'Angel?' Crowley said, sitting across from Aziraphale on the very comfortable sofa of their very cosy living room in their comfortable, cosy cottage on the South Downs. He had a glass of wine in one hand and an Agatha Christie novel in the other, one finger acting as a bookmark between the pages as he stopped reading to look at his friend.

'Mm?' Aziraphale said, looking up from his own book and peering at Crowley over his reading glasses.

'I love you.'

Aziraphale cocked his head quizzically, a small smile being hinted at in the corners of his mouth and the lines around his eyes and the movement of the muscles in his cheeks.

'What makes you say that?'

Crowley shrugged. 'I don't ever really say it.'

'No, you don't, do you? Not in so many words, at least.'

'But you do know?'

'Yes,' Aziraphale chuckled.

'Even when I don't say it?''

'Yes, even when you don't say it.'

'Okay.'

'Okay,' the angel said, still laughing softly.

Crowley laid his book down on the back of the sofa, pages splayed so as not to lose his place. 'I'm, er, I'm going to make a coffee. And probably have another mince pie, I think. You want anything?'

'Ooh, yes. Same for me please. Warmed up and with brandy-cream?'

'Naturally.'

Aziraphale shot the demon a quick smile before turning back to his book. As he walked behind the sofa on his way to the kitchen, Crowley squeezed the angel's shoulder.

Looking back up from his book with a sigh and a warm and fuzzy sensation glowing in his chest, Aziraphale stared pensively into the fireplace. The embers were burning low and steady, but still smouldering strong even after the bright flames had subsided.

His eyes wandered upwards, taking in the silver and gold Christmas lights which lit up the mantle, and over the handful of christmas cards from well-meaning acquaintances and neighbours.

Cards were always addressed to them both, never to one or the other individually, even by people who'd never met them both together. Some were tentatively addressed to Mr Crowley and Mr Fell, some more casually to Ezra and Anthony. There were also a few, amusingly, to Mr and Mr Crowley-Fell, or some variant thereof. And, as always, there was one from a good old boy they'd met several decades back at some gala or concert or another, and who always, even now, sent them a card every year addressed to Mr and Mrs Fell. Crowley always did cut a fine figure in a dress.

On top of the Christmas tree in the corner sat two angel ornaments. One of them had black wings and a tiny pair of sunglasses. The other was reading a book. Aziraphale looked at them and smiled.

People never could unanimously agree on what quite to make of Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship. Some assumed that they were married, some assumed that they were old friends, and some thought they were strangely dissimilar brothers. Others thought that they were die-hard loyal business partners, and some clearly relished the thought that they were having some kind of explicit, illicit affair (this last type tended to say things like 'Your "Friend" Anthony… Wink-Wink…' which always amused Aziraphale to no end, especially because it unfailingly got Crowley extremely flustered).

But, Aziraphale thought to himself, the shadow-imprint of Crowley's hand still weighing pleasantly on his shoulder, no matter how people chose to define their relationship, they always and inevitably did define them as a set . As a unit. As two entities wrapped up in one package. It was always Aziraphale and Crowley . Or Ezra and Anthony, or The Fell-Crowley's, or whatever . It was always them both . A pair. A twosome. A team. Partners . That was the part that mattered . All of the rest was irrelevant.

Aziraphale liked it that way.

It was Nice and Accurate .

All of this flashed through Aziraphale's mind in a matter of mere moments.

Closing his book, the angel stood up from the sofa, walked into the kitchen and marched up behind Crowley, who was standing at the kitchen counter fiddling with the cafetiere. Weaving his arms around Crowley's waist, the angel leaned down and hooked his chin over the demon's shoulder.

'I love you a ridiculous amount, you ridiculous creature,' Aziraphale murmured. 'I don't think I tell you that enough.'

'What are you playing at? Get off me,' Crowley hissed, making no effort to dislodge the angel. He was, in fact, happily relaxing back into the embrace. Aziraphale had a solid couple of inches height on Crowley, and his hugs were enveloping.

'No. I love you.'

'Go away. Go and read your book.'

'I love you! I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you. '

Crowley bit down on a grin. 'Ugh...'

'Don't you make that noise at me, dearest boy. You started it.'

'Hah!' Crowley barked, twisting his neck to look around at Aziraphale and ending up with a face full of angel. 'I don't think so. Remember Jericho?'

'Ah, yes,' Aziraphale replied thoughtfully, tilting his head and letting his gaze flicker indulgently over his demon's face. 'Although I don't think I can take all of the blame for that. You did save that little girl from those soldiers, after all. What was a self-respecting angel supposed to do, after a display like that? Hm?'

Crowley blinked and blushed and turned away, making the angel grin even more wickedly. Even now, after everything, he still got sheepish whenever Aziraphale reminded him of how much of a good hearted soul he was, deep down.

'Oh for fu- Aziraphale, go away. I'm trying to make coffee. You're being a nuisance. '

'I will not . I am an angel , Crowley. I am a Being Of Love .'

'You're a pain in the arse, is what you are.'

'I can feel love, is the point, my dear boy,' the angel persisted. 'And, I assure you, I can feel love.' His hand snaked up from the demon's waist and tapped the space over his heart. 'Right here. Love.'

'You're tipsy, angel.'

'Yes, but on Boxing Day I shall, probably, be sober. But you, my dear, dear old thing, will still be completely and utterly in-'

' All right! Don't keep saying it!'

Aziraphale laughed, and squeezed Crowley even more tightly for few seconds before finally loosening his grip, to the demon's disappointment.

'Don't forget the brandy-cream to go with the mince pies,' Aziraphale said as he finally untangled himself from the demon. 'It's in the fridge door.'

'I know where the bloody cream is, angel.'

'Just making sure.'

'Yeah, yeah, whatever…'

Crowley sighed as he poured the hot water into the cafetiere.

Absolutely impossible, the demon thought to himself as he added a shot of whisky to each of their coffees. An incorrigible, deliberately irritating nuisance, that's what he is. Completely infuriating.

He poured a generous helping of brandy cream over their warmed mince pies, adding a sprinkle of cinnamon to Aziraphale's, just the way he liked it.

Nightmare of an angel, he thought, shaking his head and heading back into the living room. Mawkish, over-emotional, nauseatingly soppy old fool...

As Crowley handed him his cup, Aziraphale looked up at him with the brightest, softest smile imaginable, and the demon grinned dopily back as his heart skipped a beat and his face flushed with the warmth of his frankly dizzying affection.

...He's almost as bad as me.