-1Aziraphale sat in the back room of his book shop, browsing through various copies of old books, new books, any book he could get his hands on. Anything to take his mind off the events of the past year. His tea, on the table beside him, was cold. It didn't matter. He could warm it with a touch if he wished.

And he did. A small, insignificant miracle in a world so full of miracles that humans had begun to overlook them entirely. He paused in his perusal of his texts, thinking about it. In the early years, it had been burning bushes and water into wine. Now, it was smaller things. Flowers poking up through the cracks of concrete, rainbows in the murky London sky. Insignificant, overlooked.

There were other miracles, too. Some of them he had a hand in, others he didn't. Small things. A wallet stopping a bullet. A passer-by pulling a stranger out of the way of a speeding lorry. Nothing as grand and impressive as bushes that spoke as they burned, or flocks of angels appearing in the sky to herald the birth of His son.

Of course, in this day and age, an age of electronics and all manner of interesting means of communication, it was easier to forgo the big stuff. Humans didn't pay much attention to the big stuff anymore. Anyone who claimed that a bush had talked to him would likely find himself in a loony bin.

The angel sighed and frowned, gazing at a point somewhere beyond his book. Hell was empty, and all the demons were here. Crowley quoted that quite a bit, claiming that Hell was responsible for less than half of humanity's overall misery, that they were doing it to themselves. Aziraphale wished he could understand why. Didn't they realize what a perfect world they'd been given? And yet they frittered away, wasting their time with unimportant things, squabbling and quarrelling and fighting amongst themselves as if they were no better than beasts.

Winter was, as far as he was concerned, a rather bleak time. He preferred staying shut up in his shop to braving the snow and the wet and the cold. The trees in the winter depressed him. They looked like bony hands, scrabbling for a hold on the sky. The grass was hidden under blankets of snow. The only good thing about winter, Aziraphale considered, was Christmas.

For Christmas he would brave the weather outside, to stroll along the streets and see the shop displays, the lights, the collection tins for the poor. Crowley said that Christmas was nothing but a holiday of crass materialism, and maybe he was right. A little right, anyway. Aziraphale had only to look around at the people searching for the perfect gift for their loved ones, and he knew that they cared, that the joy of giving would be well matched by the joy of receiving. Peace on Earth, and goodwill to men.

It was nearly that time already. Crowley would be shut up in his flat, desperate to avoid the cheer and merriment of the holiday. Or else he'd be causing massive blizzards to shut down the airports, causing frustration and feelings of ill will. Aziraphale put his book down and walked out to the front door of the shop to steal a glance at the sky. Gray. But he thought that maybe he caught a glimpse of the sun, which cheered him up greatly.

Humming a tuneless song under his breath, he went back into the back room and packed things up, replacing books on shelves and tidying up. His coat was on the back of his chair; he put it on and took his gloves from the pocket, pulling them on tightly. They were snug, and warm. And they matched his scarf, which he took from an inside pocket and wrapped it around his face and neck.

The cold outside didn't bother him too much, now. He was warm and his coat was rather effective against the wind. He wandered down the street after locking up, passing small shops and displays that proclaimed each shop was selling "The Season's Hottest Gift!". He chuckled and shook his head. The greatest Christmas gift of all was spending time with family and friends, and no shop sold that.

There a crowd of small children gathered around one of the many Santa Clauses in the city. Aziraphale caught their conversation as he drew near, and he pretended to be interested in the shop window while he listened to them.

"You're not really Santa Claus," a little girl said. She was bundled up like a little cotton ball, all puff and poof, and she had mittens with a matching hat. It had a bob on top.

"S'not really Santa Claus who brings presents anyway," the little boy beside her stated. "It's your mum and dad. I know, because I wasn't asleep last Christmas, and I saw them putting the presents under the tree. Dad ate the cookies."

The Santa Claus chuckled. "I'm just one of Santa's helpers," he told the little girl. Then he turned to the boy and added, "How else do you think Santa could get presents to all the boys and girls in the world?"

The little boy shrugged. "So why didn't Suzy get anything for Christmas but socks and a new dress?" he asked. "Her parents don't have any money, that's why. They couldn't afford to buy her anything."

"And what about the boys and girls who don't believe in Jesus?" the little girl asked. "Do they get presents too?"

Aziraphale stepped away from the shop window and knelt beside the girl. "Of course they do," he told her. "God loves all of his children, even the ones that don't believe in Him," he said with a smile.

The little girl shrugged. "You're weird," she said.

"We weren't talking to you," the boy snapped. "We were talking to Santa Claus, who is in fact, a phoney."

Aziraphale stood and brushed the snow from his pants. "The spirit of Christmas isn't about who believes in what, or who gets what presents," he continued, as if he hadn't been interrupted. "It's about love and the feeling of being part of a family." He smiled again, rather angelically.

The two kids just shrugged again and continued down the street. The Santa Claus watched them go. "At least they didn't try to pull on my beard again," he said, tugging at it. "It's real, in case you were wondering."

"I wasn't, really," Aziraphale replied. There was something about the man that seemed otherworldly. "Are you the real Santa Claus?"

The man winked. "What's it look like?"

Aziraphale studied him. He was round and stout and had long, curly white hair and a white beard, and that was about it. His suit was nicer than most Santa suits, and the white fur trim seemed to be real, instead of the faux fur that other Santas wore. "What are you doing here?" Aziraphale asked conversationally. "Shouldn't you be at the North Pole, making toys with your elves?"

The old man laughed. It was a deep, booming laugh, not precisely a ho, ho, ho, but definitely the sort of laugh you'd expect a Santa to have. "That's a good one," he said, grinning widely. "I'm just spreading the holiday cheer. Got to give the little tykes something to look forward to, eh?"

"Well, yes, but why London?"

"Why not?"

Now it was Aziraphale's turn to shrug. "I hope you have better luck," he said.

"Thank you."

They shook hands and Aziraphale continued his walk, enjoying the glow of the snow in the streetlights and the twinkling of the Christmas lights in the windows. He wandered down to the lake where he and Crowley fed the ducks; it was frozen over and the ducks were gone, either hiding or flown south for the winter.

One question plagued his mind as he stared at the frozen expanse of the lake, with its familiar circumference of trees and bushes dusted with a light coat of snow, looking like so many sugar-frosted sweets. One question: what do you get for a demon who has everything? The question had been bothering him for the past few days, and he still had no answer for it.

Anything too Christmas-y was out of the question; if there were so much as a hint of angels or the Birth in the present, Crowley would no doubt throw it out, with little thought for how Aziraphale would feel. But what if it were something a little more materialistic? That was right down the demon's alley; he'd appreciate anything technical or new or flashy and bright. Something with lots of complicated instructions and flashy lights, something that made little bingely noises when you turned it on. But then again, anything that complicated was probably the demon's work anyway.

So what to get for Crowley? Books didn't interest him, he didn't need a Miracle Cleaning Kit for the Bentley - he kept it in top condition himself. But he did like Handel, and he liked Vivaldi. Aziraphale smiled. He knew what to get for Crowley now.

The silly demon would just have to remember not to leave them in the car for more than a fortnight.