A Winter Excursion
"Wasn't this grand, Crowley?" the angel Aziraphale asked as he neatly folded the cloth napkins and put them into the picnic basket.
"Just friggin' wonderful," his counterpart, the demon Anthony J. Crowley, replied, shoving his hands in his jacket's pockets with a peevishness that only a being that was once a snake-like shape fond of happily coiling on sun-warmed rocks can convey. "I've always enjoyed glacial weather."
"It's not that far below freezing, my dear, and the food was nice and hot." (A miracle, that. Literally.)
Crowley rolled his eyes under his shades. "Let's go to the Bentley now, shall we? If we're quite finished sitting in the snow and freezing our bums off?"
"We're sitting on a blanket, not the snow, and don't you want to finish this bottle…?" Aziraphale gestured toward the wine, which was only halfway gone.
"We can finish it at your place—inside. Where it's warm."
"You don't really have to feel the cold, you know."
"Yes, and you don't really have to take me on a picnic when it's -7 degrees centigrade," Crowley retorted.
"Think of it this way—it's 20 degrees Fahrenheit. Besides, the park is beautiful this time of year with the snow covering everything, the ice glittering on the lake, and the crowds of people much thinner. There's also the ducks to think about."
"Oh yes, we mustn't neglect to think of the ducks."
Aziraphale gave Crowley a mild glare. (Most of his glares were mild, as he wasn't really predisposed for that sort of thing, unless one was threatening damage to or attempting to buy one of his books.) "They need to be fed frequently in the winter."
Crowley snapped his fingers and the garbage was gone and the picnic basket was miraculously packed—and it was a miracle how all the food, drinks, plates, glasses, and utensils had fit inside. "Let's go," he said, standing. "We fed the ducks when we got here and we're finished eating and I am leaving in five minutes whether or not you are in the vehicle."
In response, Aziraphale stood and picked up the heavy blanket they had been sitting on, shook it out, and proceeded to fold it carefully. (The coverlet was white with snowflakes on it, and had made Crowley shudder when he sat down, though he counted himself lucky it hadn't had snowmen or chubby carolers or a nativity scene on it.)
The demon put up with the folding for about two seconds before he snatched the blanket from the angel, tucked it under his arm, blinked it into a plain black color so he wouldn't be seen carrying something in the holiday spirit, and then grabbed Aziraphale by his wrist. "C'mon, angel."
He dragged the Principality (who was chiding him, saying something along the lines of, 'Crowley, you messed the neat folds, and why did you change the pattern? I liked the snowflakes and now the cover's black and wrinkled') forward, his hand firmly clenched around the soft, fleshy wrist.
They carried on that way through the park—Crowley pulling, Aziraphale talking and, on occasion halting ('Oh, look at the children making snow angels' or 'Oh, isn't that pine lovely, with the icicles hanging off?') in a way that made Crowley suspect he was stopping solely to annoy him.
Finally they reached the Bentley, which was parked in the exact place a fire hydrant had been a few hours earlier.
"Did you realize," Aziraphale said softly, gazing at the hand still circling his wrist, "your hand is quite cold?"
"No, do tell," Crowley rejoined. Nevertheless, he looked at his cold hand which was still encircling the angel's warm wrist. The warmth had actually been almost pleasant, comforting, and familiar, just like Aziraphale's presence in general. Disgusted with himself and fearing the angel's goodwill was catching, Crowley released his grip at once and glanced at the Bentley, causing the doors to open for them.
(The demon also tempted a child to splash in the icy puddle his mother had said not to, effectively wetting himself and his sister, who immediately started to cry, which made the mother start to yell and several people around them to get annoyed, eventually causing a bit of a row. At which point the angel gently nudged an older woman into handing out free cups of hot chocolate to everyone, effectively soothing the children and settling the adults. The matriarch was happy to share, though she did wonder briefly where she had gotten a gallon-sized jug of the liquid and a bag of environment-friendly disposable cups.)
Sliding in the driver's seat, Crowley started his car with a thought. The Bentley had already been instantly warm and comfortable because Crowley expected it to be that way when he got in it. He waited (almost patiently) as Aziraphale stowed the basket behind his seat carefully, shifted its position a few times, refolded and re-snowflaked the blanket Crowley had thrown over the passenger's seat and then sat it neatly on top of the basket in the back.
Finished securing his cargo, the angel sat down and strapped himself in, closing the door tightly. After which he asked, "Crowley?"
"What is it? You need to check the tire pressure before we go?"
Aziraphale sniffed disapprovingly. "I merely wanted to say….thank you. For the ride." He paused a moment and added, in a quieter voice, "And for the company."
The demon shrugged nonchalantly, which was impressive considering he was simultaneously pulling out in front of someone and flipping off another person he'd cut off that had thought about honking at him.
Aziraphale stifled his wince and miracled a pair of fitted black leather driving gloves onto Crowley's hands. (He knew they were the sort the demon would like—though Crowley would later be chagrined to find that the inner lining was tartan.)
"Happy Christmas, Crowley."
"Yeah, yeah, just don't start having a go at caroling, all right?" He replied offhandedly.
"Watch out for the boy on the velocipede!"
"On the bicycle, you mean," Crowley said. "The word velocipede hasn't been used in ages."
"Never mind, just don't hit him!"
"He should be on one of the bike trails if he doesn't want to get run over."
Somehow, they made it back to Aziraphale's shop and did indeed finish the bottle of wine they'd brought on the picnic, and they also finished a few Aziraphale had hanging around, and an extremely rare bottle of 1792 Blandy's Madeira Solera, the 'Napoleon' vintage that Crowley had 'just happened to have lying around.'