Aziraphale was probably the only angel he knew whom actually loved winter. To the others, it was a season of death and barrenness and last-minute holiday sales (Crowley had managed to procure endless amounts of souls from that invention alone). But Aziraphale loved the crispness in the air. He loved the excuse to sit on the couch in his backroom holding a mug of his favorite tea, and he loved the way people at least tried to follow their tendency toward good. So yes, Aziraphale loved winter.
Aziraphale breathed in the cool air, immersed in his thoughts, when Crowley began to get fidgety on the bench beside him. Aziraphale's breath came out as a soft sigh. Fidgety meant that Crowley was bored, and therefore in danger of doing something incredibly stupid—or at least annoying.
"Let's go for lunch. I'm starving," Crowley finally said, standing up.
"You don't starve, dear," Aziraphale reminded him.
"You know what I mean," Crowley responded, reaching out a hand that the angel took. It was cold to the touch. Not that that was unusual, Crowley being cold-blooded. It was just that today, it was more so. Aziraphale didn't mind. In fact, there was the smallest amount of regret as the demon let go. Aziraphale clenched his hand, unobserved by Crowley, who seemed in a hurry to get to lunch and was walking a few inches ahead of him.
Then came the stupid moment.
Aziraphale didn't realize what exactly happened until after the fact. All he knew was that one moment, Crowley was upright, and the next he was sprawled in a mud puddle. And in the moment after, Aziraphale found himself laughing uncontrollably. It all happened so suddenly, not to mention the look on Crowley's face—he couldn't help it.
Crowley, on his part was feeling a sudden desire for a camera. Of course the whole ordeal was a huge annoyance—his suit was brand new, and the mud was freezing—but he couldn't help admiring the view before him. The wind was playing with Aziraphale's curls and there was a pink tinge to the angel's cheeks that would be considered endearing (if Crowley were the sort to consider anything endearing), not to mention the pure joy that was radiating off his angel. Yes, it was at Crowley's own suspense, but Crowley would have poured buckets of mud on himself if it made the angel laugh like this again.
The thoughts ran through Crowley's mind in milliseconds, and when he finally collected himself (storing the picture to memory in absence of a camera) he shook his head. Putting back on the mask of general annoyance that was supposed to go along with the ordeal, he hissed, "Good to know that the pain of another is humorous to you, angel."
"My apologies, dear," Aziraphale said. He didn't miss the emphasis on "angel", which prompted him to swallow the laughter, if only to spare the demon's dignity. It was difficult. Aziraphale put a manicured hand over his mouth to hide an escaped giggle. The action did strange things to Crowley's insides (somewhere along the lines of endearing again), but he ignored it. Aziraphale extended a hand toward him and a sly idea came to his mind.
Crowley took Azriaphale's warm hand, but instead of letting the angel pull him up, he swiftly tugged the angel down next to him in the mud. Aziraphale's giggles were instantly gone. As he sat up, his face splattered with mud, he sent a vicious—almost deadly—glare Crowley's way. Crowley immediately wished he had a camera again, because any attempt to look fearsome was ruined by the mud streaks across the angel's face.
"Really my dear," Aziraphale harrumphed, "was that absolutely necessary?"
Crowley shrugged. "It felt good."
Aziraphale rolled his eyes and, in a moment of childishness, tossed a handful of mud at the demon. Crowley stuck out a forked tongue and shoved the angel a bit. He was all for childishness. Then the demon stood up, holding his hand out to Aziraphale for the second time that day. When Aziraphale paused, Crowley rolled his eyes.
"No funny business this time, angel. I promise."
Aziraphale accepted the demon's hand—though cautiously—and allowed the demon to pull him up. When they were at eye-level with each other, they paused.
"We should probably get the mud off before we go anywhere," Azirpahale suggested.
"Right," Crowley nodded, making no move to do so. He was too busy dwelling on a thought that had popped into his head weeks ago, that he figured he should enact now. It was the perfect time after all. They were both still grinning and giddy and, he probably wouldn't ever get another chance. So Crowley leaned forward, balancing himself with the hand that Aziraphale was still holding. His other hand he lifted to the angel's cheek, still flushed from the chill. When Aziraphale didn't flinch away, Crowley got a surge of confidence that gave him enough strength to lean forward and brush his lips against the angel's as gently as could be. This time, not only did Aziraphale not back away, he stepped closer to Crowley and rested his free hand on the demon's hip, returning the kiss with full force.
They broke apart sooner than Crowley would have expected, but it didn't put a dent in his good mood whatsoever.
"Happy Christmas, angel," Crowley said with a grin.
"Happy Christmas, dear," Aziraphale returned cheerily, squeezing Crowley's hand.
"You know, I'm not really that hungry. What do you say we go to your shop and have a drink?"
"I think that sounds wonderful."
And that was how, on Christmas Day, Aziraphale found himself sitting on his couch with his favorite tea—as was the case every year. The exception was that this year, he was curled up next to his favorite demon, feeling much more content than he'd felt in a long while. Aziraphale had never loved winter more.