Work Text:
Crowley hadn’t planned on doing something nice.
Of course he hadn’t! Niceness was meant to happen accidentally, like tripping over a box of puppies while attempting minor arson. He was a demon, for Satan’s sake! He never planned on being nice.
But unfortunately for Crowley, Christmas had arrived.
London was glowing in that annoyingly cheerful way Crowley hated—twinkling lights, carols leaking out of shop doors, humans smiling brightly for no discernible reason.
Aziraphale had been unbearable for weeks.
“Oh, Crowley,” the angel had said in early December, fluffing a ridiculous tinsel wreath and hanging it over the door of the bookshop, “isn’t Christmas simply marvellous?”
Crowley had hissed, sunglasses sliding down his nose. “It’s a capitalist conspiracy wrapped in emotional manipulation.”
“Yes, isn’t it lovely?”
So now Crowley stood outside the bookshop late on Christmas Eve, coat collar turned up, scowling at a velvet sack in his hands, feeling slightly betrayed that it did not burst into flames from the intensity of his glare.
The idea had come to him earlier that evening while Aziraphale was hosting a “Very Small, Very Tasteful Christmas Gathering” (which had somehow involved eleven humans, a brass band, and mince pies so sinfully delicious that angels might sell their souls and demons might beg forgiveness just for another bite). Aziraphale had been glowing—faintly, but actually glowing—when he handed Crowley a small, carefully wrapped present.
“For you, my dear,” Aziraphale had said, the twinkle in his eyes extra merry (possibly from the eggnog). “I saw it and thought of you.”
Crowley had opened it to discover a first edition of Principia Discordia, annotated in the margins with Aziraphale’s neat handwriting. He had stared at it for a few seconds too long, throat tightening before he noticed.
Which was how he ended up here.
The demon slipped into the bookshop, carefully avoiding the creaky floorboard by the romance section. The place smelled like old parchment and cinnamon, the aroma both comforting and irritating, like being homesick for somewhere he refused to admit he belonged. Aziraphale was asleep upstairs, undoubtedly with visions of sugar plums dancing in his head.
Crowley paused, steeling himself.
“Right,” he muttered. “In. Out. No sentiment.”
He set to work.
He started with the tree. Aziraphale’s Christmas tree was a riotous mess of various lights and trimmings acquired over the years: big, bold glass bulbs mixed with tiny twinkly lights, with a few random strands of those icicle lights that had been all the rage a few years back thrown in for good measure. Each blinked in its own time, all buried under crinkly garland and strung popcorn.
Crowley snapped his fingers, and the lights rearranged themselves into elegant, serpentine patterns, glowing a deep, warm gold instead of blinking like an overstimulated technicolour squirrel.
Next, Crowley waved a hand, and every single book in the shop subtly reorganised itself—not by subject, but by emotional resonance. Happy books clustered together, while the tragedies leaned dramatically. The horror ended up in the furthest, dimmest corner and huddled together ominously, while all the truly terrible poetry was gently relegated to another corner where it could think about what it had done.
Finally, the crowning touch.
Crowley reached into the sack, pulling out a snow globe that depicted the interior of the bookshop, perfectly rendered with tiny shelves and a minuscule Aziraphale behind the counter. When Crowley turned it upside down, instead of snow, golden feathers drifted down, catching the light.
Crowley stared at it, jaw tight.
“Stupid,” he said softly, placing it on the counter.
He was just about to leave when he heard a noise upstairs.
“Oh.”
Too late.
Aziraphale appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed in soft pyjamas covered in tiny reindeer. He blinked.
“Crowley? Is that you?”
Crowley froze like a child caught stealing cookies. “You’re supposed to be asleep,” he grumbled.
“I heard…” Aziraphale came down the stairs, looking around as he decended. His eyes widened. “Oh my.”
The lights. The books. The tree.
Then he saw the snow globe.
Aziraphale picked it up with reverent care, his hands trembling slightly as he turned it over.
“Oh,” he breathed, eyes shimmering as he watched the delicate feathers drift downward. “Crowley.”
Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets. “’S not a big deal. Just thought the place could use a… er—look, all those random lights were probably a fire hazard or something.”
Aziraphale laughed, a soft sound full of delight. “You reorganised my entire shop by feelings.”
“Well,” Crowley deflected awkwardly, “your Dickens section was emotionally confusing.”
Aziraphale looked at him, eyes shining. “You did all this… for me?”
Crowley swallowed. “Don’t make it weird, angel.”
Aziraphale stepped forward and hugged him.
Crowley stiffened.
Then—very carefully—returned it.
Outside, church bells rang. Inside, golden feathers settled quietly.
“Merry Christmas, Crowley,” Aziraphale said.
Crowley sighed, but there was no real heat in it.
“…Yeah,” he said. “Merry Christmas, angel.”