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“Welcome, welcome, dear listeners, to our annual Christmas spectacular! This is ‘Footnotes & Fables,’ the podcast where academic rigor meets—”
“—questionable life choices,” Crowley interjected smoothly, his voice warm even through the microphone. “I’m Crowley.”
“And I’m Aziraphale Fell. Today we’re broadcasting live from our usual studio, though we’ve attempted to make it festive.”
“We’ve hung exactly one string of lights and Aziraphale brought mince pies.”
“I brought excellent mince pies from a very good bakery, I’ll have you know.”
“They’re from Tesco.”
“A very good Tesco.”
Their producer, Anathema, gave them a thumbs up through the glass.
The live chat was already scrolling with comments,viewers who’d tuned in specifically for their Christmas episode, which had become something of a tradition over their three years of podcasting together.
Aziraphale adjusted his headphones and pulled his notes closer. “Right, before we descend into complete chaos, let’s establish today’s format. We’ll be discussing the cultural significance of Christmas traditions, taking live listener questions, and...”
“getting progressively more tipsy on mulled wine,” Crowley finished, holding up his mug. “It’s tradition.”
“It’s not tradition. Last year we had tea.”
“Last year was boring.”
“Last year was dignified!”
“Same thing.” Crowley took a deliberate sip of his mulled wine. “Come on, angel. It’s Christmas. Live a little.”
The nickname.
He always used the nickname on air, had been using it since their third episode when he’d said it without thinking and the listeners had loved it so much they’d never stopped.
But something about the way he said it today,slightly warmer, slightly more intimate made Aziraphale’s chest tight.
“Fine,” Aziraphale said, pouring himself what he intended to be a modest amount of mulled wine. “But we’re maintaining some level of professionalism.”
“Absolutely. Very professional. So professional.” Crowley leaned back in his chair. “Right. First topic: Christmas carols. Discuss.”
“That’s not a discussion, that’s barely a sentence.”
“I’m easing us in. Being gentle.”
“You’re being lazy.”
“I’m being strategically minimal.” Crowley’s grin was audible in his voice. “Come on, angel. You’ve got opinions. You always have opinions. Hit me with your carol theology.”
Aziraphale took a sip of mulled wine and felt it warm him from the inside out. “Fine. I think ‘O Holy Night’ is the superior Christmas carol. Musically complex, emotionally resonant, theologically interesting...”
“Boring.”
“It’s not boring!”
“It’s extremely boring. It goes on forever. By the third verse, I’ve lost the will to live.”
“That’s because you have the attention span of a goldfish.”
“And you have the attention span of someone who enjoys Victorian literature. We balance each other out.”
In the chat, someone wrote: the dynamic is already immaculate and we’re 5 minutes in
Another: get married challenge
Anathema was trying not to laugh.
“What’s your superior carol then?” Aziraphale asked, knowing he was walking into something.
“‘Fairytale of New York.’”
“That’s not a carol!”
“It’s sung at Christmas, ergo, carol.”
“That’s not how carols work!”
“It’s exactly how carols work. Christmas song equals carol. I don’t make the rules.”
“You literally just made up that rule!”
Crowley laughed, low and warm, and Aziraphale felt it in his chest. “See? You’re already getting heated. This is going to be a good episode.”
They moved through topics with their usual rhythm,debating whether Die Hard was a Christmas film (Crowley said yes, Aziraphale said absolutely not), discussing the origins of Christmas pudding (Aziraphale waxed poetic about Victorian traditions while Crowley pointed out it was basically just boozy cake), arguing about the ethics of lying to children about Santa (they somehow both agreed on this one, which threw them off).
The mulled wine disappeared faster than planned.
Anathema kept having to remind them to drink water.
The chat was having the time of their lives.
“this is the most married they’ve ever been”
“are we sure they’re not already together?”
“the TENSION”
Around the forty-minute mark, Aziraphale made the mistake of bringing up their first Christmas episode.
“Do you remember how disastrous that was? We were so nervous.”
“You were nervous. I was fine.”
“You spilled an entire mug of tea on the desk.”
“That was strategic. Created drama. Got listener engagement.”
“You were terrified.” Aziraphale smiled at the memory. “You kept making jokes to cover how nervous you were.”
“Did not.”
“Did too. You always do that. Make jokes when you’re uncomfortable.”
“Do I?” Crowley’s voice had gone quieter, more genuine.
“Yes. It’s rather endearing, actually.”
A pause. In the chat: ENDEARING. HE SAID ENDEARING.
“Right,” Crowley said, clearing his throat. “Listener questions. Let’s do those before we get too sappy.”
Anathema sent through the first question.
Aziraphale read it aloud: “This one’s from PineappleExpress420: ‘What’s your favorite Christmas memory together?’”
“Together?” Crowley repeated. “Like, with each other?”
“I suppose so.”
“Well. There was that conference in Edinburgh. Two years ago.”
“Oh God, the Edinburgh trip.” Aziraphale started laughing. “The snowstorm.”
“The bloody snowstorm. What were the odds?”
“Tell them,” Crowley urged. “You tell it better.”
“I do not tell it better...fine. All right.” Aziraphale settled in his chair. “Two years ago, Crowley and I were both invited to a symposium on folklore and oral traditions. Very academic, very serious. We decided to travel up together to save on costs.”
“You decided. I just went along with it because you were going.”
Aziraphale felt his face heat. “Yes. Well. We took the train up, arrived in Edinburgh on a perfectly nice December afternoon, checked into our hotel...”
“Your hotel. I was staying somewhere cheaper.”
“My hotel, where he immediately infiltrated by claiming the heating in his hotel was broken.”
“It was broken.”
“It was perfectly functional, you just wanted to steal my complimentary biscuits.”
“The biscuits were exceptional. No regrets.”
“Anyway,” Aziraphale continued, trying to ignore how warm he felt, “that evening we went out for dinner, and by the time we finished, there was a blizzard. Proper white-out conditions. We couldn’t get back to the hotel.”
“Had to shelter in a pub.”
“A very small, very crowded pub that was showing a Christmas special of some kind...”
“Doctor Who Christmas special. It was excellent.”
“and we ended up staying there for four hours until the snow calmed enough to attempt the walk back.”
“We were both completely drunk by then.”
“You were completely drunk. I was merely tipsy.”
“Angel, you sang. Out loud. In public.”
“I did not...” Aziraphale stopped. “Did I?”
“You absolutely did. Some carol, can’t remember which one.”
“Oh God.”
“It was cute.” Crowley’s voice had gone soft. “You were cute.”
The chat exploded.
CUTE
HE SAID CUTE
IM SCREAMING
JUST KISS ALREADY
Aziraphale took a long drink of mulled wine to cover his confusion. “Right. Well. That was certainly a memorable evening.”
“Best conference trip I’ve ever been on.”
“The conference itself was rather good too.”
“I barely remember the conference. I remember the pub. And you singing. And walking back through the snow together, both of us completely freezing, and you lending me your scarf because I’d forgotten mine.”
“You’re always forgetting scarves.”
“And you’re always prepared with extras. We balance each other out.”
There was a moment of silence, loaded with something neither of them seemed willing to name.
Anathema sent through another question, probably trying to save them.
“Right,” Aziraphale said, grateful for the interruption. “Next question from…BookWyrm: ‘When did you realise you worked well together?’”
“First episode,” Crowley said immediately. “We were both nervous, neither of us had done podcasting before, and then you started talking about fairy tale symbolism and I just…knew. This was going to work.”
“Really? I thought you found me boring.”
“What? No. Never. You’re the least boring person I know.”
“I talk about medieval literature for forty-five minutes at a time.”
“And you make it interesting. That’s the difference.” Crowley leaned forward, his voice intense even through the playful tone. “You care about things. Properly. It makes people care too. That’s rare.”
Aziraphale stared at him across the desk. “That’s…that’s very kind.”
“Not kind. Honest.”
The chat was losing its collective mind.
this is not professional podcast behavior
this is FLIRTING
get a ROOM
They pushed through more questions,discussing their favourite Christmas films (Muppet Christmas Carol for Aziraphale, Elf for Crowley, surprisingly), their least favourite holiday foods (both agreed on Christmas pudding, despite Aziraphale’s earlier defense of it), their thoughts on New Year’s resolutions (neither believed in them).
The mulled wine continued to disappear.
Their laughs got louder, more frequent.
The silences between topics lasted longer, filled with looks instead of words.
“Here’s one from the chat,” Crowley said, scanning the questions. “Someone called ‘ShipIt2023’ asks: ‘When are you two finally going to admit you’re in love?’”
Aziraphale choked on his wine. “That’s not a real question.”
“It’s right here. Look.” Crowley showed him his phone.
“That’s… they’re joking. Clearly joking.”
“Are they though?”
“Of course they are. We’re colleagues. Professional colleagues who host a podcast together.”
“Very professional. Absolutely zero tension whatsoever.”
“There’s no tension.”
“None at all. That’s why you’re blushing.”
“I’m not blushing, I’m warm from the wine!”
“Sure, angel. Whatever you say.”
ANGEL
THE WAY HE SAYS ANGEL
IM DECEASED
“Right,” Aziraphale said, trying to regain control. “We should probably address this, since it comes up in the chat every episode.”
“You want to address whether we’re in love? On air?”
“I want to address the nature of our working relationship. Professionally.”
“This should be good.”
“Crowley and I are friends,” Aziraphale said carefully. “Good friends. We work well together because we complement each other. He’s spontaneous and I’m structured. He’s irreverent and I’m...”
“Stuffy?”
“I was going to say traditional.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s not the same thing at all.” Aziraphale took a breath. “The point is, we have an excellent working relationship built on mutual respect and shared interests.”
“That’s the most boring way you could have possibly described us.”
“How would you describe us?”
“Honestly?” Crowley set down his mug and looked directly at Aziraphale. “I’d say we’re two people who get each other. Who make each other laugh. Who’ve been dancing around something for three years because we’re both too scared to mess up what we have.”
The studio went very quiet.
In the chat, messages were flying too fast to read.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly. “We’re on air.”
“I know.”
“There are four thousand people listening.”
“I know.”
“You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not? It’s Christmas. Time for honesty and goodwill and all that.” Crowley’s voice had lost its playful edge. “I’m tired of pretending this is just professional. That I don’t look forward to these recordings more than anything else in my week. That I don’t rewatch our episodes just to hear you laugh.”
“You rewatch our episodes?”
“Course I do. You’re in them.”
Aziraphale’s hands were shaking slightly. “I watch them too. For the same reason.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. I…” Aziraphale glanced at the camera, at Anathema through the glass, at the chat scrolling endlessly. “Can we pause the recording?”
“No,” Crowley said gently. “Because if we pause, we’ll talk ourselves out of this. We’ll be sensible and professional and we’ll keep pretending.”
“And you don’t want to pretend?”
“Not anymore. Do you?”
“I…” Aziraphale looked at him properly, really looked at him across the desk that had separated them for three years. “No. I don’t want to pretend anymore.”
The chat had somehow got even faster.
IS THIS HAPPENING
ARE WE WITNESSING A LIVE CONFESSION
CHRISTMAS MIRACLE
“So,” Crowley said. “Where does that leave us?”
“I have no idea.” Aziraphale laughed, slightly hysterical. “We’ve just confessed feelings for each other in front of four thousand people on a live Christmas podcast. I don’t think there’s a protocol for this.”
“We could kiss. That’s pretty traditional.”
“We’re in separate chairs.”
“Minor logistical issue.”
“Crowley...”
“After the show,” Crowley said. “When we stop recording. Can we talk about this properly?”
“Yes. God, yes.”
“Good.” Crowley’s smile was radiant. “Right then. Should we finish the episode or just let the listeners watch us stare at each other?”
“We should probably finish the episode.”
“Probably wise.” But Crowley didn’t look away. “You know this is going to be everywhere by morning. Twitter, TikTok, every podcast review site.”
“I know.”
“You’re okay with that?”
“I’m terrified. But yes. I’m okay with it.” Aziraphale picked up his notes with shaking hands. “Where were we?”
“No idea. Don’t care.” Crowley checked his phone. “We’ve got about ten minutes left. Want to just do sign-off now?”
“That’s very unprofessional.”
“Angel, we just confessed feelings on air. That ship has sailed.”
“Fair point.”
They stumbled through a closing segment, both of them laughing more than was strictly appropriate, fielding a few more chat questions (mostly variations on “ARE YOU GOING TO DATE NOW??” and “KISS KISS KISS”).
Finally, mercifully, they reached sign-off.
“Right,” Aziraphale said, trying to sound professional and failing. “That’s all for today’s Christmas spectacular. Thank you for joining us for what has been, without question, our most chaotic episode to date.”
“And our most honest,” Crowley added.
“And our most honest,” Aziraphale agreed. “We’ll be back in January with our usual format, assuming we survive the fallout from this.”
“We’ll survive. Might even be better for it.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears.”
“Happy Christmas, everyone,” Crowley said, his eyes still on Aziraphale. “May your holidays be filled with good food, good company, and the courage to say what needs saying.”
“And may your New Year bring new beginnings,” Aziraphale added softly.
“This is ‘Footnotes & Fables,’ signing off. Thanks for listening.”
Anathema hit the button to end the stream.
The light went off.
They sat there in the sudden silence, just looking at each other.
“So,” Crowley said eventually. “That happened.”
“That definitely happened.” Aziraphale removed his headphones with shaking hands. “We just…did that. On air. In front of thousands of people.”
“No take-backs now.”
“I don’t want take-backs.”
“No?”
“No.” Aziraphale stood up, and before he could overthink it, walked around the desk to where Crowley was sitting. “I meant everything I said.”
“So did I.” Crowley looked up at him. “What now?”
“Now?” Aziraphale held out his hand. “Now I think we should get dinner. Properly. As a date. Not as colleagues who happen to eat together.”
Crowley took his hand and stood up, close enough now that Aziraphale could see the gold flecks in his eyes, could smell his cologne. “That sounds perfect.”
“And then we should probably discuss what this means for the podcast.”
“We’ll figure it out. We’re good at figuring things out together.”
“Are we though? We just spent three years not figuring this out.”
“Okay, fair. But we’ve figured it out now. That’s what matters.”
Through the studio glass, they could see Anathema giving them the most smug thumbs up in human history.
“She’s going to be insufferable,” Aziraphale observed.
“She’s earned it. She’s been dealing with our oblivious pining for three years.”
“We weren’t that obvious.”
“Angel, there are compilation videos on YouTube of us being obvious. I’ve watched them.”
“You’ve watched compilation videos of us?”
“In my defense, I was trying to work out if you liked me back. The comments were very encouraging.”
“The comments called us idiots and told us to kiss.”
“Exactly. Very encouraging.” Crowley was still holding his hand. “Can I kiss you now? Or is that too forward for a first date that hasn’t technically started yet?”
“Kiss me, you ridiculous man.”
Crowley kissed him, soft and certain, one hand coming up to cup Aziraphale’s face.
It was better than Aziraphale had imagined and he’d imagined it frequently over three years of podcast recordings and late-night editing sessions and conferences in snowstorms.
When they broke apart, both slightly breathless, Crowley was grinning.
“Worth the wait.”
“Definitely worth the wait.”
“Though we should probably check the internet. See how badly we’ve broken it.”
“Do we have to?”
“Not immediately. But eventually.” Crowley laced their fingers together. “Right now, though? Dinner. Somewhere nice. Somewhere we can talk without four thousand people listening.”
“That sounds perfect.”
They collected their things, turned off the equipment, and headed for the door. Anathema intercepted them in the hallway.
“So,” she said, trying not to smile. “That was interesting.”
“That’s one word for it,” Aziraphale said.
“The Twitter hashtag is already trending. #FootnotesAndFlirting. There’s edits. There’s gif sets. Someone’s already made a compilation video of every time you’ve said ‘angel’ on air. It’s forty-three minutes long.”
“Oh God.”
“It’s beautiful. You two are beautiful. Chaotic, but beautiful.” Anathema hugged them both. “I’m happy for you. Even if you did just turn our nice academic podcast into a romance drama.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Crowley said.
“You will. You always do.” She stepped back. “Now go. Have your date. I’ll handle the social media fallout.”
“Are you sure?”
“I live for this stuff. Go. Be cute. I’ll see you both next week for the planning meeting.”
They escaped into the December evening, the cold air a shock after the warm studio.
Crowley immediately wrapped his scarf,an elegant tartan thing around Aziraphale’s neck.
“You’ll freeze,” Aziraphale protested.
“Worth it. You look good in tartan.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You like it.”
“I do,” Aziraphale admitted, pulling him closer. “I really, really do.”
They walked through the London streets toward the restaurant, hands clasped, already arguing about whether Love Actually was a good film (Aziraphale said no, Crowley said it was perfect actually, the argument would continue for the next several hours and multiple dates).
Behind them, the internet continued to explode.
The episode would become their most-watched ever.
The hashtag would trend for three days.
Someone would make a dramatic reading of their confession set to orchestral music.
There would be think-pieces about parasocial relationships and the ethics of public confessions.
But none of that mattered, not really.
What mattered was this: two people who’d been dancing around each other for three years, finally brave enough to stop pretending.
Two people who complemented each other perfectly,stuffy and irreverent, structured and spontaneous, careful and reckless.
Two people who’d built something together, one episode at a time, and were now building something new.
Something real.
Something that started with a Christmas episode and a bit too much mulled wine and ended with a kiss in a quiet studio after the recording light went off.
The next episode, recorded in January, started like this:
“Welcome back to ‘Footnotes & Fables.’ I’m Aziraphale Fell, and after the chaos of our last episode, I think we owe you all an explanation.”
“And possibly an apology,” Crowley added.
“Why would we apologise?”
“Because we turned a nice literary podcast into a drama?”
“Fair point. Right. So. For those of you who missed the Christmas episode...”
“All twelve of you...”
“Crowley and I had a rather public moment of honesty.”
“We confessed feelings. On air. It was very dramatic.”
“It was spontaneous.”
“It was overdue.”
“That too.” Aziraphale smiled at him across the desk,the same desk, the same studio, but everything different now. “The short version is: we’re dating. Have been for the past month. We’re very happy about it.”
“Extremely happy.”
“And the podcast will continue as normal.”
“Well. Mostly normal. We might be slightly more obvious about being disgustingly in love.”
“Crowley...”
“What? We were already obvious. Might as well lean into it.”
The chat exploded with heart emojis.
The comments were universally supportive.
And somewhere in London,vtwo people who’d found each other through footnotes and fables continued building something beautiful.
One episode at a time.
One kiss at a time.
One perfectly imperfect moment at a time.
Just as it should be.