One thing that Aziraphale, even in the moments that he most loved the earth, had to admit Heaven had going for it was the very important factor of Climate. (Capital 'C,' because that just seemed to be how Above liked to do things these days.) The temperature was constantly perfect for waterskiing through just-thawed lakes and sipping hot cocoa in the desert.
Hell, on the other hand, was hot. The most creative it had gotten about subverting traditional expectations in this matter was the legion of frozen salesmen. Demons were built to withstand the heat, although certainly not to enjoy it, and those who held any substantial amount of Authority (Capital 'A,' for reasons no one had yet dared to ask after) had offices with surprisingly high-tech AC systems. Lower demons did their best to get into enough trouble to be sent to these offices for reprimand.¹
In Westminster, it was snowing.
Aziraphale moved through St. James's Park in a manner that was somehow exactly the opposite of trudging, the thin layer of frozen crystal crunching beneath his boots. He held a thermos of cocoa in each hand and scanned his surroundings as he walked, his eyes the only features visible above the argyle scarf wrapped around his face.
He gave what might have been a muffled "Aha!"² and changed course toward a figure lying prone near a bench.
"The bench is there for a reason, you know," the angel pointed out, sitting on it and handing one of the thermoses down to the man on the ground.
Crowley opened one eye – his sunglasses were beside him, and the effect of the yellow-green pupil was lessened by the blinding whiteness of their surroundings – and reached lazily up for the thermos.
"Thanks," he said, in lieu of a reply. He set the thermos down without opening it.
The last time Crowley had been Below, he'd sweated his way through the corridors³ and breathed a sigh of relief when he was ushered into an office. It couldn't be healthy, all that fire and brimstone. Not that that really mattered, and he'd known better than to open a discussion on the working conditions of his fellow demons, who wouldn't have appreciated his efforts anyway.
"How long have you been out here?" Aziraphale asked, sipping his cocoa.
Crowley shrugged. His hands were behind his head, and the gesture left a bizarre imprint in the snow. If he'd cared to look, he would have been pleased at how much it didn't look like anything. "A few hours. Couple of people thought I was dead."
"Yes, well. You are wearing short sleeves." He was also wearing a scarf – wrapped rather perfunctorily around his neck and brushed to one side so that it ran up alongside his face –, tennis shoes, black slacks that almost certainly had not been designed with any sort of actual weather in mind, and no gloves.
Aziraphale took another drink, letting the cocoa burn his tongue for a moment as he thought. "You know," he said, tapping his fingers on the back of the bench, "there's probably something that could be said at this point about –"
"Yes, yes," said Crowley, not sounding particularly annoyed. "A mediocre joke or some cruel sort of symbolism. I was thinking about it earlier. I'm still not sure which."
"It could always be both."
Crowley picked up his thermos and downed its contents without a flinch, despite the steam that rolled off when he unscrewed the lid.
"Probably. Personally, I'm going to pretend that I think it's neither and just enjoy it."
¹Granted, once they'd succeeded, they seldom tried it again. There were few things worth an Infernal reprimand, and even fewer things worth two.
²Although probably not, because not even Aziraphale made a habit of going around actually saying things like "Aha!"
³Though not literally, of course.