought we could have the leftovers for dinner, if you don't mind me staying that late."

"Of course, I don't, dear."

"Though I don't think there'll be any left after that." Crowley concluded.

"Hmm."

Aziraphale wasn't listening and Crowley fought the urge to stand and pace, or worse, leave. He was quite literally saved by the bell, the oven bell, which augured a lovely lunch.

And it was very agreeable indeed, as much as the company itself. They dined on smoked salmon and venison with black pepper sauce and some delicate pastries Aziraphale had sourced from - guess where - Harrods's pâtisserie.

Of course, wine and spirits flowed freely and around eight or nine in the evening, they made sandwiches with what remained of the partridge and pears. Aziraphale was keen to point that port would be perfect with the sandwiches and therefore a couple of Aziraphale's best bottles were sacrificed to the altar of Boxing Day feasts.

Around ten, Crowley started to feel a bit too drunk to control his own mouth and so decided to retire, but not without a cryptic invitation for Aziraphale.

"Angel, would... I... err... mind going out tomorrow? I kn... know it's gonna rain, but 'ts never killed anyone. There'll be food."

"Well," Aziraphale let out a little hiccup or burp, he wasn't quite sure. He clearly had enjoyed himself a little too much and would need to expiate for that later. "if there's food, I'm in," he said a bit too brightly.

"Good, 'll pick you up - hic - at three, angel."

"Fabulous, I look forward to - hic -!"

And upon those merry tidings, Crowley left the bookshop.

27th December:

The rain began just after lunch and had not let up since, a thin, persistent drizzle settling over London with all the enthusiasm of a damp dishcloth, but Aziraphale did not seem bothered by it in the slightest. He had woken that morning with only the vaguest recollection of Boxing Day’s final hours, but he remembered, with surprising clarity, Crowley saying he would collect him at three, and so at precisely two minutes past the hour the Bentley glided to a halt outside the shop, its windows streaked with rain and its engine purring like an indulgent cat.

Aziraphale was already waiting at the door, adjusting his new gloves for the third or fourth time although the weather did not call for them, and fussing needlessly with his coat collar. The gloves, he had decided, were far too lovely to leave at home on their first proper outing.

Crowley did not comment on this, although he noticed it at once and felt a ridiculous swell of warmth in his chest. Instead he gave a slight nod and gestured for Aziraphale to get in, muttering something about traffic and tourists and how London ought to ban pedestrians entirely in the week between Christmas and New Year.

They drove in mostly companionable silence, save for Crowley’s occasional growl at inattentive drivers, until the Bentley crawled beneath the iron lattice of Borough Market. The rain pattered on the canopy overhead, and the lights of the Christmas stalls glimmered through the soft mist like a string of modest, slightly smug stars.

“I do like Borough,” Aziraphale said as he stepped out of the car, cupping his gloved hands together in delight. “You can always count on them for quality.”

“You can count on them for crowds and overpriced tat,” Crowley replied, though without much conviction. His hands were shoved deep in his coat pockets and his hair stuck up at peculiar angles from the damp, but he looked oddly pleased to be there.

The market was busy despite the rain, full of steaming cups and cheerful chatter, and the scent of roasted chestnuts mingled with cinnamon and citrus. Aziraphale inhaled deeply, his face brightening in that particular way Crowley had never quite managed to steel himself against. He wandered a few steps ahead, peering at a display of artisanal honeys before being drawn, with the inevitability of gravity, towards a small French crêpe stall under a striped awning.

Crowley spotted it before Aziraphale even finished reading the chalkboard. He strode forward, intercepting him neatly.

“Trois crêpes,” he said to the vendor, who straightened as though he'd just received royal instructions. “One sugar, one Nutella, one Suzette. And two mulled wines. Large ones.”

Aziraphale blinked at Crowley, then at the sizzling hotplate, then back at Crowley again, his whole expression softening into pleased astonishment.

“Oh, Crowley, how thoughtful,” he murmured, his hands clasped in front of him in a gesture that would have been absurdly theatrical had it not been so genuine.

Crowley ignored the compliment and accepted the steaming cups of mulled wine, handing one to Aziraphale without ceremony. The angel wrapped both hands around it, his gloves immediately fogging with droplets of steam, and let out a blissful sigh after the first sip.

“Perfectly spiced,” he observed. “Cinnamon, cloves, perhaps a little star anise.”

Crowley made a noncommittal sound and fixed his gaze firmly on the vendor preparing the crêpes, not on Aziraphale’s parted lips or the way he shivered a little in the rain despite the gloves and coat.

When the crêpes were ready, Crowley carried them to a small table under a canopy and gestured for Aziraphale to sit. The angel obliged at once, laying the gloves carefully on his lap before taking up the sugar crêpe with an enthusiasm Crowley found both ridiculous and weirdly captivating.

“Oh my. This is marvellous,” Aziraphale said after the first bite, his eyes shining with delight. “Truly marvellous.”

Crowley leant back, arms folded, trying to look unimpressed and failing. “It is just a crêpe, angel.”

“Crêpes of this calibre are not just anything,” Aziraphale replied, cleaning a stray dusting of sugar from his chin with a napkin. "And they are difficult to find. these are the best I've eaten since- Oh, do you remember 1793?" He looked joyfully nostalgic for a moment.

The angel soon moved on to the Nutella crêpe, then the Suzette, humming his approval with every mouthful and entirely oblivious to the way Crowley’s expression softened each time he did so.

By the time Aziraphale finished, he looked thoroughly contented, cheeks pink from wine and warmth and the general wonder of the experience.

“That was divine,” he said, brushing his fingertips over his gloves before putting them back on. “A real treat. Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley watched him fuss with the glove seams, watched the satisfied little curl of his smile, watched the rain-beaded lights reflected in his eyes, and found himself muttering quietly, hardly aware he had spoken aloud at all.

“Three down.” He shook his head. Only Aziraphale could be this oblivious.

Aziraphale looked up. “What was that?”

Crowley’s eyes widened fractionally. “Nothing angel,” He gave a dismissive shrug. “Nothing important.”

Aziraphale nodded amiably, still entirely unsuspecting. He stood, brushing a crumb from his coat, and gestured for Crowley to join him.

“Shall we explore a little more? The market looks enchanting in this light.”

Crowley rolled his eyes but fell into step beside him, hands shoved back in his pockets, the drizzle gathering on his eyelashes. “All right, angel. Lead on.”

And so they wandered beneath the glowing canopy, the rain pattering gently around them, one of them happily unaware and the other quietly marvelling that he had got away with it yet again.

28th December:

It was raining again. Not the polite sort of London drizzle that Aziraphale found almost comforting, but a determined downpour that slashed across the pavements and clung to coats with missionary zeal. Aziraphale, who had taken great care to dress properly despite the weather, was therefore making his way through the park beneath a sturdy black umbrella, the purple gloves on full display and already glistening with droplets.

The phone call had come only ten minutes earlier, abrupt and strangely animated.

"Angel, you need to come and see this. Bandstand. Now."

And so here he was, umbrella in hand, walking briskly through St James's Park towards the bandstand where they had met so many times before.

The park was almost empty. Rain had driven everyone else indoors. Only a few ducks waddled along the lake, their feathers slicked flat, and the trees shuddered occasionally as the wind sent the rain sweeping through their branches.

Crowley was waiting at the bandstand, hands shoved into the pockets of his long black coat. He looked like a figure sketched in ink and watercolour, blurred at the edges by the rain. When he caught sight of Aziraphale approaching, he straightened in that slightly-too-quick way he always did when trying to appear composed.

"About time," he said, though not unkindly. His eyes flicked to the umbrella, then to the gloves, and something in his expression softened before he schooled it back under control.

Aziraphale stepped under the canopy and lowered his umbrella. The moment he did, a gentle warmth settled around him, seeping into his coat and hair. He noticed it immediately but said nothing. Crowley was pretending to be casual about it, which meant drawing attention to it would ruin everything.

"What is all this about?" Aziraphale asked, pushing rain-damp curls back from his forehead.

Crowley took a breath, tilted his head slightly, and lifted his chin in that familiar way that meant he was trying not to show how invested he was.

"Listen."

Aziraphale paused. He listened. At first he heard only the rain striking the canopy overhead, the soft rustle of trees, and the faint squelch of wet gravel beneath their shoes. Then something else joined the soundscape, soft and liquid and impossibly delicate.

Birdsong.

And not just any birdsong.

"Oh," Aziraphale breathed. "Is that... a nightingale?"

Crowley nodded once. "I counted four so far."

Aziraphale turned slowly, scanning the ring of trees surrounding the bandstand. One nightingale perched on a branch dripping with rain, its feathers fluffed against the cold. Another answered from a tree to the left. Then another, and another, each voice weaving into the next until the air was full of music.

After a moment Aziraphale whispered, "Yes. Four."

"Four nightingales," Crowley said. "Unusual, isn't it."

Aziraphale looked enchanted. "It is positively magical. I have not heard anything like this in such a long time."

Crowley watched him with a tightness in his chest that he could neither dispel nor hide. From the outside he probably looked calm, aloof even, but inside he was spiralling. He had miracled the birds into existence (at the bargain price of 0.2 lazari), coaxed them into song, and chosen this place deliberately. And now Aziraphale was standing only inches away from him, close enough that their shoulders brushed lightly whenever they shifted their weight.

It should have been enough for Aziraphale to understand. It should have been obvious. Yet the angel simply listened, face gentle with wonder, and Crowley could feel the tremor of nerves creeping up his spine.

Aziraphale clasped his hands together, the gloves darkened by droplets, and tilted his head as if trying to hold every note in his heart. "How lovely," he whispered.

Crowley made a sound that might have been agreement or despair. Hard to tell.

The song went on for several minutes. Aziraphale closed his eyes and remained perfectly still, letting the music wash over him as though it were divine in origin, and Crowley stood beside him doing his very best not to combust.

Eventually Aziraphale turned to him, cheeks flushed. "Thank you for calling me. This was wonderful."

Crowley swallowed, cleared his throat, and tried for a nonchalant shrug that did not, in fact, look nonchalant at all.

"Right. Well. Since we are here and already out in all this rain, how about... tea."

"Oh yes, tea sounds perfect."

"At the Ritz," Crowley added, blurting it with slightly too much force and then immediately pretending he had meant to sound that certain all along.

Aziraphale’s face brightened. "Oh, how delightful. Maybe we could get a bite to eat while we're there."

Crowley wasn't fooled. Yes, I'll get you an afternoon tea, angel, he thought sweetly. He nodded, anxious to keep the momentum going before he lost what little nerve he had left. "Come on then. Let us go before I change my mind and leave you here with your birds."

"I should not mind that," Aziraphale replied, taking one last admiring glance at the trees. "But very well. The Ritz it is."

They walked away together, their shoulders touching now and then, the nightingales continuing to sing behind them even as the rain thickened. Crowley glanced back once, just to make sure the miracle held, then quickened his pace to fall into step beside Aziraphale.

The birdsong followed them for a long time.

29th December:

The afternoon had been slow, the sort of grey, lingering December afternoon when the rain settled over Soho like a heavy curtain and the hours slipped by in a gentle murmur of quiet pages and the occasional customer wandering in to escape the downpour. Aziraphale rather liked days like this, provided he had a fresh pot of tea and the comforting smell of old paper for company. For once, he hadn't bothered turning round the 'CLOSED' sign, sure in the knowledge that no one would come. He was halfway through arranging a new display of Victorian poetry when something thudded through the letterbox and landed on the floor with a decidedly purposeful weight.

Aziraphale looked up, startled. Parcels did not often arrive at this hour, and certainly not with that particular energy. He approached cautiously, bending to pick up not one but two brown paper bundles tied with simple string. They were modestly wrapped but there was something undeniably careful about the way they had been put together, a sense of deliberate neatness he associated only with one person.

His phone buzzed.

He set the parcels gently on the counter before reaching for the device. A single text, brief and jauntily phrased in a way that fooled nobody.

"I've dropped a little something at your place, angel. Hope you like it."

Aziraphale stared at the words for a moment longer than necessary, his heart giving a faint but unmistakable flutter. Crowley had not knocked. He had not come inside. He had simply delivered these parcels and vanished before Aziraphale could so much as open the door. The angel was puzzled.

He placed the phone down, exhaled softly, and carried the parcels towards the little table behind the counter. Tea first, always tea. He filled the kettle, set it to boil, and allowed the familiar ritual to steady him. The act of pouring the steaming water into his favourite cup gave him a moment to compose himself, although the parcels seemed to grow heavier in his periphery as the minutes passed.

At last, when the tea was brewing and the shop lay quiet around him, he sat and pulled the larger parcel towards him. He undid the string with careful fingers and peeled back the crinkled paper. Inside lay four golden napkin rings, bound together in a single delicate bundle. They gleamed softly even in the dim wintry light, their surfaces etched with motifs so subtle he had to lean closer to make them out. Wings, perhaps, or something like them, and a sinuous curve that might have been a serpent, or something else entirely.

"Oh," Aziraphale whispered, his breath catching faintly in his throat. "These are beautiful."

He touched one with the tip of a finger, tracing the pattern without quite knowing what it was meant to represent. They were undeniably lovely and the craftsmanship was exquisite, but what bewildered him most was that Crowley had gone to the trouble at all. Napkin rings were a strange gift, not the sort of thing one bought on a whim, certainly not gold-plated ones with intricate designs. They spoke of attention, of time, of an intention he could not fully grasp.

He felt the beginnings of a tightness in his chest, unfamiliar and rather unsettling.

The second parcel was smaller. A jewellery box nestled inside the paper, its velvet surface dark and inviting. Aziraphale hesitated. He reached for his tea first, taking a steadying sip, then placed the cup down with a hand that trembled only slightly. At last he lifted the lid.

Inside lay a ring. A proper signet ring, solid and unmistakably gold, the kind used for sealing letters in wax. The same ambiguous symbols from the napkin rings were engraved upon its face, delicate and looping, ready to leave their imprint on parchment or card. For a long moment Aziraphale could do nothing but stare at it.

"Oh my," he breathed, his voice thick. "Crowley..."

He pressed a hand to his chest, fingers curling as though trying to hold in something enormous and unwieldy. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes but he blinked them back, swallowing hard. This was far beyond anything he had expected, not that he'd expected anything to start with.

It was too much, too generous, too thoughtful, too laden with meaning he could not decipher. He felt unworthy, overwhelmed by the knowledge that someone, anyone, let alone Crowley, had gone to such lengths for him.

He closed his fingers around the ring, held it against his chest for a moment, as though it would help stilling his heart for a moment. Then, with a kind of reverence he had not felt in centuries, he slipped it onto the little finger of his right hand. It settled there as if it had always belonged, fitting his hand with a precision that took his breath away.

He sat down heavily, mouth pulling into a trembling line, and reached for his phone.

He found Crowley before he even knew he had made the decision.

The line rang once, twice, then connected.

"Angel?" Crowley's voice sounded carefully casual, but there was an edge beneath it, a brittle tension, the faint rustle of pacing footsteps giving him away. Aziraphale imagined him moving restlessly through his flat, one moment near the window, the next collapsing onto the sofa arm or the floor, the next fiddling anxiously with whatever object lay nearest to hand.

"Crowley..." Aziraphale began, then faltered. His throat tightened and he had to inhale through his nose to steady himself. "Crowley, this is... This is far too much."

There was the sound of Crowley stopping in place, the air stilling on his end of the line.

"I do not understand," Aziraphale continued, voice wavering. "These gifts... I must be missing something. I know I am not the sharpest tool in the box, but I cannot imagine what I have done to deserve something quite so special."

"You are brilliant, angel," Crowley said, his voice suddenly strained, a deep sincerity pushing through his usual façade. "You'll get it eventually. Take your time."

Aziraphale made a small sound, involuntary and fragile. "It's just... no one has ever given me anything like this before. Or anything for that matter. I'm not quite sure how to-" he didn't complete the sentence, not that he was sure what he meant to say, beyond thank you. So he said so.

On the other end Crowley inhaled sharply, the sound unguarded and startled, as though the words had struck him physically. He recovered quickly, though Aziraphale could hear the tremor he was trying to hide.

"You're welcome angel," Crowley murmured, softer now. "I will see you tomorrow. Alright?"

There was a pause, a moment in which neither of them seemed willing to set the connection down, but at last Aziraphale exhaled faintly.

"Good night, my dear."

Crowley's answering breath sounded almost like a shiver.

"Night, angel."

The call ended, but Aziraphale sat with the phone in his hand for a very long time, the weight of the ring warm against his skin, his heart full of something tender and frightening and entirely new.

30th December:

"Angel," Crowley said at the other end of the line, sounding as though he had begun speaking before deciding what he meant to say. "So… would you like to come round? If you want."

Aziraphale smiled despite himself. "I should be delighted, my dear. Give me a moment to close the shop."

He was out the door faster than he intended, coat buttoned neatly, gloves straightened, the outline of his new ring barely visible under the thick wool. It was becoming ridiculous how quickly the prospect of seeing Crowley had become the highlight of his day. Or maybe it had always been that way, only he was just starting to notice now.

This time, when he reached Crowley’s flat, he did not hesitate and rung confidently. He all but ran up the stairs to the second floor, where the door opened almost at once. Crowley was standing there with that odd combination of attempted composure and unmistakable discomfort that Aziraphale was starting to recognise. His eyes flicked briefly to the gloves as Aziraphale removed them, then to the ring on his hand, but he said nothing at all, which only made Aziraphale’s chest warm further.

"I only wanted to say thank you again," Aziraphale said as he came in. "I am quite at a loss for words, which is something of a novelty in my case." He let out a small self-deprecating chuckle.

Crowley waved a hand, dismissive. "It's nothing, angel. No need to make a fuss." His voice was light, but Aziraphale could sense the tension beneath it.

The flat looked marginally different today, though Crowley pretended not to notice Aziraphale taking it all in. The framed star chart hung on the wall above the sofa, looking as though it had always belonged there. The leather case containing Crowley’s sunglasses sat neatly on the shelf, placed very deliberately. And on the desk near the far corner, the tiny wind-up snake toy rested in plain view, its little metal body gleaming. Aziraphale felt an odd flutter in his chest. Crowley had not hidden any of the gifts. Quite the contrary.

"Want a spot of lunch, angel?" Crowley said, already heading for the kitchen. "I will rustle up an omelette."

Aziraphale followed, and could not help smiling when he spotted the six large goose eggs arranged in a bowl on the counter. Crowley studiously ignored the fact that he had obviously planned something and instead cracked the eggs with efficient precision, whisking and folding with a care that would have put many a chef to shame.

The omelette was plain and perfect, golden at the edges, soft in the middle, served with a confidence that made Aziraphale feel unexpectedly cherished.

"It is delicious," Aziraphale said after the first bite. "Really, Crowley, you have outdone yourself."

Crowley gave a small, pleased huff. "Told you I could cook."

They drank tea for a while, the conversation easy but threaded with something quieter and more fragile beneath the surface. Eventually Crowley reached for the whisky and poured a modest amount into each of their glasses, muttering something about tea being unbearable without a little ballast.

They drank slowly, neither wishing to lose themselves in the fog of alcohol today. Not when everything felt so precariously close to something important.

At some point Aziraphale set his glass down and rubbed at his forehead with the cuff of his glove. "I still have not worked it out, you know," he admitted, sounding frustrated with himself. "Whatever this is all about. I feel quite stupid."

Crowley straightened at once. "Naaaaaaah, angel, your brain is first rate. You will get it. Besides, it is the mystery that is fun, is it not?"

Aziraphale let out a small, helpless laugh. "I suppose so."

Crowley leant back with exaggerated flourish, one hand pressed dramatically to his chest. "Good. Because if I had to explain myself, I might perish where I stand."

Aziraphale laughed properly at that, and the sound lit something inside Crowley that he immediately tried to smother. He failed rather badly.

They lingered a little longer, sipping their drinks, letting the warmth between them settle into something soft and companionable. When it was finally time for Aziraphale to leave, Crowley walked him to the door, neither quite willing to end the moment.

Aziraphale turned, looking up at him with that same gentle gratitude that had been unsettling Crowley for days. On impulse, or perhaps something deeper, he placed a hand on Crowley’s chest, right over the place where a heartbeat would have been.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "Goodbye, Crowley."

Crowley went perfectly still. "Yeah. Goodbye, angel."

Aziraphale withdrew his hand, gave him a soft, tentative smile, and stepped out into the corridor.

Warm, awkward, hopeful, and just a little bit adorable.

Exactly where both of them were beginning, slowly and inexorably, to fall.

31st December:

The bookshop felt unusually festive that evening, not in the garish way most shops decorated this time of year, but in the quiet, understated way only Aziraphale could manage. A small table had been set near the sofa, upon which stood an unopened bottle of champagne and two elegant flutes that looked as though they had been polished three times for good measure. The room glowed with candlelight, soft and warm, and the faint aroma of something sweet drifted from the kitchen upstairs.

Aziraphale checked his watch for the fourth time in as many minutes. He would not have admitted it even under threat of smiting, but he was excited. He had invited Crowley for New Year's Eve, and Crowley had said yes without a moment's hesitation, which was unusual enough to make Aziraphale feel pleasantly fluttery inside.

When the door opened, Crowley swept in with his customary swagger, sunglasses still on despite the late hour and the lack of light. His coat trailed behind him in dramatic fashion, though the effect was slightly spoiled by the unmistakable brightness in his expression, which he attempted, unsuccessfully, to smother.

"Alright, angel?" he said, voice deliberately lazy.

"Happy New Year's Eve, my dear," Aziraphale replied, positively glowing.

Crowley tossed a brown-paper parcel onto the table in what he clearly intended as a casual gesture. "Here. Happy… whatever."

Then, as if the absurdity of his actions caught up with him in an instant, he cleared his throat and muttered, "Do not laugh."

Aziraphale blinked, then smiled, because the warning only made him more curious. "Thank you, Crowley. May I open it?"

"If you must," Crowley said, already regretting everything.

Aziraphale undid the string and folded back the paper. He froze.

Seven rubber ducks stared up at him.

• A Shakespeare duck, its little quill raised dramatically in one wing.
• A knight in tiny armour.
• A Jane Austen duck with an unreadable expression of literary judgement.
• A white-uniformed police duck clearly meant to look like Muriel.
• A duck wearing a fluffy blue coat and a serene, Jim-like smile.
• One with black sunglasses, wild red hair, and a little black jacket.
• And one that looked undeniably like Aziraphale, curls and miniature wings included.

Aziraphale let out a delighted laugh, warm and bubbling. "Crowley, they are wonderful."

Crowley folded his arms but could not quite hide the pleased twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Still part of the thing."

Aziraphale looked up at him, smile softening. "Is it really?"

"Yeah. Obviously." Crowley shifted his weight and stared fiercely at the floor, because sincerity was dangerous if looked at directly.

Aziraphale picked up the Shakespeare duck and turned it over in his hand, deeply amused. "But why ducks?"

Crowley hesitated, something flickering in his expression before he drowned it in snark. "Because, angel, you asked for one."

"I did?" Aziraphale frowned, genuinely puzzled.

"In Hell," Crowley clarified, trying for nonchalance and failing. "You rocked up down there, wearing my face, all righteous and angelic, demanding a rubber duck like it was the most normal thing in the world. That, my ineffable friend, takes some guts."

Aziraphale blinked at him, emotional in a way he did not quite understand. "I only did this because you were in danger."

Crowley’s jaw tightened minutely. "Still. Takes courage to walk straight into the circles of Hell and ask for a rubber duck."

Aziraphale chuckled, though his eyes were suspiciously bright. "You make it sound as though I was terribly impressive."

Crowley scoffed at once, leaning back in the armchair as though the very notion had offended him. "Well, you were, angel. More impressive than any demon wanted to admit. Whatever you did, they sure gave me a wide berth afterwards, still do."

Aziraphale looked down at the ducks, his smile faltering for a heartbeat. "It wasn't that hard. I've always thought you were… mighty, in Hell. Feared. Respected."

Crowley barked a laugh, too sharp to be natural, before reverting to sarcasm with an almost clumsy desperation. "Anyway, did not think you would mind a few ducks. I thought they suited the… well, the memory."

Aziraphale reached out and touched the Aziraphale duck again, gently. "I do not mind at all. They are delightful, though I have not the faintest idea what you are doing."

Crowley almost smiled. "Good. That is half the point."

They settled opposite each other, Aziraphale on the sofa, Crowley in his armchair. Aziraphale opened the champagne with the kind of ceremony usually reserved for holy relics. They poured themselves one glass each. By midnight they were only halfway through the first bottle, both pretending to be tipsy, neither willing to drink enough to loosen their tongues too far.

As the clock struck twelve, Aziraphale raised his flute. "To a new year."

Crowley lifted his glass, eyes fixed on him with an intensity that made Aziraphale feel suddenly warm from head to toe. "Yeah. Happy new whatever and many, many, many more returns of the day." he greeted back in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

Aziraphale smiled softly, too sincerely for Crowley’s comfort. "May this year bring you, at last, everything your heart desires."

Crowley inhaled sharply, choking on his champagne. For a moment, as he gasped and coughed for air, his expression crumpled into something raw and unguarded, but he recovered quickly, staring into his glass as though the bubbles held a secret only he could read.

"Right," he said, voice rough. "Sure. That."

Aziraphale tilted his head, confused but touched, sensing a depth he could not name. Something in him tugged painfully, some new emotion that felt very much like falling but that he did not quite how to put it into words.

Crowley cleared his throat, suddenly too aware of how close they were to saying things neither of them was ready to voice. "We should call it a night, angel. It is getting late."

"Oh," Aziraphale said, trying and failing to hide his disappointment. "Yes. Of course."

Crowley rolled his eyes with theatrical exasperation that did nothing to disguise the fondness behind it. "Don't look at me like that. We will… do something tomorrow. If you want."

Aziraphale’s smile brightened at once, warm and hopeful in a way that nearly undid Crowley completely.

He looked away, muttering something incoherent, but Aziraphale caught the edge of it.

It sounded very much like fondness. And Aziraphale held that happy thought close, feeling it blossom in his chest with a warmth he did not quite understand.

1st January:

The bookshop was quiet in the early afternoon, the soft clink of china the only sound as Aziraphale poured them both a cup of tea. He had been half-expecting Crowley to appear with something, though he would not have admitted that even under oath, and so when Crowley stepped inside with a small, neatly wrapped parcel, Aziraphale felt a peculiar mix of anticipation and confusion.

Crowley handed it over with a shrug that was far too studied to be natural. "Here. Happy… whatever. Again."

Aziraphale accepted it with a gentle smile and sat on the sofa while Crowley took his usual place in the armchair, one leg tucked awkwardly under him. The demon tried to appear indifferent, but Aziraphale caught the faint glint of expectancy beneath the surface and found it rather endearing.

He undid the paper slowly, careful not to tear anything, and revealed a beautifully bound edition of the complete works of Jane Austen. His eyes widened with genuine pleasure, though the confusion did not dissipate.

"Oh Crowley, this is lovely," he said warmly. "Thank you. Truly."

Crowley waved a hand as if batting away a bothersome insect. "It is just a book, angel. And I seem to remember you like her, though I still do not understand why. Jane Austen, honestly. People imagine her drifting about with embroidery and polite conversation, but she was far sharper than that. Had a suspicious connection to the Clerkenwell Diamond Robbery, ran a few discreet side operations involving unlicensed print shops, and nearly caused an international incident with one of her letters. Hardly the paragon of virtue everyone claims."

Aziraphale laughed, delighted. "Oh, come now, Crowley. Even you must concede she had a remarkable way with character."

Crowley snorted. "Remarkable way with recycling a bad plotline, more like. You count the Bennet sisters and the Dashwoods and all the rest of them, and there have to be at least eight maids doing nothing but milking every situation for the slightest chance of a husband."

Aziraphale blinked, considered this, and then smiled in that soft, thoughtful way that made Crowley feel faintly unbalanced. "Well, when you put it like that… perhaps there is some truth to your observation."

Crowley realised Aziraphale was actually taking him seriously and groaned. "Angel, it was a joke. Mostly."

Aziraphale opened the book, running a fond hand over the first page, and felt that same warm tug in his chest as before. "It is a very thoughtful gift, Crowley. Thank you."

Crowley looked away sharply. "Good. Glad you like it."

Aziraphale sensed there was meaning he could not quite grasp, but the room felt pleasant and safe, and he allowed himself to sit with that warmth for a little longer.

Crowley stood abruptly, searching for his coat. "Right. I should go. I will pick you up tomorrow morning."

Aziraphale glanced up from the book. "Are we doing something?"

"Yes, angel. Look smart." Crowley gave him a quick, assessing glance from head to toe, the corner of his mouth twitching as though he were fighting the urge to smile. "That will do. I suppose."

Aziraphale huffed a laugh. "I shall take that as a compliment."

Crowley had no glasses on, and for a moment his eyes betrayed more than he intended. He turned away quickly. "I will see you at ten."

"Very well," Aziraphale said softly. "Goodbye, my dear."

Crowley paused at the door, shoulders stiffening for the briefest moment, then slipped out into the afternoon without another word.

Aziraphale sat back, the weight of the book resting warmly in his lap, and felt that same delicate bloom in his chest, gentle and puzzling, but not unwelcome.

2nd January:

"Where are we going?" Aziraphale asked as he settled into the Bentley, smoothing the front of his coat. The air still smelled faintly of last night’s champagne and candle wax, and Aziraphale found he rather liked the thought of beginning the new year in Crowley’s company.

"Bath," Crowley answered, starting the engine with a flourish.

"Bath?" Aziraphale echoed, puzzled.

"Yeah. Bath. Try to keep up, angel." Crowley reached into the glove compartment and produced a tin of travel sweets as if this were something he did regularly. The gesture was so absurdly courteous that Aziraphale felt an unexpected tug of affection in his chest.

The drive passed in a comfortable hush, broken only by the familiar hum of the Bentley and Crowley's occasional muttered insult aimed at careless drivers. As they approached the city, the lights softened into warm golden tones that glowed against the winter dusk, and Aziraphale began to suspect that Crowley had planned something rather elaborate.

His suspicions were confirmed when the Bentley came to a stop outside the Bath Assembly Rooms. Aziraphale stared, momentarily speechless.

"Oh Crowley, surely not…"

Crowley smirked. "Well, you like dancing. Or at least enough to put on a ball. Thought you might enjoy something a bit historical."

They stepped inside. The faint gleam of chandeliers and the distant strains of music framed the moment beautifully. Before he could say anything more, however, something peculiar tugged at his sleeves, his waist, his collar. He looked down sharply.

"Crowley," he said, narrowing his eyes. "What have you done?"

Crowley examined his nails in exaggerated innocence. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

Aziraphale gave him the sort of pointed look that would have felled lesser beings. His attire had shifted into the neat, tailored elegance of his 1793 outfit: cream waistcoat, pale cravat, soft colours and clean lines that suited him far too well.

"Do not pretend you had no part in this," Aziraphale scolded, though the warmth in his eyes betrayed him.

"You look fine," Crowley muttered, unable to disguise the way his gaze lingered. "Better than fine." Then he muttered extremely quietly: "Well worth 0.1 lazari, if you ask me."

Aziraphale flushed faintly and turned his attention to the dancers gathering in the hall. The music was lively, and before long an organiser approached with the enthusiasm of someone who had spotted a willing participant.

They wanted him to join the set.

"Oh, I am not sure…" Aziraphale began, though he was already taking a step forward.

"They need partners," Crowley said, hands in pockets, voice deceptively casual. "Would be rude not to help."

"It would indeed," Aziraphale replied. He took his place, and before long he was moving through a lively country dance, stepping neatly through figures with nine different ladies who laughed and beamed at him as though he were the highlight of the evening.

When he glanced back towards Crowley, the demon gave him a half-smile, amused and a little too pleased. "He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce," Aziraphale quoted under his breath with a teasing lift of his brows, "and, if I am not mistaken, more than one young lady seems in want of a partner."

Crowley gave a theatrical groan. "That is unfair, angel. I want the Austen books back, if you're going to use them against me!"

"It's entirely fair." Aziraphale extended his hand. "Do come along, my dear."

Crowley sighed deeply, as though burdened by an unbearable request, but stepped forward all the same. The moment their hands touched, something settled in the air between them, almost like a held breath. They joined the line, stepping and turning with the dancers, and each time their fingers brushed in passing, Aziraphale felt a quiet burst of warmth in his chest that he could neither explain nor ignore. Crowley, for his part, looked alternately irritated with himself and entirely mesmerised, which was a combination Aziraphale found unexpectedly charming.

They danced only twice together, but both times Crowley seemed caught between wanting to show off and wanting to run for the hills. Aziraphale’s smile, however, kept him rooted there, and every time their hands met, the contact lingered a little longer than was strictly necessary.

When the evening grew late and the music softened, they made their way back to the Bentley in a comfortable silence that felt heavier now, full of unspoken things. Crowley drove without comment, though he glanced at Aziraphale more often than the road strictly required, and Aziraphale sat with his hands neatly folded, trying not to seem too reluctant to return home.

The Bentley pulled up outside the bookshop. Aziraphale hesitated, unwilling to open the door just yet.

"I will see you tomorrow," Crowley said, voice steady but soft.

"Are we doing anything?" Aziraphale asked, his tone light but hopeful.

"Yes, angel. We are. I will pick you up at two."

Aziraphale’s fingers rested briefly on the door handle. He nodded, smiling faintly.

"Very well. Good night, my dear."

Crowley swallowed, eyes dark in the dim light. "Night, angel."

Aziraphale stepped out, closed the door gently, and stood for a long moment watching the Bentley pull away, feeling something warm and uncertain bloom in his chest, something he did not yet recognise, but which was growing all the same.

3rd January:

Crowley had been uncharacteristically quiet on the way to their destination, which should have tipped Aziraphale off that something unusual was coming, but he had been too busy enjoying the crisp winter air and Crowley’s company to notice. They arrived at a discreet historical dance society tucked behind a row of Georgian houses, the sort of place one would never find unless one knew precisely which brass door-knocker to use. Inside, a surprisingly large number of gentlemen were gathering for what appeared to be an instructional session dedicated entirely to the gavotte, though Aziraphale quickly realised this was a very particular variation, full of brisk movements, intricate footwork, and, most conspicuously, leaping figures that seemed to require an alarming amount of energy.

Aziraphale’s face lit up at once. It was as though the room had lifted a veil from some long-forgotten part of him. He stepped closer, captivated by the music and the lively elegance of the steps, and Crowley, seeing the joy break across his expression, felt something twist inside him that softened the sharp comment he had been preparing. Still, he could not help himself entirely. "At least those two are Lords," he muttered, nodding at a pair of minor aristocrats practising their jumps. "That must count for something, must it not?" Aziraphale, already far too delighted to question Crowley’s intent, nodded earnestly.

The instructor invited participants to join the warm-up and Aziraphale stepped forward without hesitation, moving into the early figures with surprising grace. Crowley refused outright, arms folded, snarking loudly enough for half the room to hear. "Leaping, angel. Actual leaping. Humans did this for fun. Unbelievable." Aziraphale faltered for a moment, a faint crease appearing between his brows, and Crowley’s stomach dropped. He had misjudged. "Fine," he muttered, already regretting his tone. "Show me how then. If I am going to make an idiot of myself, you may as well teach me to do it properly."

Aziraphale brightened at once, stepping close to demonstrate the rhythm and the curious little hop that distinguished this particular gavotte. Crowley tried to follow, grumbling loudly, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him whenever Aziraphale laughed or offered gentle encouragement. Eventually the music began in earnest and, to his own astonishment, Crowley found himself managing the steps without entirely humiliating himself. Aziraphale watched him with a pride that made Crowley stand a little straighter, and by the time they had completed the figure, the demon was almost enjoying himself, though he would deny it with his last breath.

As they stepped outside afterwards, Aziraphale slowed, the brightness that had animated him during the dance dimming at the edges. "I don't  understand the point of this if it only makes you unhappy," he said, his voice tight with frustration rather than sorrow. "If this is all part of some great masterplan, Crowley, then I must be missing something. What is the point of a plan I cannot fathom, except to make me feel foolish?"

Crowley blinked, stung by the edge in his tone. "Angel, no, it's not like that. I'm sorry. Really. I shouldn't have said these things. It is just…" He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "You said you liked choosing gifts because you knew the person would enjoy them. That's what I was trying to do. Pick things you would like. Make it fun for you. I just… ruined it."

Aziraphale looked away, jaw tight, and Crowley felt the twist of something very close to panic. "I had plans for the next couple of days too," he said, too lightly, as if trying to protect himself from the ache. "But if you would rather have a bit of space, angel, I understand. I don't want to impose."

Aziraphale turned back towards him, the anger softening into something gentler, though still bruised. "No," he said quietly. "No, my dear. Pop in tomorrow. We can talk over a cup of tea."

Crowley nodded, trying to look indifferent and failing, then opened the Bentley door for him. The air between them felt unsettled and fragile as Aziraphale stepped inside, but there was a thread of warmth still holding, faint but unmistakable.

4th January:

Crowley appeared in the bookshop just after opening time, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, shoulders tense in a way Aziraphale immediately recognised as defensive. Before the angel could greet him, Crowley cleared his throat sharply.

"Sit down, angel," he said, and there was something in his voice that made Aziraphale obey on instinct, sinking onto the sofa with a faint frown of concern.

Crowley removed his sunglasses and placed them with unusual care on the nearest table. He stood for a moment, visibly gathering whatever courage he possessed, then stepped forward, exhaled, and began to move. What followed was not the shuffling, embarrassed little routine Aziraphale expected, but something surprisingly elegant and controlled. Crowley executed a smooth bow, a turn, and even two neat gavotte steps, which he had hardly mastered the day before, and the sincerity of it made Aziraphale’s breath catch.

"Crowley," he said softly, eyes suddenly bright, "you ridiculous idiot."

Crowley stumbled mid-step, mortified, but the emotion in Aziraphale’s voice stopped him from fleeing. He finished with a final graceful sweep of his arm, then stood very still, eyes flicking anywhere but at the angel.

"I am sorry," he said. "About yesterday. I didn't mean to… hurt your feelings. I actually enjoyed it. Eventually. I was just being…" He waved a hand helplessly. "Myself."

Aziraphale rose, crossed the small space between them, and wrapped him in a full, warm hug before Crowley could retreat. Crowley froze entirely, like a startled animal, and then one of his hands lifted uncertainly to Aziraphale’s back. Something in him cracked, silent and small, and to his horror a single tear escaped, and he could not even pretend it had come from something in his eye.

"There was no need for any of that, and certainly not for an impromptu sorry dance," Aziraphale murmured, voice trembling despite himself. "But it means the world to me all the same. Truly. I am only frustrated that I still cannot work out your riddle, and I feel quite ridiculous."

Crowley swallowed hard. "You're not ridiculous. I'm the ridiculous one. And the riddle is not… subtle. I'm just making a complete mess of it."

Aziraphale gave a small, trembling laugh. "You have not made a mess of anything, Crowley. You are simply… puzzling. In a very dear sort of way. I only wish I were clever enough to keep up."

They sat down for tea afterwards, and the tension evaporated like morning frost. Aziraphale teased Crowley gently about the unexpected elegance of his footwork, Crowley accused Aziraphale of exaggeration, and the familiar rhythm between them returned as if it had never faltered. It felt almost like slipping back into their oldest, most comfortable selves, only there was something warmer now, something newly delicate beneath the humour.

After a while Aziraphale asked, very softly, "What was your plan for today?"

Crowley looked instantly flustered. "Well, I thought… I mean, I had… there was a concert. A thing. Probably a stupid idea. You don't have to come if you don't want to. It was just… I thought you might like it. Or hate it. I can't tell anymore. I am trying, angel, but clearly I am terrible at this."

Aziraphale smiled so fondly it nearly undid Crowley again. "I would very much like to go, if you will take me."

The drive to the venue was quiet but comfortable. When they stepped outside the Bentley and Aziraphale saw the posters outside the venue, he turned to Crowley with a puzzled but cheerful expression. "Bagpipes?"

Crowley shrank into his coat as though personally responsible for their existence. "Yes. Well. They are famous, the Royal Scots Dragoon Guard. Thought you might enjoy something different. Or not. One of them called in sick, by the way, so there are only eleven of them. Not that it makes a difference, I suppose."

Aziraphale laughed in delight. "Bagpipes," he repeated, amused and genuinely pleased. Without thinking he reached out, caught Crowley’s hand, and tugged him towards the doors. The gesture was light and brief but Crowley felt it all the way through him.

The concert was unexpectedly enjoyable. Aziraphale watched with bright-eyed curiosity, leaning forward at each new arrangement, and Crowley found himself watching Aziraphale more than the stage.

At the interval, Aziraphale turned to him with a quiet resolve.

"Would you like to come back to the bookshop with me? We could have a drink and talk a little more. If you wish."

Crowley stared at him for a heartbeat, undone by the gentleness of the invitation. When he found his voice, it was barely above a murmur. "It is your present, angel. Your show. We will do whatever you want." He added a small, cautious wink to soften the sincerity. Gosh, he sounded soppy, now, he berated himself. But Aziraphale smiled, so he let it go.

The rest of the evening was spent in easy and domestic conversation, the sort of quiet companionship that felt like the most natural thing in the world. They spoke about the pipers, and about nothing at all, and the fire crackled as night settled in. When the time came for Crowley to leave, neither of them said much, but the peace between them was restored, fragile perhaps, but warm and real.

5th January:

The bookshop was quieter than usual that afternoon. Outside, Soho was still shaking off the last clinging remnants of Christmas, the decorations a little tired now, the sales signs starting to droop in the damp air. Inside, Aziraphale was dusting a row of slightly battered travel guides when he heard the familiar sound of the door opening.

"Crowley," he greeted, turning with an automatic smile. "You are early."

Crowley did not return the smile, not quite. He shut the door with more care than usual and crossed the floor in those long, purposeful strides that always made it seem as though he were trying very hard not to run. He did not sit. Instead, he placed a small, neatly wrapped parcel on the counter between them, fingers lingering on it for a moment longer than necessary.

"That is the last one," he said. His voice was quiet, almost matter-of-fact. "For now. Maybe… next year."

Aziraphale frowned, just slightly. "The last…?"

Crowley cleared his throat. "You don't have to open it now," he added quickly. "Whenever you like."

The parcel was heavy for its size, its corners carefully folded, the paper smooth beneath Aziraphale’s hand when he touched it. There was something undeniably deliberate about it, something that made his heart give a small, curious leap. He wanted very much to open it at once, but something in Crowley’s expression held him back. The demon seemed muted, edges dulled, as though part of him had retreated somewhere Aziraphale could not see.

"Very well," Aziraphale said gently, removing his hand. "I shall save it for later."

Crowley nodded, relief and regret flickering together across his face. "Good."

There was a brief, fragile silence, then Crowley looked up, eyes a little brighter than before. "I thought we might go out," he said. "To the Globe. Twelfth Night. For old times’ sake."

Aziraphale’s entire demeanour changed at once. "Oh," he exclaimed, his smile blossoming with genuine delight. "Oh, my dear, that sounds marvellous."

The winter daylight was already fading when they arrived at the Globe, breath misting in the cool air. Crowley had secured standing tickets in the yard, and as they took their place before the stage, Aziraphale felt a peculiar, pleasant shiver of recognition. It was not this exact configuration of beams and plaster, not this precise arrangement of benches and galleries, but the spirit of the place, the hum of anticipation beneath the wooden canopy, was unmistakable. They had stood like this before, shoulder to shoulder, centuries ago, watching words and music spill out into the open air.

The play began, and before long Aziraphale was entirely engrossed. He laughed aloud at the accustomed moments, smiled in anticipation of lines he knew by heart, and watched each turn of mistaken identity with a fondness born of long familiarity. At one particularly charming exchange, he reached out without thinking and rested his hand lightly on Crowley’s arm, as if to draw his attention to some nuance on stage.

Crowley felt the touch as though it had been branded into him. He did not move, did not look down, barely allowed himself to breathe, but something inside him lurched painfully. Aziraphale’s profile was lit by the stage lights, eyes bright, lips curved in delighted appreciation, and Crowley thought, not for the first time, that there was no sight on earth or beyond it to match this. He berated himself in silence, as he always did in such moments, reminding himself that he was a demon, that whatever this was, it was not for him, could never be for him.

Aziraphale withdrew his hand again, unaware of the storm he had stirred, and returned his attention to the stage. Crowley focused on the boards before them with an effort, hearing the poetry but feeling it only as an echo beneath the thunder of his own thoughts.

When the play ended and the applause finally died away, they made their way back to the Bentley with the easy, unhurried steps of those reluctant to break the spell. The journey back to Soho was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Aziraphale sat with his hands folded, replaying favourite moments in his mind, while Crowley kept his gaze fixed on the road, thoughts elsewhere.

Outside the bookshop, the Bentley came to a gentle halt. The street was dim and still, the world narrowed to the small pool of light from the shopfront and the soft purr of the engine ticking as it cooled. Neither of them moved immediately.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said at last, turning towards him. "Are you quite alright? You have been… quieter than usual."

Crowley’s mouth twisted into something that was almost a smile but not quite. "Never better, angel," he replied, and the words came out softly, almost painfully.

Aziraphale’s brows drew together. "Is it because I have not worked out your riddle?" he asked, the question gentle but anxious. "I am sorry. I truly have been trying. I know I am missing something obvious."

Crowley shook his head. "No. Don't worry about it, angel. There is no time limit," he said, looking straight ahead. "You can take as long as you like. Besides, it's only a silly game."

He went silent for a moment, then took a breath, as though bracing himself. "You told me once that you liked giving gifts," he said quietly. "Because you chose them carefully. Because it meant something to think about what would make someone happy."

Aziraphale glanced at him, surprised by the seriousness in his tone.

"I understand that now," Crowley went on. "I have… enjoyed this. The planning. Even when I got it wrong." His mouth quirked briefly. "Especially when I got it wrong, maybe. I hope you had a good time too. Overall."

"I did," Aziraphale said at once, the answer simple and entirely true. "I have. Very much."

Crowley nodded, still not looking at him. "You deserve better than any of it," he murmured. "Better than omelettes and pipers and ridiculous rubber ducks. Better than anything I can come up with. And if others are too blind to see it… well. I am not. I will remember that in future."

The reference hung between them, unspoken yet unmistakable, its edges sharp with hurt. Aziraphale opened his mouth, then closed it again, words failing him for once. There was so much he wanted to say and no clear path to any of it.

"Good night, angel," Crowley said softly, at last turning his head. In the half-light his eyes looked darker than usual, something raw and unguarded in them that Aziraphale did not know how to name.

"Good night, my dear," Aziraphale replied, the phrase coming out quieter than he intended.

He stepped out of the Bentley and watched as it pulled away, the red glow of the rear lights receding into the dark. Only when the car had turned the corner and vanished from sight did he look down at his hands, remembering the unopened parcel waiting on the bookshop counter.

Back inside, he switched on the lights and stood for a long moment in the quiet shop, staring at the small, carefully wrapped gift. He reached out, almost touched the paper, then drew his hand back again. There was a warm ache in his chest, tender and insistent, and beneath it a restless little whisper telling him there was something very important he had not yet understood.

He turned off the main lights, leaving only the soft glow of the lamp by his chair, and walked past the parcel without picking it up.

Tomorrow, perhaps, he thought.

Perhaps tomorrow he would be ready.

6th January: Feast of the Epiphany

Aziraphale had been at his desk for most of the morning, spectacles perched on his nose, a sheet of paper in front of him already blurred at the edges where his fingers had rested too long. The page was covered in neat lines of ink, a list that started with “Gloves” and continued downwards in his tidy hand: “Crêpes,” “Nightingales,” “Ring,” “Lunch (omelette?),” “Rubber ducks,” “Jane Austen novels,” “Ball,” “Gavotte,” (that one still hurt to even write down, though) “Bagpipes,” “?” He tapped the end of his pen against the margin and frowned.

He was missing something obvious. He knew he was. The feeling sat in his chest like a stone.

The bell above the door jingled brightly and Maggie swept in, bringing with her a gust of cold air and the smell of gingerbread syrup and sugar.

“Happy New Year, Mr Fell,” she sang out, carefully balancing a cardboard tray with two hot chocolates and a small paper bag that smelt very much like pastries. “I am so sorry I have not been round sooner, things have been absolutely mad at the coffee shop. Nina says hello, by the way. Well. She grunted, but I am choosing to interpret that as hello.”

Aziraphale removed his spectacles and did his best to smile. “Happy New Year, Maggie. What a lovely surprise.”

Maggie came closer and set the tray down on the counter, then hesitated as she took in his expression. “You look like you have been doing taxes,” she said gently. “Everything alright?”

“Perfectly fine,” Aziraphale lied, a little too quickly. “I am merely… puzzling something out.”

Her gaze drifted to the small, neatly wrapped parcel still resting where Crowley had left it the day before. “Oh,” she said softly. “Is that from… someone special?”

Aziraphale followed her gaze and felt a tiny lurch in his stomach. “From a friend,” he answered. “He said it was the last present.”

“And you have not opened it?” Maggie looked genuinely shocked. “Mr Fell, that is the first thing you do. Why have you not been curious?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, then closed it again. The truth was that he was frightened. Frightened of what it might mean, and of what it might not mean. “I was saving it,” he managed. “For today.”

“Well,” Maggie said, brightening a little, “today is here. And I brought reinforcement.” She nudged one of the hot chocolates towards him. “Go on.”

Aziraphale reached for the parcel with hands that were not quite steady. He unwrapped it carefully, folding the paper aside, and lifted the lid of the box beneath. Inside, cushioned in velvet, was a small antique music box, polished wood and delicate brass. When he lifted it out, set it on the counter and lifted the lid, Maggie gasped.

“Oh, it is beautiful,” she breathed. “Look at them.”

Inside the box, twelve tiny figures in painted uniforms stood in a circle, each with a miniature drum. At the side of the box, a little key hinted at the mechanism within. Maggie bent closer. “There are twelve of them,” she said, delighted. “Like the song, you know. Twelve drummers drumming.”

She straightened and hummed a bar, then, without warning, started to sing in a hesitant little voice. “On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me... ” She paused dramatically.  “Twelve drummers drumming, eleven…” She faltered, brow furrowing. “Oh, what is it… pipers piping, that is it. And… ten, um… something leaping, I always forget that one, nine ladies dancing, eight… maids something, seven swans a-swimming, six geese a-laying, five go-old rings…” She laughed at herself and kept going, off-key but fond. “Four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves...”

The world seemed to narrow around Aziraphale to the circle of tiny drummers and Maggie’s cheerful, stumbling song. His eyes widened. He looked from the music box to the list on his desk, then back again.

Maggie, still humming cheerfully, reached the end of the verse with a bright little flourish: “And a partridge in a pear tree…”

Aziraphale let out a faint sound, hardly more than a breath. It felt as though something inside him had shifted—subtly at first, then all at once. My true love gave to me. The familiar lyric echoed in his mind with sudden, startling clarity.

He pressed a hand to his chest, as if steadying something that had begun to beat far too fast.

“Oh,” he whispered. “Oh. Crowley.”

“Mr Fell?” Maggie asked, instantly concerned.

He turned away from the counter and almost stumbled to his desk, snatching up the sheet of paper. Two purple gloves. Three French crêpes. Four nightingales. Five golden rings. Six eggs. Seven ducks. Eight fictional maids. What had Crowley said? Milking every opportunity to get a rich husband. Of course! Nine ladies at the ball. Ten lords at the gavotte (well, at least two were lords). Eleven pipers on stage. Twelve little drummers inside the music box. And before all of that, on Christmas Day, partridge with roasted pears.

“Oh, I have been so stupid,” he whispered, and the words came out sharp and broken, heavier than he intended.

Maggie hurried over. “Mr Fell, you have gone white. Sit down, please.”

He did not sit. His eyes were shining now, not with delight, but with something far more painful. The pattern unfurled in his mind with cruel clarity: every day, every gesture, every carefully chosen, occasionally disastrous, always heartfelt gift. He could see, now, how much Crowley had been trying to say, and how consistently he had failed to hear it.

“I am so very stupid,” Aziraphale said again, more to himself than to her. “I have missed everything.”

“Hey,” Maggie said gently, hand hovering near his arm. “Whatever it is, I am sure you are not stupid. You just look like a man who has finally realised something important.”

He let out a small, helpless laugh that sounded suspiciously like a sob. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I believe I have.”

“You should sit down,” she repeated. “Or at least drink some hot chocolate.”

“I am perfectly fine,” Aziraphale said, which was patently untrue. “I am afraid I must go.”

“Go?” Maggie blinked. “Now?”

“Yes. At once.” He reached for his coat, pulling it on with uncharacteristic haste. His gloves remained on the back of the chair, forgotten. “Thank you for the chocolate, my dear. And for the song.”

Maggie stared at him, baffled but kind. “Are you sure you are all right?”

“I will be,” Aziraphale said, and, to his own surprise, found that he believed it. “Eventually.”

He did not bother locking the door behind him.

On the bus, he sat with the list folded in his pocket and his hands clenched in his lap. His thoughts moved in slow, inexorable circles. He loved Crowley. The admission rose in him with the quiet certainty of something that had always been true. He loved everyone, of course; he was an angel, made for love, for care, for compassion. But this was different. This was more. This was not the gentle, dutiful affection he had for Maggie, or Nina, or anyone else. This was the sort of love that rewrote the shape of days, that made omelettes and rubber ducks and badly concealed miracles feel like declarations.

He wondered, not for the first time, whether that made him a bad angel. Whether it meant he had already fallen, somewhere along the way, without noticing. The thought hurt, but beneath the hurt there was a strange, growing calm.

If the alternative was eternity without Crowley, then it was a price he could live with.

By the time the bus pulled up near Crowley’s building, Aziraphale’s nerves had steadied into something like resolve. He walked quickly to the door and rang a bell that was not Crowley’s own. An elderly crow-eyed woman peered out from the neighbouring flat and buzzed him in with a nod; he murmured his thanks and hurried up the familiar stairs, heart hammering.

He paused outside Crowley’s door, hand hovering over the bell. For a long moment he stood there, listening to the faint hum of the building, the distant sound of a radio somewhere above. Then he exhaled, closed his eyes, and with a small, careful exertion of will, sent a miracle through the lock. It yielded with the faintest click.

Inside, the flat was dim and still. Aziraphale slipped in and closed the door softly behind him. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, but when they did, he saw Crowley at once. The demon was sitting in his chair by the desk, feet up, body sunk deep into the cushions, head turned towards the window. The posture was lazy, almost insolent, but the line of his mouth and the set of his shoulders were anything but.

Aziraphale stayed where he was, half in shadow, and watched him. He saw the sorrow in the slight downturn of Crowley’s lips, the uncertainty in the way his fingers drummed absently against the arm of the chair, the brittle quality of his stillness, like something braced for impact. It was heartbreaking and tender and, in a way Aziraphale could not have articulated, quietly beautiful. His eyes filled without his permission.

He cleared his throat.

Crowley started. His feet came off the desk at once as he jerked upright, turning sharply in his chair. For a second his expression was naked, startled, and then he pulled himself together, sitting properly, shoulders squared.

“Hello, angel,” he said, and his voice tried very hard to be casual.

Aziraphale took a step forward, tears still clinging stubbornly to his lashes. “I have had an epiphany,” he said. “Which seems rather apt, today.”

Crowley stared at him, wary. “Have you now,” he replied slowly. “And what exactly have you… epiphanised?”

Aziraphale laughed, a short, breathless sound. “I have been blind,” he said. “Utterly, unforgivably blind. I made a list, you see, and even then I did not see it. Two gloves, three crêpes, four nightingales, five rings, an omelette, well, six eggs... ” His voice shook, but he forced himself on. “And then the rubber ducks and the maids in Jane Austen's novels, the ladies at the ball, the lords and the gavotte, the eleven pipers and the twelve little drummers. I even forgot about the partridge and the pears. You spelt it out for me, and I did not understand.”

Crowley went very still. He looked confused at first, then something raw flickered in his eyes, a wary hope that hurt to see. “Angel,” he began, “you do not have to—”

“I have been so slow,” Aziraphale rushed on, words tumbling over each other. “So terribly slow. You are the riddle, Crowley, do you see? You always have been. And I am not clever enough to keep up, apparently, but I am trying.”

He faltered, breath catching, then shook his head impatiently. “Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered, and closed the distance between them in three determined strides.

He took Crowley’s face in both hands and kissed him.

It was not gentle. It was all the pent-up confusion and gratitude and aching, belated understanding poured into one fierce, desperate press of mouths. Crowley froze, every muscle in his body going rigid, and for a few endlessly long heartbeats Aziraphale wondered if he had made a dreadful, unforgivable mistake.

Then Crowley melted. His hands came up, one curling into the fabric of Aziraphale’s coat, the other finding the back of his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss softened and deepened; Aziraphale felt Crowley’s mouth curve into a smile against his own, and halfway through, Crowley let out a helpless little giggle that vibrated between them.

Aziraphale broke away just far enough to breathe, lips still brushing Crowley’s. He was smiling now too, tears sliding unnoticed down his cheeks. “Did I get it right?” he asked, voice unsteady. “Crowley, did I solve the riddle?”

Crowley laughed properly then, joy and relief and disbelief all tangled together. “Yes, angel,” he said, forehead resting against Aziraphale’s. “Spot on.”

They kissed again, more slowly this time, with a softness that remained just as intense. Between kisses, Aziraphale managed, “I am so sorry. I have been so blind, and so afraid, and I did not see what you were trying to tell me.”

Crowley shook his head, lips brushing his. “I am the one who is sorry,” he murmured. “Sorry I was so cryptic. Sorry I took so long. Sorry I am… a demon. You deserve better than-”

Aziraphale pressed a finger gently to his lips. “I do not want better,” he said, with a quiet conviction that surprised even him. “I want you. If that means I have fallen, then so be it. I would rather fall with you than stand alone without you.”

Crowley’s eyes searched his face, stricken. “Angel, I do not want you in Hell,” he whispered. “They would eat you alive.”

Aziraphale’s mouth quirked, even as fresh tears gathered. “It is quite all right, my dear,” he said. “I have rubber ducks now.”

Crowley barked out a startled laugh that turned into something suspiciously like a sob. He pulled Aziraphale into another kiss, one hand coming up to frame his cheek, thumb brushing away a tear.

When at last they parted properly, both a little breathless, Aziraphale stayed close, resting his forehead against Crowley’s. “May I stay for lunch?” he asked. “I'm afraid I'm quite ravenous.”

Crowley huffed a soft laugh, still dazed. “I think,” he said, “I might have some partridge and pears in the freezer. If that appeals.”

Aziraphale laughed too, a warm, incredulous sound, and pressed a quick, grateful kiss to the corner of Crowley’s mouth. “Very much,” he replied. “Very much indeed.”

Crowley stood, fingers lacing with Aziraphale’s as though it were the most natural thing in the world, and led him towards the kitchen. The flat, which had felt so cold and sterile once upon a time, seemed suddenly warmer, gently flooded with something new and astonishing, as though the air itself had shifted in recognition.

For the first time in a very long while, Aziraphale stepped forward into whatever came next without hesitation, hand in hand with the demon who had spent twelve days trying to tell him he was loved. He let this feeling settle in his chest and felt, quite clearly, that this was the start of the rest of their eternity.