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December, 1970. Hyde Park.
.
“I’ve never understood it.”
“What is there to understand? It’s snow, dear boy, it’s nice!”
“Nh... Nice.”
The demon crunched through the park alongside his friend, following a gravel path along the northern border of the lake. It was deep into December and the other walkers were wrapped up to the nines in thick coats and mittens, hats pulled low over hair and faces rosy beneath. London’s parks were never empty, even on the coldest days, and there were plenty of humans making their way along the gravel paths, but all were moving faster than the angel and the demon, who had nowhere particularly they needed to be, following their lunch earlier that afternoon.
They drew to the side as a horse drawn carriage trundled past, a young couple bundled up together inside, and Crowley thought for a while on how much better life was now that horse drawn carriages were reserved for fleecing tourists, rather than the mainstay of transportation. At his shoulder, Aziraphale was busy expounding on the week’s predicted weather. It was to be Christmas in a few days - yet again. London’s usual precipitation was due to freeze. The angel seemed very excited by this.
The demon eyed his friend, shoving his fingers deeper into his pockets. He disliked winter as a rule. There was still a shadow of the snake in him, cold blooded to the last. He liked heat, and sun, and basking. He loved the oppressive weight of August, and the breaking warmth of June. December was not really his scene at all. Some years, he slept right through it, including the frivolous human celebrations near the end. New Years was all right, but Christmas? Crowley was not a huge fan of Christmas. He had been there at the first Christmas and it had been damp and miserable even then. Though at least he’d managed to get the last room at the inn, the demon reminded himself. It could have been worse.
“It just rather brightens the place up, doesn’t it?” The angel finished whatever point he was making about snow and beamed up at the demon. “Plus, it’s romantic. Inspires lots of songs, and stories, and art. People like it.”
His cheeks were rosy, Crowley noted. He looked cherubic, in a renaissance painting sense of the word. Winter became Aziraphale. Wrapped in knitwear, and his cream coat, and a thick grey woollen scarf, he looked the part. Of course, their kind did not have to suffer from cold like humans did. A quick miracle, a slight stretch of reality, and Crowley and Aziraphale could be as toasty as if they were sunning themselves in the south of France. The effort of bending reality to keep himself warm would be worth it, for Crowley, who had not bothered to add anything to his usual ensemble. The angel, on the other hand, lacked the inclination. He enjoyed dressing up like a human, enjoyed feeling the cold air sting his cheeks above comfortable layers of cloth. He was a physical creature, for something born to exist beyond matter. Crowley found it fascinating and irritating all at once.
“I still think it’s a waste of perfectly good rain,” he grumbled, causing Aziraphale’s face fall into a pout.
‘Oh, you’re no fun."
Feet crunching against the frozen gravel, they resumed their leisurely stroll.
They had been walking companionably for half an hour now, with no particular destination in mind. Crowley thought the park might have been his friend’s suggestion, but he couldn’t be sure. Lunch had been his, having read about new hotel opening that the angel might like. He had been correct, of course. The hotel had a marvellous restaurant and Aziraphale had enjoyed himself immensely, picking through the menu, ordering for the both of them even though Crowley had no intention of eating half of what came out. It was not that he didn't like to eat. He did, from time to time. He enjoyed it like any other physical pleasure. He just had very specific tastes. Too specific, he thought to himself. He liked rare meat, and sesame ice cream, and watching Aziraphale make little noises of delight as he put things in his mouth.
Crowley shoved his fingers deeper into his pockets, postponing the moment that he would have to stretch reality, to keep himself warmer. Aziraphale would reprimand him and he would probably need that, at some point during the day, to put distance between them. Best save it, he told himself, sauntering a little faster. Break glass, in case of emergency.
“Do you have plans, for the weekend?” Aziraphale asked, at his right shoulder.
The demon glanced around.
“The weekend?”
“Friday. Christmas day,” the angel lifted his eyebrows. “I know the religious implications aren’t really your scene, but I thought the human trappings of the celebration... All that gluttony, and sloth, and lust.”
“How is lust anything to do with Christmas?” The demon scoffed.
Aziraphale looked over at another of the horse drawn carriages, trundling past, romancing tourists entwined together in the back.
“I don’t know. But they do tend to get worked up around the holidays,” he said, watching the humans fondly. “It just seems to be part of it.”
“Clearly I’ve been attending the wrong sort of parties,” Crowley quipped, forcing his eyes back forwards and his feet to resume their walking.
The pair wandered a little further along the frosty path.
The demon wondered, for a while, why Aziraphale automatically assumed that he spent his spare time seeking sin. Temptations and inconvenience were his job, to be sure, but there was a limit to how much humanity a demon needed to soak itself it. Besides, humans had this way of making gluttony and sloth, and even lust, multifaceted and not really even all that evil, when you came down to it. They had this inherent balance in them which often messed with Crowley’s best laid plans, and made him secretly sure that both his and Aziraphale’s jobs here were at least ninety percent pointless.
It was a damn sight better than spending an eternity in Hell, however, so he had no intention of ever sharing that thought aloud - especially not with the angel. Aziraphale was deeply devoted to the idea of spreading peace and harmony through the world and Crowley didn’t see much harm in letting him enjoy it. The humans would counter it with equal measures of strife and discord, and Crowley would always be there to muck things up. And that was what gave life its delightful flavour, wasn’t it? Contrast.
“Speaking of parties, you should pop by on Friday, if you’re not busy,” the angel continued, rubbing his hands against one another even though he didn’t need to - both on account of his gloves and, of course, being a supernatural being. (He had just seen people doing it and liked the way it looked). “I’m having a few people around in the afternoon, for drinks. Just a silly thing.” He shot Crowley a furtive glance. “You’d be very welcome.”
“Not work colleagues, then?”
Aziraphale pulled a face.
"Goodness no…”
That warmed the demon. A silly smile tugged at his lips, before he mastered himself and turned it into a sneer.
“I can imagine Gabriel, getting on the eggnog.”
“Oh, don’t…”
“Definitely handsy with a few drinks in him, that one,” Crowley pushed on, and was rewarded with a little giggle from his friend. “Wouldn’t want to meet him on the way back from the toilets.” He arched a brow, “down a long hallway, the music up loud, the lights down low…”
“Clearly you have been attending the wrong sort of parties.”
“Or the right ones,” suggested Crowley.
“Well,” Aziraphale threw a quelling look over. “The offer stands, regardless. It will just be a few old fuddy-duddies with no families to go to. The conversation will be heavy on philosophy, and cartography, and a number of other things you have no interest in, but there will be ample wine and I’m making those little bruschetta that you adore.” Crowley gave a soft hum. He did adore the little bruschetta. “And it would be a delight to have you there. So, if you’re free,” Aziraphale tailed off, looking, for the first time, a little nervous, “you’d be very welcome.”
Crowley met his eyes and was forced to concentrate rather hard on the sound of the gravel under their feet. He had to remind himself that he had spent the last however-many years as custodian of a reputation, of an image, and that Anthony J. Crowley did not flush pink to be invited to an evening soiree full of boring old gentlemen and canapés, even if it was the first party invite he had ever received from Aziraphale and it did mean rather a lot.
He gave a little shrug.
“I’ll probably be busy,” he drawled, careful to stress the nonchalance of the reply, lest Aziraphale mistake it for a refusal. “But I’ll put it in the diary, just in case.”
The angel smiled.
“Excellent.”
They walked a little further through the park.
Around them, the clouds were closing in a little. In the distance, Crowley could hear the hubbub of the street, cars and busses and people surging around the place. They were near enough to the edge of the park to make out the windows of the expensive houses that surrounded it. Lights glowed in many of their windows, tiny patches of gold, pinpricked with Christmas bulbs and the outline of trees. Crowley wondered if Aziraphale had a Christmas tree. He wondered if he should get a Christmas tree. It might serve as a warning of what can happen to plants that don't pull their weight, he thought. There were certainly some philodendron back at his flat which could do with a good scare.
Turning a corner, they passed a pair of young men walking in the other direction, both wrapped tightly in mittens and coats. The way they were standing was too close to be friends, thought the demon, watching the way their feet fell, unafraid of hips, or arms, or shoulders brushing. Occasionally, one would lean in and murmur something into the other’s ear, or against their neck. Outside of certain circles, in certain bars, at certain times, it was rare to see such a display of intimacy, but the world was changing, the demon thought. There were things that were taboo just a decade ago that were allowed, now. The fringes of society had a way of knitting themselves together, until they were a new part of the tapestry. If they were important enough, they would last.
This had to be one of the important things, the demon mused, watching the two young men nearly slip on a patch of ice - the brown haired man grabbing the slighter one by the elbow, to make sure he did not fall. They passed within feet of the angel and demon, before carrying on, towards the centre of the park, eyes only for each other. It certainly looked like one of the important things.
Turning back forwards, Crowley pushed his glasses a little further up the bridge of his nose. At his shoulder, he could feel Aziraphale watching with that interested, open look he wore sometimes. It was one of the oddities about his friend, the demon thought. He would fluster terribly talking about theology, about Heaven and Hell and good and evil, but he was far less reserved when it came to human things. He loved nothing better than a good natter on the antics of humanity. The more awkward, the better. Crowley could sense some form of comment coming, and sure enough…
“You know, I think I might have been unfair, in saying the way they celebrate the holidays is gluttonous, or slothful, or lustful,” Aziraphale mused, watching the human couple. His eyes slipped back over onto Crowley, irises pale in the winter light. “They probably mean it to be more like joy, and peace, and love. They do seem to have good intentions, most of the time.”
“Not all of them,” the demon grumbled. “Believe me.”
“Well, no Crowley, not all of them.” The angel gave an exasperated eye roll. “But, from my experience, most of them are trying to do their best. It just doesn’t always land correctly.”
The demon felt a little squirm of indignation.
“Yeah? And who exactly decides whether something ‘lands correctly’?”
“Well, I mean,” the angel’s gaze darted upwards.
“Oh, please,” the demon scoffed. “As if God gives a damn who we love.”
As soon as the words had left his lips, the demon regretted them. Aziraphale had been talking about gluttony, sloth and lust. That he had chosen to focus on love was more telling about Crowley than about the conversation as a whole. The fact that he had used ‘we’ rather than ‘they’ was even more telling.
Trying desperately to remember that he was Anthony J. Crowley, and that he didn’t flush like a schoolgirl, the demon curled his fingers within the tight confines of his pockets.
“Well,” said Aziraphale, after ten seconds or so had passed in silence, apart from the soft crunch of their feet on gravel. “I don’t imagine God does mind who we love, but I do imagine They mind very much how we love.” The angel glanced over at Crowley, wearing that carefully curated neutral expression that he liked to wear during a debate, or a philosophical argument. (The sort that Crowley generally tried to avoid because it always came back to God, in the end). “That’s all I was trying to say,” the angel told him, a little more softly. “A comment on lust versus love, sloth versus peace, gluttony versus joy… I didn’t mean that there was anything incorrect about those young men. And, for the record, I think that the laws coming through to protect them are terribly important.” He glanced back over his shoulder, towards the retreating figures on the frosty path. To Crowley’s surprise, he was a little flushed as he looked back around. It was hard to see through the general rosiness of his cheeks, but it was there. “You know how I feel about all of that, Crowley.”
“Ngk.” The demon gave a noncommittal response.
“A little more love in the world can only be a good thing,” Aziraphale said, softly.
“And that’s heaven’s policy, is it?” Crowley asked, feeling entirely out of his depth, but for some reason still talking. “Sounds a lot more merciful than most human policies.”
“Actually, as far as i’m aware, we don’t have a policy.”
“Yeah, neither do we,” the demon muttered, still feeling a little indignant and knowing that he should just stop talking and let the conversation die a natural death. Aziraphale would drop the subject, the demon knew he would - as soon as he realised it was making Crowley uncomfortable. Something in him kept going, however. “It seems to be a bit of a human preoccupation, worrying about it all. Though, I suppose Hell has actively encouraged their whole weirdness about genitalia, over the ages. Shame is a good driver.”
The angel’s eyebrows slid up and his eyes scanned Crowley’s face, as if searching for any sign that the demon was messing with him.
“Well... It does sound like something your lot would do.”
“Yeah,” Crowley felt his lips move again, quite on their own accord, as if trying to fill the awkwardness with sound.“I mean, the whole ‘eat the apple’ business was innocent enough, to start off with… Well, not innocent, but it was just about letting them know their options, you know? And pissing your lot off. It wasn't supposed to be about shame, or what they had between their legs.” Fucking Hell... Why was he still talking? He did not want to talk about this. He had spent many years actively not talking about this... “It was all a bit left field, on the humans’ part. The whole thing about having to cover up their bodies, and being worried about whose genitals looked like whose, and caring where everyone wanted to put everything…” His cheeks were properly red now, he could feel them burning. “Really not what I intended at all.”
Aziraphale’s eyebrows were somewhere close to his untidy hairline.
“It was only supposed to be about rebellion,” Crowley continued, voice higher than it usually was. “but they were jolly enthusiastic about the whole thing and suddenly everyone had an opinion. But I was only meaning to cause a bit of trouble. It wasn't supposed to be anything to do with who people wanted to have sex with.” Great. Now he was talking about sex. This was just great. “And it’s all rather ironic, really. It was just a sodding apple.”
Across the path, Aziraphale stared at him blankly for all of five seconds, then his face split into a grin.
"Oh, fuck off..." Crowley grumbled. His cheeks were burning worse than ever.
“No, Crowley, I-,” The angel managed to contain himself for a moment. Then his eyes swept Crowley’s face again and he dissolved into laughter. “Dear boy,” he gasped, “I'm sorry. I just d-didn’t-, didn’t expect all of that.”
“Alright. No need to go on…” Even his damned ears were red.
“S-sorry.” Aziraphale raised a hand to cover his mouth. A giggle escaped from behind it. " Would you-,” Another little giggle. “Would you rather we go back to talking about the weather?”
Crowley closed his eyes. He felt very stupid. His face was red, his stomach was churning with embarrassment but - in a bizarre turn of events - a grin was starting to twitch at the corners of his mouth.
It was something to do with Aziraphale's laughter. He couldn’t figure it out. It was ridiculous. Aziraphale was laughing at him, it shouldn't really be funny. Only, Aziraphale wasn’t really laughing at him... He wouldn't. It was more laughing with him. And there was something soft in the way the angel was smiling, something warm around his eyes. And Crowley’s traitorous mouth, the one that wouldn't stop talking, was stretching into a proper smile.
Talk about the weather, indeed.
Bloody angel...
“The weather would be great, actually,” he grumbled, trying to fight the grin, cheeks still burning, ears still red. “We can talk about snow again, if you’d like?”
The met one another's eyes.
Then, they were both laughing - uncontrollable, shaking laughter, that filled Crowley up from his toes. He wasn’t sure where it had come from. It was just all so silly.
For a minute or two, they continued to walk along the path, alternating between little bursts of chuckling. Their breath clouded in the cold air, mixing with the sound of their feet on the gravel and the distant sound of London. As they reached the last great sweeping curve of lawn, and the gates of the park came distantly into sight, Crowley felt Aziraphale give a little sigh and pull himself together. As he did so, the angel moved a little closer, allowing their shoulders to brush on every alternate step.
“I'm sorry,” his friend gave a little sniff. "I didn’t mean to laugh. I just wasn’t expecting all of that.”
“Yeah, well,” Crowley grimaced, “that makes two of us.”
“Where did it come from?”
“Hell knows. Probably the cold weather affecting my brain. I should really be hibernating. Any half-decent snake would be,” the demon blustered. Then, as Aziraphale left him slightly too long in silence, he forced himself to continue. “I suppose it’s a bit of a touchy subject.”
“Because?”
The demon glanced sideways.
“Oh, you know...” He had never said this out loud, before. It had always been implied in jokes, or throwaway comments, but he had never actually said it. He was nervous, Crowley realised, with a start. He had no business being nervous - it was such a human thing to worry about - but he was nervous anyway. “I, uh-,” The words that had been pouring out of him, earlier, were suddenly coming too slow. “I suppose it’s because I spend more time in this shape than any other," he eventually managed. "So, even though I’m not a man, that’s how people see me. And, well… that’s kind of my scene, you know? Other man-shaped creatures of the world. That’s, uh, what I like… So…” he stalled.
“So, you notice the way the world sees those young men?” Aziraphale suggested, softly.
Crowley nodded, glad not to have any blushes left.
“Yeah."
He suddenly realised that they had stopped walking and were just standing, looking at each other.
Clearing his throat, he turned and resumed motion.
After a moment, Aziraphale fell into step beside him. He was smiling. Not the same smile as he had worn earlier, though. This was something softer.
“I did know, you know,” he said, after a few quiet seconds. “Have done for a long time.”
Crowley glanced sideways at him.
"You did?"
"Mm."
“And it doesn’t bother you?” Crowley pulled a face. “I mean, it’s a bit odd, isn't it? Angels and demons don’t tend to go in for that sort of thing, as a rule, and if they do they tend to imitate the human majority.”
The angel’s smile gave a little twitch.
“It has never bothered me.” He tucked his gloved hands under his arms - another little move that he probably just liked the look of it. He was a ridiculous excuse for an angel, thought Crowley, admiringly. “It’s just how you feel, isn’t it?” The angel was saying, throwing him a soft little look. “It’s just you.”
“As far as I’m aware,” Crowley replied, and the tight feeling in his throat was suddenly gone. He felt buoyant, playful. He made a show of checking his own hands and patting down his sides, checking that he was, indeed, him.
“Well, then,” Aziraphale smiled. “It must be okay.”
Crowley grinned back, a little stupidly. He couldn’t help himself.
They walked back towards the gate, the demon with a little more bounce in his step than usual, and conversation turned to practicalities - where Crowley had parked the Bentley, and who owed who for dinner, and would Aziraphale mind carrying out a little temptation when he was up in Oxford next week, because it would spare the demon the holiday traffic. As was usual, Aziraphale agreed with very minimal persuasion and the pair continued to chatter until they reached the gates. There, Aziraphale looked wistfully back over his shoulder at the park.
“Oh, I do hope it snows,” he sighed, “it always feels more festive when there’s snow.”
“Come on, angel,” Crowley grumbled and headed towards Portland square.
.
They reached the car as the first flakes began to fall, clouding in circles around the Christmas lights, falling in flurries to the frozen ground.
The were good flakes, proper flakes, each unique and perfectly symmetrical. It would lie, given time, and stay until it became a nuisance to the people of London - remaining just long enough to disrupt the transport system but not quite long enough for people to get a day off work. It would fall into the night, so that people could have the pleasure of seeing it glide past the street lamps, and settle on window sills. The weather reports would crow about their predictions being right, and then about global warming, and then about which governmental figure was to blame for all of it. The children of the city would go out to the parks and pavements and make snowmen, coming home pink cheeked to soak their parent’s carpets. It was perfect snow. Too perfect not to be born of some miracle.
It was some humans, nearby, who spotted the flakes first. Giving squeals of delight, they grasped at one another, gesturing up to the sky. Noticing their movements, Aziraphale looked up and gave his own little noise of delight. Reaching out, he touched Crowley gently on the elbow.
“Look,” he turned on the spot, looking up at the snow - Crowley’s just-a-little-too-perfect snow. His fingers dropped from the demon’s elbow. “Your work?” He asked, breathlessly turning to face the demon.
“Yeah.” Crowley had his hands back in his pockets, hoping the effect was casual. A few flakes had already landed on his glasses, partially obscuring his vision, but he wasn’t up for taking them off. He was feeling a little vulnerable, for no reason.
“Oh, Crowley,” the angel beamed at him. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
There was a segue there, as they looked into one another’s eyes, but Crowley did not take it. Instead, he dipped his head to the angel’s thanks and watched the flakes swirling around the square.
There was no pretence of the snow being for any other reason than to please the Angel.
“Made sense to give you your gift now,” Crowley grumbled, “as I probably won’t make your Christmas party.”
Aziraphale chuckled. Then, as if realising something, he reached up and unwound the scarf from around his neck.
Crowley spotted what he was going to do seconds before it happened, and gave a growl of protest. He didn’t get his hands out his pockets fast enough, however, and the angel had closed the distance between them, reaching up to loop the still-warm scarf around his neck.
“Oh, for Ssss… No, Aziraphale...” the demon hissed, squirming as the angel wound the scarf once, twice, and then tossed the end over his shoulder. “Angel, I don’t need-”
“It’s a gift,” the angel cut in. “In case you don’t make the party.”
They watched one another, only a foot apart. Both of them knew that Crowley would make the party. It was too good an offer to resist. There would be wine, and opportunities to tempt the other partygoers, and opportunities for the teasing of the angel. There would be little bruschetta, which Crowley adored, and Aziraphale, who… well… Crowley would be there, even if he would spend the whole evening pretending not to enjoy himself.
“Thankss,” the demon muttered, his voice a touch sibilant, his body a touch warm inside. “Never had a sscarf, before.”
Aziraphale reached out and tugged the end of it.
“It suits you.”
The demon made a tiny noise of disgust at the back of his throat. Snow was falling between them, catching in Aziraphale's hair, and melting on his cheeks. One flake had caught in his eyelashes. It was, just as the angel had said earlier, very romantic and very lovely - and thinking about it made Crowley feel sick to his stomach. Or, something was making him feel sick, anyways. It might have been his heart, throbbing a bit too fast inside his chest. It was hard to make out, through all the cliche.
“Shall I give you a lift back, then?” He asked, in his most disinterested tone. “No point freezing your wings off in this.”
“That would be lovely.” Aziraphale nodded, giving the scarf a last tug before making his way around to the other side of the car.
"Cool."
Pulling a face at himself, while the angel was looking the other way, Crowley slouched to the driver’s side door, slithered into his seat, and drove the pair of them haphazardly back through the swirling snow towards the small bookshop. The drive should have taken less than ten minutes, but the demon took a detour around some of the backroads, making claims about nonexistent roadworks, so he could watch Aziraphale enjoying the snow a little longer.
Having arrived, they sat outside, the engine idling.
“Well, I might see you this weekend, then?”
“Mm,” Crowley shrugged. “Maybe. Probably not. M'very busy.”
“Okay.” The angel watched him carefully for a moment. His near shoulder dipped, as if he were going to lean across the console. His lips parted, slightly, eyes focussed down through pale lashes. “Merry Christmas, Crowley," he murmured, softly.
“Yup. You too.” Crowley was staring straight ahead, fingers gripping the steering wheel. There was a strange buzzing in his head. Through the fog of it, a thought occurred. “Fucking cold thing, snow,” he muttered, giving his hand a little wave and raising the temperature in the near vicinity by about five degrees.
In case of emergency, break glass.
"Oh, for Goodness sake..."
The frivolous use of magic caused Aziraphale to give a huff of disapproval. Muttering about the nearby humans noticing, he leant back over, gathered his things, and pushed his way out of the car. By the time Crowley looked around, the angel was out and closing the door behind him.
“Well, mind how you go, won't you?” He called to Crowley, muffled through the window. "I'll see you if I see you."
Rapping his fingertips affectionately on the Bentley’s bonnet, he walked around it and across the road, toward the bookshop. As he reached the other side, Crowley saw him pause and turn on the spot, looking up at the snow. Then, as if putting on a show (because he knew Crowley would still be watching), Aziraphale gestured appreciatively up at the sky. Two hands, outstretched, to catch the flakes, the word 'beautiful' a shadow on his lips.
Smile threatening to crawl back over his face, Crowley knocked the car into gear.
Navigating his way out into busy streets, Crowley absently cursed the pedestrians who stopped to crane their necks up at his snow, loitering in his way. More trouble than it was worth, he thought, as the hot, bubbling feeling in his stomach slowly faded back to its normal gentle simmer. Stupid, cold, wet stuff. Winter in general wasn’t worth the bother. Christmas certainly wasn’t worth the bother.
He kept the scarf, though, changing its appearance to fit with whatever outfit was currently in vogue. Having it there, lying against his chest, was an indescribable comfort and Crowley turned out to need that, more and more, as the years went by. The demon made sure to always bring the angel snow, too, at least once every year. It was a little bit romantic, after all. And romance was secretly a little bit his scene, too.
.