Everyone I know who works in retail ends up wanting to claw their ears out by New Year's.
Crowley and Aziraphale belong to Pratchett and Gaiman.
Tidings
Aziraphale blinked, frowned at the radio in the rental car. "This was your big project?"
Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus...
"Christmas music." Crowley sounded immensely pleased with himself.
"But it isn't even December," Aziraphale protested, flinching at a particularly nasty chord. This was ridiculous. Jingly and irritating and far, far too early in the season.
Crowley grinned. "Yes," he said. "I know."
Tempers would wear thin, frustrations would hit faster and harder than usual. As diabolical plans went, Crowley's was subtly brilliant. Aziraphale looked at him unhappily.
Score a hit for Below.