The next few days were an indulgent series of lazy lie-ins, followed by rich breakfasts of pancakes and crisp bacon waiting for them in the kitchen. (When Aziraphale asked, Crowley nonchalantly mentioned that his parents employed a part-time cook as well as a housekeeper. Aziraphale had blinked back at him in surprise, changing the subject when he'd realized Crowley was embarrassed.)

They wandered the grounds of Crowley's home, which included an archery range (targets put up for the season), an iced-over duck pond, and the truly wondrous greenhouse, full of native and tropical species, that offered a humid respite from the winter chill.

While they warmed up, Crowley walked him through the different sections of the garden. Apparently, it was one of the few activities his father occasionally joined him in, pruning and tending the plants alongside his son.

"Not as much lately, but…" Crowley shrugged. "Those over there are his." He pointed Aziraphale to a massive rosebush bearing gorgeous, fragrant blooms the color of fresh blood, defying the stark, cold landscape outside.

Later, he and Aziraphale even attempted to take advantage of a decent day-old snowfall with a good old-fashioned snowball fight. Aziraphale's first throw had gone far wide of Crowley, who balled up his own snow with a predatory grin… only for his missile to go sailing an arm span wide of Aziraphale. Their next few attempts were no better, and soon laughter made their aim even worse. Finally Aziraphale, breathlessly doubled over with laughter, waved his scarf in the air as a white flag of parley.

They stumbled inside and shed their winter layers, making giant mugs of rich hot chocolate smothered in marshmallows. Aziraphale caught Crowley seemingly watching him through fogged-up glasses as he sipped from his own cup and met his gaze as long as he dared before hiding a sigh by sipping his own drink.


"Ugh, I hate this place. It smells like feet and there are too many people," Crowley grumbled as he fought for a parking space at the edge of the shopping mall's massive pavement lot. "But if I don't get presents for everyone again this year, my mother will drown herself in her wine glass and my father will lecture me and I'm too tired for that again. Ha!"

He zipped the Porsche forward, ignoring the honking minivan that had been waiting for the spot. The driver, a mustached, balding man, leaned out his window to berate them, but Crowley flipped him a middle finger and strode away, leaving Aziraphale to apologize profusely and hurry after him.

"Crowley! That was very rude! You shouldn't—he might come after us!"

"Not with his kids in the car, he won't," Crowley said with a shrug, cramming his hands into his pockets. "'Sides, we were both there. Not my fault my lovely little set of wheels was faster. C'mon!"

He grabbed Aziraphale's hand, the heat of the sudden contact seeping into Aziraphale's skin through their gloves, and they ran across the parking lot to stay warm. Inside, it seemed as if the entire city had crushed into the space in search of presents for their loved ones. This shopping center was much bigger than the one Aziraphale and his family usually visited, when one of the children needed new trousers or dress shoes. On very rare occasions, they'd make the longer trip to the larger regional shopping area. It had been loud and odorous and far too bright, like this place.

"D'you need to get anything while we're here?" Crowley asked, and he tore his attention back from the neon signs and burbling tiled fountains and greasy smells of fried food.

"Oh, no, but thank you. I already sent my family their cards. I'll just tag along with you."

They stopped at the food court for slushy drinks that gave both of them brain freezes, then wandered from store to store. He wasn't sure what Crowley was looking for, but he was happy to follow. One of the stores blasted thudding music from its dimly lit interior, mohawked mannikins in leather and chains displayed in the window, and Crowley's face lit up. He chewed his straw for a minute with a sharp-toothed grin.

"Let's go in here. I think we need to get you some new clothes," he said, hauling Aziraphale into the store. He'd taken a few steps before he coughed and turned back around. "Er, not that there's anything wrong with—I mean—you borrow Brian's stuff."

Aziraphale smiled gently at his attempt. "I know what you meant. But I don't know that I… that is, I don't exactly have much pocket money left."

"No,no, none of that. 'S on me. Ah, what about these?" Crowley grabbed a pair of black and red checked suspenders. "You can't tell me these aren't perfect for you."

"They are quite nice," Aziraphale admitted reluctantly. "But, Crowley. I don't need you to buy me things. You, you know that isn't why I came with you, right?"

Crowley grabbed his hand and set the suspenders in it, curling Aziraphale's fingers around them. "Look, I'm a shit friend, okay? I completely forgot to get you anything for Christmas, or I ran out of time or...let's just say, I'm terrible at this and it's much easier if I surprise you with a shopping trip, while I also happen to be getting presents for my parents. And then I'll know it's stuff you like."

"You're not terrible at this, Crowley, and I'm sure I'd love anything you picked out for me," Aziraphale replied. "But, if you're sure."

They spent the next half hour looking through the store's selection of band shirts, purposefully tattered denim, and spiked jackets. After several trips to the dressing room, Aziraphale had to pull the nose-ringed sales girl aside while Crowley was busy and request that whatever size Crowley asked for, she would bring him a garment that was at least two sizes larger. But eventually, they left with three outfits, including the suspenders and a sturdy pair of Doc Martens, the price tag of which Crowley had refused to let Aziraphale see. He'd even covered Aziraphale's eyes when the total rang up on the register, and hissed the sales girl quiet when she tried to read the amount aloud.

They meandered for a while longer before finding a place to rest on one of the benches surrounding an open area with a fountain, the bottom littered with coins and bottle caps. A gaggle of girls whispered as they passed, eyeing Crowley in his tight, dark jeans, long wavy hair, and dark shades with clear appreciation at the sight. Noticing, he grinned and nodded back, lifting his hand in a lazy mock salute and sending them into blushing fits of giggles.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "What about your parents? Should I get them something?"

Crowley snorted, pulling his attention back. "Oh, you don't need to worry about them. I usually just get dear old Dad a nice pair of tie and cufflinks. Mom's a bit trickier, but perfume usually does the job. 'S hard to shop for people with more money than Croesus."

"You don't say," Aziraphale replied drily.

"Why, angel, you didn't get little old me a Christmas present? When I'm the spawn of Satan and an unholy abomination and all that?"

"If you're the spawn of Satan, then I'm Bob Hope."

Crowley gaped at him. "Was that a pop culture reference?"

"Maybe."

"Will you tell me what I got?"

"Absolutely not."

"Hmph."

Crowley sulked a few seconds, then his face lit up with a wicked grin. "I have an idea, and you're going to hate it, but listen: let's get my parents the worst gifts. Something absolutely ridiculous."

"Like what?" Aziraphale asked, suspicion blooming.

"Have you ever been to one of those As Seen on TV stores?"

"No, but I assume they sell things seen on TV?"

"Well, yes, but, things like beer helmets and extendible claw arms and the most ridiculous plastic garbage contraptions."

"Oh, that sounds...ah, awful, actually."

"C'mon, let's go check it out." Crowley grabbed his hand again and maneuvered him through the press of shoppers upstairs to the store on the mall's second floor.

Inside were devices that looked like a school science fair gone wrong. Screens played commercials for each product, behind a display stand where shoppers could try some of them. There were marker-like products for removing scratches from leather, a machine for scrambling eggs, and some sort of horrifying mask that claimed to improve one's skin elasticity through minor electrical shocks but seemed more likely to be a surreptitious torture device.

Crowley had to be talked out of buying a ThighMaster for his mother, instead settling for some sort of automatic vegetable peeler. Finding something equally inane for Crowley's father took a bit longer, but Aziraphale spotted a perfectly ridiculous gift: some sort of vacuum hair trimmer called the Flowbee. When he pointed it out, Crowley immediately snatched one off the shelf.

They wandered to a few more stores after that, including a brief glance in the bookstore, but Aziraphale resisted the urge to buy anything. Back at Crowley's house, there was a library full of books that he could read or borrow whenever he wanted. (The fact that they belonged to Crowley had very little to do with it, he told himself. He was getting rather good at convincing himself of things, when he tried very hard.)

It was getting dark outside when they staggered back to the Porsche and drove back. Aziraphale's feet ached as they made their way into the house and dropped their bags. In the kitchen a fresh pizza, laden with pepperoni, green peppers, black olives, and sausage, was waiting in the refrigerator, and Crowley popped it into the oven. He stared, naked longing on his face as he watched the cheese begin to bubble.

"It really isn't going to cook faster just from you staring at it, you know, unless you have laser eyes or something," Aziraphale quipped. "And even if you did, those sunglasses wouldn't help much."

He paled as he realized he'd broached the subject, although Crowley just scoffed and turned away.

"Ugh, fine, I'm going to grab a shower while this cooks then. D'you need a clean pair of pajamas? I have some flannel bottoms you could borrow. Probably a bit long, but otherwise they should fit."

"Oh, yes, that would be lovely. I can just wear one of my new shirts." He grabbed his bags and followed Crowley upstairs. Crowley rifled through a drawer in his room for a few minutes before finding a pair of plaid flannel pajama bottoms and handing them to Aziraphale. Thankfully, they appeared large enough to fit his much-larger proportions.

He went to his room and showered, sighing under the steamy water. Being in close proximity to Crowley for so long was tortuous—and certainly not making his vow to treat Crowley as simply a friend any easier. A friend who seemed to relish his company almost as much as he did Crowleys', if not in the way Aziraphale thought about. Prickling heat rippled across his skin at brief, vague imaginings of Crowley reciprocating his affection with a caress to his cheek, thin lips pressed to his own…He finished his shower in teeth-chattering cold water to clear the fantasy from his mind.

After ripping the tag from his new Clash shirt, he pulled it on, along with clean boxers and Crowley's pajamas. The sight of himself in the wall mirror gave his pause. Normally he only wore t-shirts as a base layer below a proper collared shirt, because they clung to curves and thickness he preferred to hide behind sleeves and vests and jackets. He felt practically naked now, but gave himself a stern glare in the mirror. Plenty of people of all shapes and sizes wore short-sleeved shirts every day. It wasn't as if he was showing a bit of skin for any purpose other than practicality.

If anything, the tight fit of the pajama pants was more concerning. He swiveled to look at his rear in the reflection. Nothing too shocking or skin-tight, just...tighter than he was used to, and ridiculously long on him. He bent to roll the cuffs, and sighed. It wasn't like he had anything else to wear, given his light packing for the semester in general had limited his options; he'd have to do laundry in the morning. Did Crowley even know where the laundry room was in his house?

Giving himself another quick look, he rolled on a thick pair of woolen socks, then made his way back to the kitchen, where Crowley was practically plastered to the oven door watching the pizza finish baking. Finally, the timer beeped, and he grabbed an oven mitt and retrieved his cheesy prize, setting it to cool on the kitchen island.

Aziraphale went over the fridge and peered into its depths for beverages, bending over to look at the selection on the lower shelf. "Would you like a soda, or just water?"

A quiet, choked noise behind him made him straighten, but when he straightened, Crowley was still inspecting the pizza, and only a faint hint of flush lit his cheeks when he turned. "Soda, thanks," he said, wandering away for plates and something to cut the pizza with.

Aziraphale grabbed two sodas and sat, watching Crowley for the cause of the sound he'd heard, but his friend was focused on the food. He heaved a gooey slice, dripping cheese, onto Aziraphale's plate, then his own.

They each tried to take a bite of their food, but the heat burned Aziraphale's tongue and fogged Crowley's glasses, making him swear and swipe at the condensation with his sleeve.

"Crowley?"

"Hmm?" he replied, busy blowing on his pizza to help it cool.

"If the steam is troublesome, you don't...have to wear your glasses? I-it's fine if you want to take them off."

Slowly, Crowley set his pizza back on his plate, then went still, his shoulders ever-so-slightly hunching defensively. "I...don't usually take them off around anyone," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean...did something happen? To your eyes?" Aziraphale bit his lip, furious at himself for just blurting out the question he'd wanted to ask since they'd met. "Sorry, I shouldn't pry. It's all right if you—"

He froze, inhaling sharply as Crowley sighed and reached up slowly, his fingers curling around the stem of the right side of the glasses. Aziraphale could see the slight tremble of his fingers and began to reach out, but Crowley shook his head. "No, 'm fine."

After a deep inhale and a slow, shaky exhale, Crowley pulled the glasses away. His gaze was trained on the table, eyes hidden under long lashes until his gaze flicked up at Aziraphale at last.

"Heterochromia," Aziraphale murmured. Crowley's eyes were two different shades. His left was golden, a rich, buttery color that reminded Aziraphale of wildflower honey. The right was a medium brown, shot through with brighter strands that made it shimmer warmly. He stared, his mouth a thin, terse line, as Aziraphale looked, then anticipated his next question.

"Wasn't born like this. They were both lighter." His voice was guarded and quietly angry in a way Aziraphale had never heard it.

"What happened?" Aziraphale murmured, watching the shift of his gaze as he blinked and looked back, pupils contracting to adjust to the brightness of the kitchen lights.

"I got into a fight, years back. High school classmates from the posh private school my parents insisted I attend. We'd never gotten along, all the way through middle school. Always getting into arguments, trying to show each other up, back when I still cared what my parents thought of me and tried to get good grades." Crowley sighed, closing his eyes and wiping a hand down his face before opening them and leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table, as if the weight of his story was resting on his shoulders.

"This time, I kissed his girlfriend. Ermph, might have done a bit more than just kissing... anyway, he found out about it. Wasn't like she didn't kiss me back, but he didn't see it that way when he saw us. He and the goon squad jumped me behind the gym, beat me senseless. Mostly bruises, but my eye...well, let's just say it was pretty damn easy for my father to sue them, their parents, and the school with just a few photos. Not that I wanted him to, would have rather handled it m'self, but at least I got to leave that shithole."

It was a lot to process. It sounded like Crowley had certainly played his part, but beating someone to the point of permanent injury was never called for. No matter how angry he got, Aziraphale could never do something that viciously violent, and it was a painful reminder that the world contained people who relished inflicting such brutality.

He cleared his throat, "So the glasses, do they help you see?"

Crowley shook his head, took a bite of pizza, chewed, and swallowed. "No. I can see fine, even with 'em on, except when I'm really knackered. I just...I just got tired of people staring. Sure, Bowie can pull it off, but I've already got all this—" he gestured up to his fiery red hair "—going on, and my dad and all, and I'm not a world-famous rock star. Just little old me. I've worn dark glasses ever since. After my father's legal spree, wasn't like my new school was about to say no."

Aziraphale didn't know what to say. He wanted to reach out and take Crowley's hand, or cup his face, or kiss the lids of those unique, beautiful eyes, but he couldn't. A friend wouldn't comfort a friend in such a clearly non-platonic way.

"That's terrible," he managed to say, fumbling instead for the right words to ease the tension still lurking on Crowley's face. "I'm so sorry, Crowley. You can put them back on, if you like, but...you don't have to. I think they're wonderful. They suit you."

Crowley picked at the glasses for a moment, not meeting Aziraphale's eyes. "You don't need to pity me, either."

"I don't. Well, not exactly. You did, er, steal his girl?"

Crowley's mouth quivered in mirth, and he flicked a grateful gaze at him.

"Thanks for that." He returned their glasses to their usual resting place atop his rather beaky nose. "I know it's stupid, but…"

"No, it isn't! You look great, with or without them, I...er, very mysterious. Yes. They make you very mysterious." Aziraphale knew he was babbling, so he shoved his pizza into his mouth to stop the torrent of words.

Crowley snorted, shoving the glasses up with his thumb, and picked up his own slice, waggling the fingers on his free hand. "That's me, Crowley the enigma."

You have no idea, Aziraphale thought.

"I hope that—that bastard got expelled," he replied, not even wincing at the curse, and it was worth it for the surprised skyrocketing of Crowley's eyebrows up to his hairline.

"Such language," he chided, his affront belied by the wide smile that cracked across his face.

"Well, the situation calls for it," Aziraphale replied pertly, warmth spreading through him as he took a bite of his cooling pizza.

"I'll toast to that." Crowley raised his can of soda for a toast. "Cheers to not letting the bastards get us down, hm?"

Aziraphale brought his own up to tap against it. "Cheers."