"Where are we going?" Aziraphale asked, as Crowley practically dragged him away from the dining room, fingers clenched in a fist around his suit sleeve.

"Anywhere but in there! Jesus, those two!" he ranted as Aziraphale trotted to keep up with his long-legged stride.

"Crowley—"

"—no wonder I don't want to spend time with that absolute prick—"

"Crowley, can you just—"

" —shouldn't have even pretended for a second—"

"Crowley, stop!"

They came to a halt so quickly that Aziraphale knocked against Crowley's thin back, crunching his nose on the velvet fabric of his jacket. Which smelled of an oddly marvelous combination of vetiver and cigarettes. Not that he had noted it, or anything.

"Ow, my nose! Just … wait a moment, please. "

"Sorry, sorry!" Crowley peered at Aziraphale's nose, but from what Aziraphale could tell the appendage was still in one piece and in proper condition.

"It's fine, just a bit sore. Let's just..." He looked around and realized they were close to the library. "In here."

Crowley sighed and followed, collapsing in a sprawl across one of the armchairs while Aziraphale went to work on getting a fire going.

"You should let me," he heard behind him, and somehow Crowley had gotten from the armchair to his side with barely a sound. "I don't even know … I'm sorry, god, this is so embarrassing." Crowley balled up newspaper and crammed it under the already stacked logs, took the matches from Aziraphale, and set the pile alight. He frowned at the fire as he wiped his sooty hands on his pants.

"Too bad it's so small, or I'd throw myself in there. Nothing like a little Christmas penance of self-immolation."

"If anyone should be apologizing right now, it isn't you. I-I've never...I mean, my family argues, but my goodness you weren't joking about the, ah, dynamic." Aziraphale got a deepening frown in reply. "I thought I'd at least get to graduate into my orders before I got tossed into the dysfunctional family lion pit, if we're going with a theme of religious imagery."

Honestly, no one had thrown anything or otherwise become violent, so the evening had been somewhat of a success in Aziraphale's mind, having gone into the situation informed only by Crowley's somewhat cryptic hints. How two people that self-absorbed could have produced someone like Crowley, who was so kind and funny and warm when he wanted to be, was beyond his comprehension.

"Ughhhh, I need to get out of here," Crowley replied, returning to his akimbo lounging in the armchair. "But where the hell would I go? No degree, no funds if daddy dearest finally decides he's had enough … At least you know what you want to do, who you want to be. What am I? Tight pants and a glorious mane of hair?" He groaned and wiped a hand over his face.

"Crowley, it was one dinner. I hardly think it justifies deciding to pack it up, write some letters, and throw yourself despondently over the nearest cliff."

Crowley leaned up from his sprawl and rolled his eyes, trying and failing to keep his mouth from twitching in mirth. "Only you, angel. Are you sure you want to spend your life talking crazies like me away from the bottle and into a pew?"

"Well, it's not the most glamorous of professions, I'll give you that, but…" Aziraphale sat on the ottoman, perching his foot across his opposite knee and folding his hands primly as he thought. "I suppose there's a reason they say it's a calling. I heard the call, and so this is what I'm meant to do."

"D'you mean, like, literally heard God say 'Hey buddy, c'mere!' or more of a feeling kind of thing?"

"Definitely more of a feeling kind of thing." Aziraphale smiled gently. "I've always wanted to help people. Isn't there anything you've … always wanted?"

Crowley looked away, his frown returning. "'Course, but we don't always get what we want, do we?"

"Like what? I promise, I won't laugh." Aziraphale thought of the energy that Crowley exuded on stage, strutting fluidly as he fed on the adoration of the crowd and returning their fervor tenfold. Wasn't that what he wanted? Did he think Aziraphale would look down on him for it?

"Maybe not always, but it's...become more of a who." Crowley managed to say, sounding as if every word was painful to reveal.

This has nothing to do with you, Aziraphale thought. He doesn't know, he can't know.

"But enough of my moping. Wait, don't you have to be at the church thingy in like 20 minutes?" Crowley said, jolting up from the chair with a manic gesture at the clock.

"Oh. Yes! Thank you for reminding me. Are you okay to take me over now?"

"Sure, lemme just grab my keys."

They made their way silently to the car, and soon were on their way through the snow to the campus chapel.

"Um, it should be about an hour and a half, but you're welcome to come with me, you know. If you don't want to wait out here or have to drive back and forth."

"I dunno, might burst into flame or something if I step foot on holy ground. Nah, I'll just stay out here and have a smoke."

They pulled up to the entrance—or as close as Crowley could get in the mad swarm of cars full of the Christmas and Easter crowd, as Gabriel called the congregants who only showed up for major sacraments and occasions.

"Well, if you change your mind and want to sneak in for coffee afterward, I won't tell if you won't," Aziraphale said with a grin as he got out.

Crowley gave a gasp of mock surprise, dramatically splaying a hand across his chest. "Pilfering delicious foodstuffs from the church? I may be a sinner, but even I wouldn't stoop so low." He gave Aziraphale a wink and pulled back out into the chaos to find somewhere to wait.

Aziraphale soon lost himself in the magic of the evening, trying to forget the upset of dinner in the bright, sparkling gaiety of Christmas service. He'd have to ask for a poinsettia to take home to give to Crowley, he thought as he ushered people to open seats at the pew or into one of the overflow rooms, usually reserved for nursing mothers or parents with small children but holding worshippers of all ages on the busiest night of the year.

Other than collecting tithes into a soon-overflowing basket and quietly sorting bills and coins at the back of the room, Aziraphale was mostly left to stand and listen to the readings he knew by heart. Mouthing the words along with Pastor Honeycutt brought an ache to his heart, and even though time zones made it unlikely, he imagined his father saying the same words at this very moment to the congregation at home.

This semester was the longest he'd ever been from home, the farthest he'd ever been from home, and sometimes it still terrified him how large the world truly was and how small he felt on it. But he had friends, and… he had Crowley.

During the time for silent prayer close to the end of the service, he bowed his head and reached out silently. Tonight of all nights, he couldn't fight against himself, and finally decided it was time to lay everything bare: Lord, I'm weak and afraid. I want things I know I shouldn't. I don't know if I'm good enough to dedicate myself to your service and do the good deeds I know you need me to do, but if I am, please let me be good enough to deserve this one thing.

The ache in his chest deepened. My family would disown me, your church would disown me, and even you might turn away from me, but I don't know how to stop feeling this way. And...I'm not sure I want to. I've tried, but every time I see him, my heart feels...happy, in a way I've never felt before. It's a desire that scares me. But why I'm so afraid isn't my family or the church or even you. It's because how can he want anything like that, someone like me? But, if he did … Crowley isn't perfect, but neither am I, and I want him more than I've ever wanted anything, anyone, in my life. Please.

He blinked back the tears that clouded his vision and released his hands where they clasped together at his waist. Like he'd told Crowley earlier, God spoke to him not literally, with some disembodied voice echoing in his head, but rather in what some might call his instinct, his gut reactions. And now, a sense of peace overcame him, relief at finally admitting to himself what he'd been trying to deny for weeks (yes, all right, months) as he pretended like Crowley was just another person, a friend, an acquaintance. Whether or not he found the courage to say it aloud to Crowley, he would live with the truth accepted within him. And that was no small thing, Aziraphale thought, as the service ended and people began trickling to the basement for refreshments or back out to the parking lot to head home.

Downstairs, Aziraphale grabbed a frosted jelly doughnut and a cup of cider, thinking of the dessert he hadn't finished at Crowley's house. He made small talk with the pastor and a few fellow ushers, asking politely about their families and holiday plans. And soon the basement was empty, chairs were stacked and trash collected for pickup outside, he made his way to the lot to find Crowley.

"Whatcha got there?" Crowley asked when he found his friend smoking at the far side of the pavement. He looked away from gazing at the clear, star-strewn sky to see Aziraphale laden with a large, potted poinsettia and a white bakery box.

"It's for you. Well, these too, but a few are for me." He handed the box to Crowley and let him investigate while he buckled the plant in.

"Oooh, cinnamon sugar, my favorite." Crowley grabbed the doughnut and took a massive bite, then coughed out a puff of powdered sugar. "Gets me every time," he croaked. Aziraphale laughed and pulled out a jelly doughnut for himself. He paused, looking at the open car door and back at Crowley.

"G'wan, get in. Just this once, since it's Christmas and all. But if you get jelly on my seats you're walking from now on."

They piled into the Porsche, and Crowley even turned on the radio to play Christmas music. Aziraphale happily listened to him sing along, polishing off his jelly doughnut and interrupting with faux indignance when Crowley started singing dirty lyrics.

Back at the house, they brought the rest of the doughnuts and some hot cider upstairs to Aziraphale's room. They hadn't seen either of Crowley's parents, and presumably the staff had gone home long ago. But nestled in the far end of the house, warmed by the fire and cocooned outside in snow, Aziraphale's room was comforting and festive. Even Crowley had changed into flannel pajamas, and if he had poured a bit of whiskey into his mug of cider, well, it was Christmas after all.

Outside, the snow had returned, creating a strangely muffled world beyond the window seat where they'd piled with their treats.

"I'd say we could do some ridiculous sleepover thing like Truth or Dare, but the last time I played involved public nudity, and frankly I don't think you'd be able to come up with any good dares," Crowley said.

"What do you mean, of course I could!" Aziraphale protested. "Like, I don' t know…" He thought for a moment, then gave up. "Fine. We could watch a movie? What about—"

"Wait a minute!" Crowley practically shouted, narrowly avoiding sloshing cider down his front. "Isn't it Christmas Day? It's after midnight, right? Hold on!"

He set down his mug and dashed through the connecting door to his room. A few dull thuds and a scrape of a drawer later, he returned, clutching a long cardboard tube wrapped with a red bow in his hands. "Merry Christmas! I know you already know what it is, but I wrapped it anyway."

Aziraphale set his cider and the doughnuts aside and took the tube from Crowley. Prying open the plastic end, he carefully slid the poster out. It was the one Crowley had promised him, but in silver marker, each member of the band had signed it, including Crowley:

To Aziraphale,

Defender of the weak and savior of sinners like moi.

Cheers,

Anthony J. Crowley

"It's wonderful, thank you!" Aziraphale slid the poster back into its tube as he beamed at Crowley. "I didn't expect you to sign it, but I'm glad you did. Oh, let me get yours!"

Aziraphale nestled the poster tube carefully into his bag and took out Crowley's present. He had rewrapped the notebook twice, making sure every corner and fold and ribbon curl was perfect.

"I, um, hope you like it," he said, suddenly nervous as he handed the gift to Crowley. He held his breath as Crowley tugged off the bow and ripped through the paper to the box, then opened the lid.

"'Sis a diary? I mean, not that—"

Aziraphale interrupted, shaking his head. "Open it."

He did so, and his eyes went wide. He ran his fingertips over the creamy lined pages, waiting for the addition of musical notes and lyrics.

"Aziraphale, this is…" He trailed off quietly.

"I, er, thought it could be useful, for your music," Aziraphale babbled, thrilled by the sound of his name in Crowley's mouth. "And I know we were talking earlier about what you want to do with your life, and I wasn't sure if I should still give this to you, but I think you're an incredibly talented musician and even if it's not something you do for a living, it would be a terrible shame if you didn't … so. I hope you like it."

Crowley just listened, until Aziraphale finally stuttered quiet.

"I never told anyone, that it's more than just something to do to pass the time," Crowley said, quietly. "I mean, the guys know, it's something we all want, but...I've never said it before. And somehow you knew, of course. Thank you."

He fell silent, and Aziraphale, feeling bold, reached out and patted his hand gently. They sat, watching the falling snow and sipping cider as somewhere, a grandfather clock chimed the half hour.

"D'you know what it's like, to want something you can't ever have?"

"Is this the same thing you, um, were talking about earlier?"

"No. Yes, a bit, I suppose. I mean, I don't know what's worse to imagine, that I never get what I want...or that I do. And then what?"

"I know exactly what you mean," Aziraphale replied, trying to keep his expression neutral as his thoughts returned to his prayer earlier.

"So you really think this, me, The Doomsday Option, it could happen one day?"

"I don't think it will be easy," Aziraphale replied. "But isn't anything worth having worth at least a little bit of trouble?"

"'Spose not. At least we have one fan for life, right? I mean, I gave you a signed poster, that means you have to come to every show now. You're officially a groupie."

Aziraphale flicked a bit of doughnut at him that managed to land perfectly in Crowley's eye. "We'll see."


It was the light that woke Aziraphale the next morning, far too bright against the snow outside. Blinking and grimacing, he experienced that strange dissociation of waking up in an unfamiliar location before he remembered where he was: crumpled on the window seat under a throw blanket, neck sore from using a decorative throw pillow for support.

Across from him, Crowley snored slightly, one arm and leg dangling to the floor from underneath the blanket wrapped around his waist. The mess of his red hair tangled over his shoulders.

"Crowley," he sighed quietly, but his friend didn't stir. He wasn't sure how he'd planned to continue anyway. There was so much he wanted to say, and none of it was anything he could imagine putting into words.

He slipped away to the bathroom for a shower. Afterwards, he left Crowley to slumber and made his way to the library with a cup of tea. It was the second-to-last day he would spend at Crowley's house, before he had to return to his dormitory to begin preparations for the coming semester, and he wanted to enjoy the space once more.

Of course, instead of focusing on the book cracked open on his lap, his thoughts wandered, eventually straying to the realization that in a few short months, his time away from home would be over. There were five months, in fact, before he said farewell to Brian, Heather, Anathema, and Crowley and went home to finish his education.

"'Morning," Crowley said from the doorway, startling him back to the present. "You eat already?"

"Oh! No, I haven't. Just tea."

"C'mon then. Those doughnuts were great last night, but I'm starving."

Aziraphale marked his place, then followed Crowley to the kitchen, where omelets and fresh fruit waited for them, with a handwritten note from Maude wishing them a Merry Christmas.

"So what d'you wanna do today? You gonna call your family or anything?"

"If you wouldn't mind? I know it's, well, quite long distance, but I'll be quick."

Crowley flapped a hand in dismissal. "Hey, I'm not footing the bill. And after yesterday, I think my parents can just deal with it, yeah? How about you go do that, while I pick out some movies for a marathon. We have all sorts of weird candy, turns out. I found something called Jelly Babies in the pantry the other day."

"Those are my favorite!" Aziraphale exclaimed. "I can't believe you've never had them, everyone at home eats them."

"I guess I'll have to try them, if you like them that much. We've got those, chocolate peanuts, Junior Mints, and gummy bears."

"Wonderful. What movies?"

"Hmm, since it's Christmas, I'm thinking Die Hard and Blade Runner."

"Are those Christmas movies? They sound rather violent."

"Well, Die Hard might be, that's open to debate. But Blade Runner has that guy from Ladyhawke in it."

During Aziraphale's brief call home, Gabriel filled him in on the service and asked about Pastor Honeycutt's homily, and Ruth described her presents (mostly books, because that hobby certainly ran in the family). She thought the poster from Crowley sounded "cool" but laughed when he described the outfits Crowley had given him.

"I can't imagine you wearing any of that! Don't let Dad see you in any of it—he'd probably have a heart attack."

"I'm sure you're right. Maybe I'll save them for special occasions—perhaps next Christmas mass?" She giggled at the thought.

"I wish you were here, Aziraphale. It's so quiet without you. Aren't you homesick?"

"A bit. But school and things here are …" He thought of his friends again, his classes from the last semester, the peace of the campus library. "So different. In a good way. I almost wish I could stay longer."

And it was true, he thought after he said his farewells and went to join Crowley. But even if he managed to convince his father, there was the money to think of. He had free room and board at home, and tuition here was higher here than for the local universities and colleges. Perhaps he could get a part-time job, to save some money and come back for his junior or senior year? He had a semester to plan, at least.

When it happened, it was a complete surprise. Years later, Aziraphale would try to remember the exact sequence of events, but most of it was a blur.

He and Crowley spent most of the next in the greenhouse, where Aziraphale helped Crowley tend his plants. They'd debated what to name the latest addition, the poinsettia Aziraphale had brought from church, but Crowley had final say, of course, so Ruby it was.

"And you'd best not lose any of those luscious leaves, Ruby, or we'll have to have a conversation about whether or not you deserve the protection of this glass palace, won't we?" Crowley cooed with just a hint of menace in his voice. "It's awful cold outside just now."

"Leave the poor thing alone," Aziraphale chastised him. "I'm sure Ruby will stay absolutely gorgeous, just as she is now." He ran a gloved hand over a leaf, and gave it a reassuring pat for good measure.

The sun was well into the west when they'd made it back inside, and then in what felt like an instant they were in the Porsche, on the way back to the dorm, and his vacation—and his time with Crowley—was almost at an end.

They hadn't talked about seeing each other again, and Aziraphale wasn't sure if he should bring it up or wait for Crowley to say something. Or was it his turn to play the host? Not that the campus was very scenic, and Crowley could hardly stay over. The thought, coupled with the proximity of the person in question, made Aziraphale's heart flutter. He was suddenly hyper aware of Crowley's nearness. That tension grew as they drove through the empty campus and back to Aziraphale's dorm. The parking lot was utterly empty when Crowley pulled up to the building.

Rather than simply wait for Aziraphale to leave, as he'd expected, Crowley put the Porsche into park and got out, stretching and stuffing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. "You need help with your bag, er, or anything?"

Aziraphale blinked in surprise. "No, I can manage. Ah, thank you for inviting me over. Except for maybe the dinner with your parents. That part I could have done without."

Crowley snorted. "I think I could have done without it too. Maybe next year I'll just pretend I'm not home."

"You could always come visit me?" Aziraphale asked tentatively. "I'll be back home by then, and I'm sure my family wouldn't mind."

"Huh. That would be … I think I'd like that."

They fell silent again, but neither made a move to leave. As if it knew something before he did, Aziraphale's heart began to pound. And then Crowley was moving closer to Aziraphale, until his dark-lensed eyes were looking down the short distance to him. Small flakes of snow landed on his cheeks, instantly melting away.

"Angel, I…" Crowley fell silent and bit his lip with a sharp canine. "I know we haven't … that is, you might not … but I …"

"Yes?" Aziraphale asked softly, but before he could say more, Crowley leaned down and pressed their mouths together.