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It started on Saturday, four days before Christmas. The front door of the cottage opened and closed, followed by Aziraphale’s footsteps pitter-pattering down the hallway toward the sitting room. When Crowley looked up, the angel stood in the doorway, decked out in his winter finest, his hat dusted with snow. That was normal for a blustery day. What wasn’t normal was the large gift-wrapped box tucked under his arm.
“Hello, darling.”
Without another word, Aziraphale crossed the room, knelt, and placed the box under the tree, next to the fireplace. He stood, removing his scarf and mittens. Holding his hands out toward the dancing flames, he gave a pleased little wiggle at the warming sensation.
Crowley stared blankly at his back, the phone he had been scrolling going slack in his hand. “Uh… Angel?”
Aziraphale turned, his smile warm and… was that some mischief Crowley detected lingering in the corners?
Hey, that’s typically my thing.
“Yes, love?”
“…Didn’t we say no gifts?”
“Did we?” The angel’s faux innocence was obvious, his smile growing wider still.
“You know we did. What’s in the box?”
“Oh, come now. Where would the fun in that be?” Aziraphale crossed the room, leaned down, and pressed a soft kiss into red hair before heading toward the kitchen. He called over his shoulder, “I’m going to put the kettle on. Would you like any tea, dearest?”
Crowley blinked after him, bemused.
Crowley tried his luck again later that evening.
“This isn’t fair. You have to let me.” Crowley narrowed his eyes, crossing his thin arms over his chest.
Aziraphale smirked at his indignation. “I most certainly do not.”
“If you’re breaking the rules, that means that I get to as well.”
“Oh, I dare disagree.”
“But—”
“Your Christmas gift to me can be not arguing about this.”
“I—”
“No.”
“Well, can I at least—”
“Absolutely not.”
“But—”
Aziraphale silenced Crowley with a kiss. A breathtaking kiss, long and deep, that made the rest of the world fade away. Time seemed to stop, only now without the imminent fear of The End of Days. When Aziraphale pulled away, Crowley blinked at him slowly, his cheeks heating; he could feel them flush the pretty pink his angel always waxed poetic about during more particularly amorous endeavors. Aziraphale gave a little tug to the roots of his hair. Suddenly, Crowley couldn’t even remember… What had they been talking about, again?
“Ngk.”
“I can think of better things you can do with that mouth of yours other than asking impertinent questions,” Aziraphale whispered hotly.
Well then.
Asking questions had always gotten Crowley into trouble, hadn’t it?
“Well, when you put it like that…”
The gift was swiftly forgotten in favor of…significantly more enjoyable matters.
Until the next morning, that is.
Crowley glared at the box under the tree as though it had personally insulted him. This was maddening. Aziraphale had to know this would drive him absolutely spare, especially combined with the fact that he wasn’t able to reciprocate. Denying Crowley an opportunity to dote on his angel was simply not on.
He stood up, filled with nervous energy as he approached the tree. No real reason, he told himself. Just some ornaments that needed adjusting.
And if his foot by chance inadvertently tapped against the side of the box while he was doing so… Well, accidents happen sometimes.
The box gave almost no resistance, seemingly light as a feather. Crowley’s brow furrowed.
Why would something so light need such a big box?
He looked around, over his shoulder, feeling like a spy in a James Bond movie, or Indiana Jones getting ready to swap out the golden statue for the bag of sand. Aziraphale had gone out back to get some more firewood. Did he have enough time?
Quickly, he swooped down and picked up the gift. It weighed next to nothing. He shook it, hoping to get some sort of idea as to what he was looking at here, and why it had to be such a big damn secret. He thought he heard something rattle, ever so slightly, from deep within the box, but he couldn’t tell for sure.
“Darling? Can you come help me with this wood?” Aziraphale’s voice chimed in from the back door.
Startled, Crowley almost jumped right out of his woolly socks, nearly dropping the package. He cleared his throat and tried to make his voice sound normal as he knelt down, replacing the present exactly how it had sat prior. Or, so he hoped.
“Be right there, Angel.”
The next day was the day before Christmas Eve.
Crowley stirred the velvety brown hot chocolate bubbling in a pot on the stove. He was breathing in the sweet scent, when he felt two broad, strong arms circle him from behind. He never knew how Aziraphale always managed to sneak up on him like this undetected. He tilted his neck slightly, grinning like a happy cat as he allowed the angel to brush soft lips against the side of his throat.
“Mmmm, hot cocoa. My favorite.” Aziraphale was nuzzling now, with purpose and intent.
“Yes, well. If you won’t let me get you a present, you’re going to let me make you hot cocoa. I won’t hear otherwise.”
“I suppose that’s fair.” Aziraphale continued to nibble on the side of Crowley’s neck, making his way down toward the jut of a bony shoulder. Crowley felt his heart speed up and his breathing quicken. Despite such ministrations, he managed to ladle the cocoa into the angel-winged mug sitting on the counter.
He turned in Aziraphale’s arms, mug in hand. Aziraphale happily accepted, taking a slow sip, his eyes fluttering closed in delight, a blissful moan escaping his mouth—the kind that never failed to make Crowley’s trousers suddenly seem a tad too small.
“Why can’t I know what it is?”
The angel opened his eyes at Crowley’s demand, that mischievous grin back once again. “You’ll know soon enough, darling! Christmas is only two days away. Surely you can hold out until then?”
“It’s a new garden starter.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Okay fine, a vintage Bordeaux from a vineyard we visited in the early 19th century that you can’t find anywhere anymore.”
“Patience is a virtue.”
“I’m not virtuous. I’m a demon. Literally the exact opposite of virtuous.”
“I beg to differ.” Aziraphale pressed a chaste kiss to Crowley’s lips. Those lips pushed out in a pout, in a way Crowley typically found worked well for him.
Not this time, apparently.
“The Golden Girls Complete Series Box Set on DVD.”
(He knew from the weight of the box—not that he could say so to Aziraphale—that it was none of these things. However, desperate times, desperate measures and all that. Damn him and his constant blasted curiosity.)
Aziraphale threw his head back and laughed loudly, reaching around and giving Crowley’s arse an affectionate squeeze.
“Can I at least have a hint?” Crowley let his bottom lip give a bit of a wobble for emphasis.
“I think you’ll find it is worth the wait.”
Aziraphale kissed him again, the cheeky bastard, then headed into the sitting room with his mug—no doubt to settle next to the fire with his latest tome.
Crowley’s pout transformed into a petulant scowl.
This simply wouldn’t do.
Alright, Angel. You wanna play ball? Game on.
Crowley’s eyes opened at two in the morning on Christmas Eve, the bedroom dark and quiet save for the sound of his angel snoring lightly beside him. He blinked his serpentine eyes sleepily, taking a second to orient himself, before a small, devilish smirk spread over his lips.
He lay still for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to do this without waking Aziraphale. The angel had his arm thrown over Crowley’s waist in a sort of half-spooning configuration. This would require subtlety and finesse.
He closed his eyes, took a long, deep breath, and rummaged around in his essence. A moment later, his snake form—much smaller than usual, this was a covert mission, after all—slithered out from underneath Aziraphale’s warm, solid arm, then down over the sheets and onto the floor. That accomplished, he smoothly made his way out the bedroom door into the hallway.
Even if his current facial configuration couldn’t show it, on the inside, his smug smirk morphed into a huge grin.
It’s not like he was cheating or anything. He was just preparing, is all. Leveling the playing field, and what have you. Despite Aziraphale’s insistence that he not get him a gift in return, this just couldn’t stand. Actually, the very fact that the angel felt he could even get away with such an egregious request showed a level of wily cheek that simply had to be thwarted. And he was a demon, after all! His whole purpose was to thwart Aziraphale’s wiles, and vice-versa.
The angel had no one to blame but himself here, really, when you truly thought about it.
(Shut up.)
Regardless of the ethics of the thing, Crowley was going to use the last 24 hours he had left until Christmas morning making absolutely sure his angel was presented with the most heartfelt, the most well-thought-out, the most sentimentally on-point gift that had ever been gifted. Something that would be talked about for all their future Christmases together to come, something that would blow whatever was in that Satan-foresaken box out of the water.
He just needed to know what was in it first.
Staying incognito, Crowley continued to slither on his belly down the stairs into the sitting room. Even in the dark with his reptilian night vision, he could see a fresh layer of snow covering the windowpane. The tree was lit, its lights twinkling romantically next to the embers that smoldered in the fireplace. And there the bloody box remained in its place underneath, just mocking him at this point.
Crowley rummaged around in his essence once again and smoothly resumed human form. Redirecting his glare at the package, he muttered quietly, trying (and failing) to sound threatening, “Yeah, well. We’ll see who’s laughing tomorrow morning, won’t we?”
He knelt down before the box and slid it quietly up against his knees. He began oh-so-gently undoing the wrapping, making certain to not tear any paper or leave any indication that the gift had been tampered with. Suppose if I do muck it up, I can always miracle it back together. He worked delicately at the tape, the corner of his mouth lifting into a wry grin. Provided I keep it under 25 Lazerii, of course. Don’t need a repeat of that episode anytime soon.
He set the paper aside neatly, staring down at the smooth, white box. Here it was. The moment of truth. He took a deep breath and opened the lid, looking inside to see…
Another box. Also wrapped, also with a bow. A smaller one.
He quirked an eyebrow, blinking down at the package in befuddlement. What?
His shoulders slumped. He didn’t say a word as he resumed the careful, diligent work of removing bows and paper, opening up the second lid to reveal…
Another box, smaller still. This time, he did say a word. A decidedly naughty one, not for Santa’s ears. Followed by three more:
“Oh, come on!”
Crowley looked around furiously, wondering if this was some sort of prank—he half expected Aziraphale to jump out with an iPhone, recording him like they did on that show on American telly with Ashton Kutcher. (Although if he were being honest, Aziraphale would probably break out an ancient camcorder. Or maybe draw a sketch.) There was no sign of devious angels—he was still alone.
There was nothing else for it. He shook his head, grumbling, and opened the third box.
Only to find a fourth box.
“Okay Angel, what in the Heaven?” It didn’t matter that said angel wasn’t even in the room to hear him, this was now weird enough to justify talking to himself. “What are you playing at he—”
He stopped short, falling abruptly silent.
This box was quite small—it fit nestled in the curve of his palm. Not so small, however, that a little gold gift tag couldn’t fit onto it, scrawled with his angel’s perfect, loopy cursive:
Go on. You know you want to.
Crowley blanched, and froze.
There was a long stretch of silence as he looked down at this last little box, his heart thumping in his chest.
Somehow, someway, he instantly knew that he had always been meant to open this now, and not Christmas morning.
Without saying a word, and with decidedly less care this time, he ripped away the bow and paper, tearing off the lid. Gasping, he stared down, utterly gobsmacked.
His vision began to swim as his shaking fingers lifted the final box free. Unlike the previous boxes in the set, this one wasn’t wrapped or tied with a bow. It was smooth, black velvet, with a gold hinge. Crowley’s throat ached. His blood pumped wildly in his ears. Finally, he took a shuddering breath, swallowed hard, and cracked the box open.
The only thing wedged in the slit of the tiny velvet cushion was a small, folded piece of paper that Crowley immediately recognized as Aziraphale’s high-end stationary. He only ever used it for personal, handwritten letters.
Hands trembling worse than ever, he dislodged the note, letting the box tumble to the ground as he unfolded it.
Turn around.
His heart leapt as he whirled on the spot, so fast he almost lost his balance and toppled back onto his arse. And there he was. Aziraphale, in his perfect tartan pajamas and dressing gown, with his perfect ruffled white-blond curls and his perfect, beautiful smile, wearing an expression that was equal parts very, very nervous and very, very hopeful. Even through the tears rapidly filling his amber eyes, Crowley could see the angel clutching something small and shiny between his fingertips.
Crowley had absolutely no idea how Aziraphale had managed to suddenly appear—once again undetected—and couldn’t possibly have cared less.
He tried to speak, but found he couldn’t. His voice kept catching in his throat at every attempt, leaving him able to do little more than gape like a fish out of water while his eyes continued to fill, then brim over. Aziraphale approached cautiously, saying nothing, and knelt down in front of him. He appeared blurry through Crowley’s tears, but not so blurry that he couldn’t see that the angel had tears in his eyes, as well. The twinkling lights of the tree were reflected in their watery blue-gray, like stars reflected in the sea on a clear night.
Aziraphale reached out, slowly, tucking a strand of hair behind Crowley’s ear before gently taking the demon’s slender hand and sliding the ring—a beautiful, brilliant silver band, with a diamond of the most pure, deepest black—on his ring finger.
Neither one had spoken a word the whole time. Finally, Aziraphale lifted that same hand to his lips, kissing it reverently, before holding it clasped between his two broader ones.
“If you’re really that insistent on getting me a gift as well,” he said, his voice hoarse, his smile brilliant, “then you can say ‘yes.’”
Crowley lay with his head pillowed on his angel’s chest, pressing his hand over Aziraphale’s heart. He stroked the silver-blond hair there, admiring the way the glittery black gem sparkled in the glow of the Christmas tree. Pajamas lay strewn on the floor (one pair of pants hung rather comically over a lampshade on the side table next to the couch). The seemingly three thousand Russian Doll-esque boxes had all been tossed across the room carelessly in Crowley’s haste to, in fact, say “yes” as enthusiastically as humanly (or in their case, as supernaturally) possible. The discarded dressing gown lay over their bodies haphazardly, revealing more than it covered. Aziraphale’s fingers combed through Crowley’s hair, winding the long pieces around his fingers, making Crowley almost purr with contentment. He felt his eyes begin to droop sleepily in response to his fiancé’s (!!!) soothing touch.
“So,” Aziraphale said suddenly, his cheek pressed into the top of Crowley’s head. “Was I right? Was it worth the wait?”
Crowley grinned, pretending to consider the query. He could feel Aziraphale’s own smile broaden.
“Well, I mean, it’s no Golden Girls Complete Series Box Set,” he said dryly. Aziraphale chuckled and gave him a light, affectionate swat on the arse. Crowley responded with a laugh of his own, burying his face into the angel’s neck. “But then again, I always preferred silver anyway.”
FIN