The Crowley home was lit up well enough that it could be seen from outer space, Aziraphale thought as Crowley drove up the winding drive, fast as the icy brickwork would allow. Massive red ribbons adorned the lamp posts and balustrades, ornamental golden orbs decked the nearby fir tree, and candles lit each window.

The Porsche slid down the curved incline to the open garage, almost overshooting the door, but Crowley gripped the wheel and managed to maneuver them safely inside, to Aziraphale's immense relief.

"Well, that was—You drive like a, a maniac, you know!" he spluttered out, feeling his heart settle from his throat to its usual place somewhere behind his ribcage.

"You say the nicest things," Crowley replied, infuriatingly calm as ever as he clambered out of the car.

The decor inside the house put the exterior to shame. Every surface contained some extrusion of fir branches, more of the same red bows and golden ornaments from outside, flakes of faux snow, decorative gifts… When Aziraphale stopped only a few feet into the hall to stare, Crowley patted his shoulder in empathy.

"I know, I don't know who she thinks lives here. Bunch of godless heathens we are, but you already knew that. C'mon, let me show you your room." He grabbed Aziraphale's suitcase and Aziraphale followed, first to the kitchen to grab sodas and some sort of tray of fruit and cheese from the refrigerator, then up two flights of stairs and several hallways. They stopped at the door of what he guessed was the eastmost room on the third floor of the massive house.

"I hope they at least listened to me and didn't totally… ah, shit, at least it's just a, eh, smallish tree or so." Crowley had opened the door to reveal a giant guest room that contained a cheerfully decorated Christmas tree in the corner, as well as a few strands of bow-adorned garland. The rest of the room was tastefully decorated in muted, dreamy grey-blues that contrasted with furnishing of dark, polished wood. The poster bed looked ancient—and absolutely decadent, with its many plump pillows and linens. He dug his toes into the plush oriental rug. Through the bathroom door, he could see a large ensuite in shades of grey-veined marble, shining brass, and spotless porcelain.

He padded over to Crowley, who had set down his burden and was fighting with a window sash. "I feel I need to say, I can't believe you livehere. If this is a guest room, I can't imagine what your room must be like." The words were out before he could think about the implication of what he was saying, but Crowley just stared back at him (perhaps blinking behind those infuriating lenses).

"Would you like to?"

"Would I like to …?"

"See my room?"

"Oh! I mean, I don't want to put you to any trouble—" But as he spoke, Crowley turned, gestured to him to wait, and disappeared back through the door.

Aziraphale stood, cheeks furiously warm, until he heard a key turning in a lock somewhere, and a rapping at a small door in the corner he'd barely noticed. Turning the old, solid key in its lock, he opened the door to see Crowley peering at him, mouth quivering in amusement.

"Hello there. Did I mention my room is next door?"

A laugh burst out of Aziraphale, and Crowley chuckled softly. "So my poor deluded parents apparently thought their only son and heir would be very popular and have oh-so-many friends, so of course they built a suite right next door for all those guests I don't have. C'mon in."

Crowley's room was a cross between Victorian royal lodgings and dark cavern. It was easily twice the size of the guest room. One long wall was entirely windows, small panes above a wall-length bench and bordered by velvety, blood red drapes that were pulled back to show the white expanse of the back lawn. On the same wall as the door, an ornate onyx fireplace was set with logs but looked unused. Every corner and part of the windowsill held plants—leafy ferns, twining ivy, and even the fig tree Crowley had bought that day they'd met in the plant shop. The only concession to the holiday season here was a single red-and-white stocking hung from the mantle.

"But where is your bed?" Aziraphale asked. Where he'd expected a large four-poster antiquity, there was… a mattress on the floor, with one pillow and one dark, knitted blanket.

Crowley ran a hand through his hair. "Did have one, once. I just don't sleep that much. Sometimes I just conk out on the window seat. Prefer to keep it simple, just a blanket or two."

"That has to be terrible for your back."

"Nah, 's fine, see?" Crowley twisted, and his spine gave several loud pops. "Just, ah, needed to stretch."

"Hmph," Aziraphale replied, unconvinced. "Wow, that's a lot of posters."

The wall near the mattress, hidden from both of the room's doors, was decorated floor to ceiling in layers of band posters. A few Aziraphale recognized, thanks to his adhoc musical education over the last few months: David Bowie, The Clash, The Cure. One was even for The Doomsday Option, using the same series of photos from their tape case.

Crowley followed his glance. "Kind of vain, but well—"

"When you're as good as your band is, I think it's quite fine to hang up your own poster," Aziraphale interrupted. "You don't happen to have any extra, do you? Brian and I could use some more decorations in our room."

Crowley practically beamed at him, and his heart gave the tiniest flutter. "'Course, are you kidding? We have a ton of 'em. Happy to."

Aziraphale smiled back, then realized he was staring and quickly turned away. "Ah, so, are these all of your plants? Good to see the fig is doing well. Oscar is lovely—" His mouth snapped shut, heat blazing across his cheeks.

"Who's Oscar?"

"Well, I've heard plants do better if you talk to them, so I figured if I was going to talk to a peace lily every day, it needed a name. S-so I named it Oscar Wilde."

"My go—shit, sorry—my goodness, you're spoiling the thing rotten! Know why these lovely specimens are so lovely? I whisper threats to them to remind them who's boss."

Aziraphale scoffed. "You, threaten a plant? I wouldn't believe it even if I saw you do it. You couldn't hurt a fly."

Crowley froze, and his mouth tensed into a thin line.

"Have I… said something wrong?" Aziraphale asked, reaching a hand out before he caught himself.

"No, 's all right, just… nothing. Nothing at all. Why don't you go unpack and settle in, and let's meet in the hall in, er, fifteen minutes? We can go check out the greenhouse, haven't been out there in ages and you'll like it."

"Crowley, really, if there's anything…"

"Just… bad memories, that's all. I'm fine."

Aziraphale hesitated, then nodded. "If you're sure. I'll just...go back through the wall."

At least that made Crowley's mouth twitch into a weak smile. Aziraphale returned to his room and quickly unpacked his few belongings, nibbling at the cheese plate as he set things in drawers and thought.

What was it Brian had told him, after the Halloween party? "Just some drugs, some breaking and entering, that kind of thing." He just couldn't see Crowley hurting anyone. Drugs, certainly—unfortunately—but violence? It seemed… unlikely. Unlike him. And whatever Crowley had done in the past, today he was here, giving Aziraphale a place for the holiday, treating him like he mattered. And he'd do whatever he could to return the kindness.

Somewhere, a clock chimed the half hour, and Aziraphale startled out of his reverie and hastily threw on his coat, gloves, hat, and scarf. Crowley was wearing a wool peacoat, but no other layers to protect against the chill. "You aren't going to put on a hat? Or gloves? It was absolutely frigid out there!"

"Can't find mine. Who knows where they ended up, probably in the car somewhere—"

"—here, wait a minute." Aziraphale jogged to his room and back, sweating a bit as he handed a scarf to Crowley. "You can have this one. I always bring a spare."

Crowley looked down at the scarf—a lovely grey knit from Agatha, the church choir mistress at home—then back up at Aziraphale, then wrapped it around his neck. "Thanks, angel. You ready?"

"After you."


When Crowley pulled up outside of the soup kitchen, Aziraphale turned to take his leave, but for some reason Crowley had turned off the Porsche and was getting out of the car as well.

"Um…" Aziraphale blinked, from confusion and the light patter of snowflakes into his eyelashes.

"So, er, I figured, if y'like, I could come see if they need more help?"

"Really?"

"'And his heart grew three sizes that day'," Crowley declaimed, striking a pose with a dramatic flourish of his hands.

Aziraphale snorted and rolled his eyes. "Very well, let's see if you keep that kind of energy after a few hours on your feet."

"That's the spirit!" Crowley slung an arm over Aziraphale's shoulder and led him up the icy steps.

Inside, men and women and a few families sat at long tables, spooning up soup and chatting with others. A few sat alone, eyes cautious and arm wrapped protectively around their food, still wearing their many winter layers despite the heat from so many bodies and the busy kitchen at the end of the room. Aziraphale led Crowley to the back, where the group getting ready to take their shift were amassed. No one asked if Crowley was registered to volunteer, but Pam, harried woman in charge, seemed relieved to see so many people here to help.

After a brief introduction of the different stations and assignments, she handed out aprons to everyone and directed them to their places. Aziraphale was given the first spot at the beginning of the line, handing a tray and plate and cutlery to each person. Pam had frowned at Crowley's sunglasses and sent him to wash dishes.

"Have you ever washed a dish in your life?" Aziraphale asked, half teasing and half curious. "First, you get the soap—"

Crowley interrupted by flinging a towel at his head. Aziraphale tucked it into his apron with a sniff and made his way to his station with only a little pride that he'd been chosen as one of the first to greet new arrivals.

For the next hour and a half, he cheerfully beamed at each person in line, asked their name, and handed them their tray. Some people seemed relieved, others ashamed, others defensive, but he didn't let his smile waver. This was the part of his faith he truly loved: getting to provide a little comfort and sustenance to those in need, to address each person as a person. They might lack a safe home or the funds for nourishing food for any number of reasons, but they were God's children like him, and this was the least he could do.

His feet were just starting to ache from standing when Pam patted his shoulder as she passed, leaning in to tell him what a wonderful job he was doing and shoo him off to take his break with the others.

Crowley was nowhere to be found, but one of the volunteers pointed him to the back door, which the smokers had propped open. Outside, under the eaves, Crowley was sprawled on a crate near a few others enjoying their own cigarettes, his hair pulled into a messy ponytail and sleeves of his ratty dark green sweater rolled to his elbows.

"You know, those things are terrible for you," he said, earning a few glares from the other volunteers and a grin from Crowley.

"Sure, angel, but they keep me away from other things I shouldn't be doing. How's it going up front? I'm soggy up to my eyebrows."

"Oh, it's been wonderful! I've met so many new people, quite down on their luck of course but also quite resilient. I used to help set up the coffee and pastries after church at home."

"Is that why you want to, go into service or what have you?" He waved the hand holding his cigarette in a vague movement.

Aziraphale blinked at his seemingly genuine curiosity. "Well, I do enjoy a nice latte and jelly doughnut from time to time, but yes, I like helping people. Especially people who... the rest of the world has forgotten."

"Hmph. Just between us, I think everyone's terrible, but agree to disagree, I s'pose."

"'All human beings are commingled out of good and evil'," Aziraphale replied.

"Bringing Stevenson into this? Isn't that a bit pedestrian for you? Not Kant or a good old bible verse?"

"I've been reading far more fiction since the semester ended. I'm not much of a science fiction fan, but who can resist the classics?"

The door opening startled them both from where they'd leaned in closer to one another as they talked quietly. Aziraphale could feel himself blushing furiously, and hoped Crowley thought it was from the cold, like the flush on his own face.

"Ahem, well, I guess I should eat before break is over."

Crowley stood and flicked his cigarette away. "Good idea. I'm starving."

When they finished their break, most of the volunteers went to different assignments, but Pam kept Aziraphale in the same spot. Crowley was now relegated to bussing tables, and Aziraphale kept an eye on him during the brief lulls.

Every time he snuck a glance, Crowley was chatting with someone, as he stood cleaning up plates or sitting and gesturing animatedly. He brought drink refills to an older couple that were staying at the shelter across the road. He hemmed and hawed and finally guessed that a little girl's drawing was a horse, then groaned in mock disappointment that it was, in fact, a giraffe (and told her, when she asked, that he was wearing sunglasses because he had laser eyes like a superhero and didn't want to burn the table). He sat for a good few minutes with a grizzled older man dining alone, one of those who protected their food, face somber as he nodded in response to whatever the man was saying.

"Your friend is good with them," Pam said as she walked by, and he turned to see her watching Crowley as he and the man talked. "I should've had him out here earlier."

"I'll see if I can get him to come back to my other shift," Aziraphale murmured in reply. For the rest of the day, he handed out more trays, welcomed more people, and watched Crowley, with an ache of fierce tenderness in his chest.

When their shift was finally over, getting to sit in the car was heaven. The sky was already dark and star-speckled; even though it got dark early this time of year, they'd stayed late to help Pam finish the dishes.

After each getting a quick shower and changing into pajamas, they met in the kitchen. Aziraphale was absolutely famished, and Crowley seemed the same, judging by the sandwich meat, cheese, bread, pickles, olives, and various other foodstuffs he piled on the island countertop. They didn't talk much, too busy assembling sandwiches and crisps on plates. When he took his first bite, Aziraphale groaned and rolled his eyes heavenward.

"I know, ish great. I could eat a horsh," Crowley managed to say around the wad of bread and deli cuts he was chewing. "I hate physical labor."

Aziraphale swallowed his mouthful of sandwich and took a gulp of water. "It's good for you. You know, I thought I would hate my fencing course this semester, but I actually rather enjoyed it."

"In that case, you can join me tomorrow morning for my daily run," Crowley said flatly, face deadpan. Aziraphale snorted and took another bite of his sandwich.

After they'd slowed down a bit, Crowley made popcorn and they collapsed on the couch, shoulders brushing as they waited for the VHS tape of Ladyhawke to rewind.

When the film begins, Aziraphale watches as The Mouse escapes from the Bishop of Aquila's dungeons, only to be recaptured and then rescued by the former captain of the guards, Navarre, played by an actor with hair as blond as his own and a thick, square jaw.

He glances over at Crowley, who's as rapt as him at the story, even though by his own admission he's seen the film a dozen times already.

When the identity of the mysterious woman is revealed to be Isabeau, Navarre's true love, Aziraphale actually gasps aloud and turns to Crowley, who grins at his reaction. "I thought so!"

"Ah, yes, Michelle Pfeiffer. If only!" Crowley declared to the image of the woman on the screen, with a regretful sigh and a dramatic press of his hand to his heart.

At the end, when Isabeau leaps into Navarre's arms, Aziraphale wipes away a few tears of happiness. He's never cried at a film like this, but he's never seen a film like this before. He swiped the back of his arm across his eyes, sneaking a glance at Crowley in hopes he hadn't noticed… but no such luck. Crowley smiled back fondly at him and jostled him with an elbow.

"Oh hush, it's beautiful," Aziraphale grumbled at him, cracking a grin. It turned into a huge yawn that he tried to smother with his hand. It was late, and it had been a long day. He could use a nice long bath to soak away his aches.

After they both trudged upstairs, chatting absently about Ladyhawke, and said good night, Aziraphale did just that. Filling the tub full of steaming-hot water, and a dash or two of the bath salts he'd found, he slipped in, inhaling the scent of eucalyptus and lavender with a contended groan.

It was a blissful privilege just to have his own bathroom. On campus, there were no baths, just showers that sometimes turned icy cold or scalding hot, and at home, he'd shared just the one bathroom with his entire family. He couldn't imagine having this kind of luxury at his fingertips whenever he wanted, but struggling against it, as Crowley seemed to do.

He dozed, letting the heat and weightlessness of the water ease his aches, until his fingers and toes started to prune. When he was dressed and ready for bed, he padded back into his room, drawn to the window by the bright light of the moon. He padded over and peered up for a moment, thinking of Crowley just one room away. He wondered if Crowley was fast asleep already, sprawled across his mattress—because somehow, he could picture the man as an utterly restless sleeper, all twitching and sighing and jostling—or if he was curled up under his thin blanket on the window seat, still and calm like the quiet night.

As he slipped into his own bed, sighing in pleasure at the plush cocoon of blankets and pillows, he imagined what it would be like to sleep next to someone he wasn't related to. Someone he could curl around like he curled around his pillow now. Someone like...Crowley.


Author's notes:

The quote from their smoke-break discussion is from The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson.

If you haven't seen the move Ladyhawke, starring Matthew Broderick, Michelle Pfeiffer, and the late, great Rutger Hauer, do yourself an enormous favor and find a copy of it. (Not sure if it's on streaming anywhere, but I have the Bluray because I'm a big ol' nerd.) If you love The Princess Bride, Willow, or pretty much any '80s fantasy-action movie, you'll love it.