Crowley had hardly just flopped onto the couch when he felt his phone buzzing from his hoodie pocket. With a dramatic groan, he wiggled around to grab it and accept the call. "Hello?"

"Hey, running late? Need a lift?" His boss from his favorite job, Nina, sounded equal parts concerned and annoyed.

"Wha- lift where? Just got home," Crowley ran a hand down his face. Both were still slightly grimy. He hated the stupid Christmas tree sale at the greenhouse. He hated working it. They weren't even getting time and a half for it being the holidays. Christmas Eve was a holiday, right? That should be a thing. He hated having to put in hours there on top of hours at Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death and still hardly being able to save any money. (Granted, he had no idea what he was saving for. To move again, maybe?)

"Um... Mr. Fell's holiday party?"

Crowley's heart dropped even lower than it had already been. He didn't think that would be possible.

"Crowley? You there?"

"I was invited to that?"

Nina spluttered. "Of course!? Who did you think the second invitation was for when Mr. Fell dropped them off at the cafe?!"

"I- well, thought that one was Maggie's. I didn't think he'd invite me, I've only been here for-"

"Almost a year, I hired you in February. You're part of the Whickber Street group."

Crowley felt that telltale pressure behind his eyes. "I'm- I'm sorry, tell Mr. Fell I'm really sorry."

"Hey, you're fine, can you get here? How fast? I'll just tell him you're running late."

"Dunno, I'm covered in tree sap and everything hurts. Um- maybe thirty-forty minutes? Is it even worth going at this point, I'll be so late-"

"He's looking forward to seeing you. None of us will mind if you're fashionably late. Just wear your ugliest sweater, don't overthink it, okay?"

"Okay," Crowley croaked, squeezing his eyes shut to hold in tears. "Okay, I'll- be right there."

"Alright. See you."

The line went quiet. Nina had hung up. Crowley let the phone fall to the mattress and pressed his palms to his eyes. Don't cry, don't cry, you have to be at a party soon.

A party hosted by the bookshop owner across the street from Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death. A party hosted by the man who gave Crowley butterflies in his stomach like he was some anxious teen in a classroom and not a twenty-eight-year-old man (shaped person). A twenty-eight-year-old barista with whom Mr. Fell only interacted because he often had lunch at Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death.

He's looking forward to seeing you.

Crowley's butterflies started bouncing off his sides. That's just what happened when he thought for too long about Mr. Fell. His laugh, the beard that he kept neat and cropped short, the way he called everyone 'dear', and the feel of his hand when Crowley passed his coffee to him and their fingers brushed-

Okay, he was going to that party. He rolled out of bed and started for the bathroom, pulling off his jacket and shirt. His roommate, Newt, was shaving carefully in front of the mirror (he always nicked his jaw no matter how careful he was, though), and gave Crowley a weird look as he grabbed a towel and yanked his belt off. "Can you wait a sec?" he asked, accidentally getting some shaving cream in his mouth and wrinkling his nose.

"I need to go, asap," Crowley shimmied out of his jeans. "I'll be quick."

"You better be done by the time I shave the other half of my face."

"Promise," Crowley pulled off his socks and leapt into the shower, not waiting for the water to warm up. He pulled the curtain shut. A few moments later, his boxers joined the scattered clothing on the bathroom floor. Newt rolled his eyes.

"I thought you planned on being a hermit for the rest of the night."

"Holiday party."

"Getting wasted instead?"

"Not that kind of holiday party." Crowley shivered, scrubbing at his arms where pine tree sap had managed to stick.

He always managed to feel like a hot mess by the time Mr. Fell came in to have lunch. The universe would never let him stay a fully functional human being- it would be a bad hair day, or some kid would spill something on him, or he would have to wipe off his makeup after either crying or being around too much steam. And even if nothing disastrous happened to his appearance, he would stutter through his greeting and sound dumb. For God's sake, he even passed out behind the counter once and came to with the man holding a cold cloth to his face and Nina shoving an ice pack up his shirt to ground him. He'd let slip a very undignified yelp, tried to sit up too fast, and promptly passed out again. Embarrassing.

Mr. Fell on the other hand always looked put together, like he was coming from or going to church. Whenever he stammered it somehow managed to be endearing. It made Crowley feel off-kilter. He was determined to be just hot, not the mess part, at least for one night around Mr. Fell. He could manage that.

"Ow," Newt said, sounding less surprised and more resigned. Crowley heard his footsteps retreat to the kitchen, where they kept the first aid stash.

Crowley finished possibly the fastest shower of his life, tugging uncomfortably at his hair with how fast he was scrubbing it. Then as soon as he saw himself in the mirror, a towel wrapped around his waist and his hair hanging down past his shoulders, his anxiety mounted. What should he do with his hair? Mr. Fell said he liked it once, did he have it up or down that day? He hadn't had a haircut in a while, it was sort of getting out of control. He continued to contemplate as he applied concealer below his eyes to hide his terrible inability to sleep lately. Would he look good with bangs?

His phone pinged from where he had left it on the bed, and he went to check it.

8:58

Are you coming to Uncle Az's party?

9:01

We're going to play bingo soon :)

I will keep track of your card if you want :))

9:05

the food is really good:)

It was Muriel. Mr. Fell's niece, who dropped by the coffee shop with a group of her friends once or twice a week. The new messages popped up under the old photos of homework questions (natural sciences, ironically, didn't come naturally to some people). She was expecting him to be there too. There was no time to worry about his hair too much. His car still wasn't working, so he needed to catch the bus to Whickber Street in about fifteen minutes.

"Shower's free!" he shouted to Newt, pulling on underwear and his tightest jeans. Ugliest sweater, huh? Nearly everything he owned was either black or red, and tight. A black turtleneck didn't scream festive.

But there was a lumpy green monstrosity covered in tinsel in Newt's closet. "Also, bestie, can I borrow this?"

Newt wandered back in, a tissue still pressed to his face. "Huh? Oh, sure. Someone may as well get some use out of it."

"Your mom sent it, didn't she?"

Newt grimaced. "Yeah. I'll tell her it was worn to a party, she'll be happy. Oh, and is the blue or the grey better? For me, for tonight."

Crowley pulled the scratchy sweater over his head. "Where are you going?"

"With Anathema, out to dinner."

"Blue. She told me she likes blue on you." Newt blushed. Ugh. They were so sweet, it was gross sometimes. Crowley's phone pinged again. Muriel had sent a blurry selfie of her clutching Mr. Fell's cat, who didn't look amused. The cat was wearing a Christmas sweater too. "I've got to run. Where the fuck are my boots?" he muttered to himself. More importantly, should he wear the sexy ones or the actually warm ones?

Wait, his hair was still wet. He looked like a half-drowned rat. Crowley rushed back to the bathroom for a hairbrush. Since he couldn't remember whether Mr. Fell had complimented his hair up or down, he pulled half of it up into a bun and left the rest down. He dabbed some perfume on his jaw under his ear as well as on his wrists.

If it was the fancy perfume he saved for special occasions, that was no one's business.

He chose black ankle boots with a little heel and regretted it as soon as he was jogging to the bus stop. He had a feeling he was forgetting something. It looked like everything was in his purse. Wallet, keys, pepper spray, emergency hair ties, etc...

Shit, it was his stop. He got off the bus at one end of Whickber Street. When he reached the bookshop and raised his left hand to knock, he realized what he'd forgotten. His hand was shaking.

His wrist brace.

"Fuck."

The door was opening. Crowley smiled, hoping that no one would be able to read the slight panic in his eyes.

"Anthony, lovely to see you!" Mr. Fell beamed. The man was just a few inches shorter than Crowley, and much stockier- his kind blue eyes and that voice made the butterflies start acting up again.

"Hi," Crowley waved with his right hand, keeping the left slightly behind him.

"Come in, dear. How's your Christmas Eve going?" Mr. Fell asked.

"Um... pretty good so far." Exhausting. Looking better now that I'm here. "Sorry I was so late," Crowley stammered.

"It's alright, we're all just glad you could make it." He then laid a gentle hand on the middle of Crowley's back to usher him toward the stairs. Oh, this was in his flat, not the bookshop.

Crowley was a little surprised at how easily he was welcomed into the fold. Mr. Fell's hand left his lower back and he missed the contact for a moment- then Muriel grabbed his hand and dragged him to the couch by the fireplace to show him the cat sweater in person. The fifteen-year-old hefted the chunky, long-haired cat into her arms again to deposit him into Crowley's lap. Nina and Maggie made their way over to greet him with a pat on the shoulder and a hug respectively. The surrounding conversations were light and interspersed with laughter.

Bingo was played, and prizes were won- scrunchies, little scented candles, and candy canes (he won a lavender-scented candle). Someone opened a bottle of wine (might have been Maggie) and Crowley accepted a glass, feeling the tension further drain from him. With a second glass, he was loosened up enough to be a more active participant in the conversations, and the ache in his wrist dulled. Mutt's spouse chatted with him about winter sowing, which Crowley was always happy to talk about, and promised to set them aside some flower seeds at the greenhouse. Someone put on a record, and soft Christmas music became part of the backdrop of the party.

When he got the chance, Crowley snacked on Chex Mix and took in the details of Mr. Fell's flat. The space where the party took place was a cozy living room, with Christmas decorations everywhere. A doorway led into the kitchen, the source of the absolutely heavenly smell of gingerbread and pumpkin and something savory that Crowley couldn't pinpoint. Down the hall, he guessed must be the bathroom and bedroom. The candles in the windows and on the mantle were electric- understandable, he lived above a bookshop, after all. There were also bookshelves in the living room, which Crowley felt like he should have expected. There were a few pieces of artwork on the walls with Muriel's signature in the corner. Stepping into the flat was like the emotional equivalent of slipping into a warm bath. It felt more like the word 'home' than anywhere Crowley had actually lived.

As Muriel was wrapping up a story about her art class, Crowley felt the couch cushions shift as someone's weight settled next to him. He looked up and nearly choked on his own spit. Mr. Fell was sitting close enough that Crowley could feel his warmth, with a mug in each hand.

"Oh, hot chocolate?" Muriel asked.

"Mmhm. This one is for you," Mr. Fell passed Muriel the mug that Crowley recognized as her favorite, that she often had with her when she puttered around the bookshop. "And this one," the second mug was pressed into Crowley's hands with a wink, "is for you. It's a little different." He said the last part in a lower tone of voice that Muriel couldn't hear.

"For me?" He rested his right hand closer to the bottom so it held more of the weight, trying not to let on how much his left hand was still shaking.

Mr. Fell nodded. Crowley took a sip and smiled. "Oh, that's..." got alcohol in it for sure.

"Like it?"

"Yeah, thanks, Mr. Fell." Crowley took another sip. He felt a coil of warmth in his middle and wasn't sure if it was the drink or if Mr. Fell's gaze still trained on him had something to do with that.

"Are you enjoying your first Whickber Street Christmas party, dear?"

There it was again, 'dear'. Crowley wasn't going to survive the night if he heard it many more times. "I think it's great, it's- thank you for inviting me. Even if I didn't realize I was invited."

"Hm?" Mr. Fell's brow furrowed.

"That's- okay, funny story, I didn't think that invite was for me at first. I thought it was for someone else, I didn't think I'd been working here long enough, but I'm really glad that you invited me." Crowley made himself stop rambling, bringing the mug back to his lips.

Mr. Fell laid a hand on his knee and the butterflies were flying real low all the sudden. "Of course I- we all wanted you here. And we hope you'll be at next year's too."

"I think I will be," Crowley said. He hadn't thought that far ahead with much certainty, but he found that he meant it. He wanted to be here in this flat come next year, with these people and this warm feeling. He wanted to be here on this couch- or any couch, any seat- next to this man who was always so kind to him. The little voice that always told him it didn't mean anything was very quiet right now. Mr. Fell's hand hadn't moved from his knee. Crowley didn't want it to. What was it like to kiss a man with a beard? he wondered idly. He'd never done that before.

"Uncle Az?" Muriel broke the silence that had settled over the two of them like a blanket of snow.

Mr. Fell moved back, taking his hand away, and Crowley once again missed the physical contact. "Yes, dear?"

"Do we still have whipped cream?"

"I'm actually not sure, you can go ahead and check."

Muriel brought her mug with her to the kitchen, where she could be heard rummaging.

"She's around the bookshop a lot, does she ever go home?" Crowley joked. He knew that Muriel wasn't an official employee, even though she proudly held the title of assistant.

"Well, this is home for her," Mr. Fell said. He looked a little sad now, and Crowley kicked himself mentally.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did something happen...?"

"To her parents? No, not really. One of my older brothers and my sister-in-law had a falling out a few years back. They were arguing a lot, divorce wasn't going very... smoothly. I agreed to babysit for a while to let them iron out all their issues. They never agreed on who was going to have her when. Then the sister-in-law- ex-sister-in-law, ghosted. Muriel visits her father sometimes but she always ends up back here with me. I daresay it might be better for her."

"That's... awful. Of her parents. She's lucky she has you."

Mr. Fell leaned back into the couch cushions. "Just trying my best. And hoping it's enough."

"Does Muriel have any cousins? Think she'll have any more in the future?"

"I think I missed the boat on having kids if that's what you mean. Her other cousins live hours away, and she doesn't see them often, but her friends are a good group, very creative. And kind."

"How old are you?" Crowley blurted. "Or- shit, that's not very polite, is it?"

"You're fine," Mr. Fell laughed. "I'll be turning thirty-six next month."

"You haven't missed any boat, you can still have kids at thirty-six."

"I suppose. But it goes more smoothly with two parents, doesn't it? Not much luck in that department. Too set in my ways, I'm not exciting anymore."

"Not exciting?" Crowley scoffed.

"You know. I'm at the point where I've carved out a mostly quiet life for myself here. I'm tied to London with this bookshop, my niece, my cat, my friends. I like it. I'm not keen on switching it up, or, god forbid, moving. My partner would probably be the one slowing down for me, and that's just not fair to ask." Mr. Fell shook his head. "I'm rambling now. Point is, with just me, Muriel and Co. are enough. Keep me on my toes." Muriel and Co. (Co. at the moment being the cat) came out of the kitchen. An absurd amount of whipped cream was wobbling on top of the hot chocolate, and Muriel walked very slowly to sit down by the Christmas tree. The cat curled up on top of her knees, watching the mug. If cats could look worried, this one probably would.

"Maybe there's something to be said for slowing down," Crowley said. "Maybe someone will think that sounds nice. Can't live fast and loud forever." He was going to give himself away. He hid his face in his mug, finishing up the hot chocolate and hoping Mr. Fell didn't think anything of his response.

The song changed to something a little more upbeat. He said yes to another hot chocolate, and was led to the kitchen, feeling giddy over Mr. Fell's hand in his. Crowley's head felt nice and fuzzy after that, and the next he knew, it was almost midnight and he was talking about the constellations currently visible in their hemisphere. How long had he been talking about stars? Didn't matter, he decided. Mr. Fell was still listening, still looking him in the eyes, nodding and humming between sips of his own drink. People occasionally came over to say goodbye before they headed home, and Crowley expected Mr. Fell to excuse himself any minute, but as soon as a goodbye hug was given and 'Merry Christmas's exchanged, he settled back in to give Crowley more of his undivided attention.

"Were stars something you studied in school?"

"No," Crowley sighed, "but if we had then maybe I wouldn't have almost flunked out of secondary. All I could think about was stars. Had to retake math a few times. Teachers hated me. Never tried to do uni or anything. I danced." He shouldn't be saying this. He was unloading his life story on this man who was only sort of his friend- more of a friend of Nina's so like a friend once removed? Friend in law? But Mr. Fell nodded, and he looked genuinely interested, and he was so nice so when he asked what kind of dancing, Crowley told him. "Mostly like- pole dancing. And such. All sorts of aerial stuff. Loved the silks, but people don't- it was just easier to do the pole or maybe a hoop and people would pay to see that more. Sexier. I was good. Like, really good, I was making enough- enough to pay my half of rent- sometimes my ex's too, when he couldn't."

Shit. That hurt to remember. Was it weird to talk about his ex?

"I can't do it anymore. Not often enough to really make money off it. Fucked up my wrist when he- when I had an accident. It makes this clicking noise sometimes. Hurts still. Bones are so... you can't fuck 'em up, man, it's real hard to un-fuck your bones."

"It really is. I'm sorry that happened. I had a friend in powerlifting who tore his ACL and it was never the same. Though that's not a bone. Ligament. Same idea."

"You did powerlifting?" Crowley glanced at Mr. Fell's arms in his bulky sweater. How much could he still lift? Maybe... one hundred forty-odd pounds? Just a totally random hypothetical weight, not Crowley's at all.

"Through high school and college. I'm lucky I didn't fuck up any of my bones or ligaments the way I pushed myself. I still lift as a hobby, but I'm not trying to set any records, that's for sure."

Crowley was still having a field day imagining this when Maggie and Nina came over to the table to say goodbye. "It's officially Christmas now, not Christmas Eve, we figured the rest of us would get going."

"Oh, it is," Mr. Fell checked his watch. "Time flies, huh?"

Crowley checked his phone while Mr. Fell got up to say goodbye to the rest of the Whickber Street group. He didn't have any notifications. Newt was probably back at Ana's. He would stop by in the morning before going to Christmas with his family. Crowley would have the flat to himself.

Yay.

"Are you alright, dear?"

Crowley jumped, startled. He hadn't realized Mr. Fell was back. The flat was quiet. Muriel must have gone to bed, Crowley couldn't hear anyone humming or talking to the cat.

"Yeah, 'm alright, Mr. Fell. I should go too. I don't want to overstay."

Mr. Fell nodded, setting their mugs in the sink. "And I suppose we should be well rested for Christmas tomorrow- or, later this morning."

"Right," Crowley said as if he wasn't probably going to sleep all the way through Christmas.

Mr. Fell accompanied him to the door and held his coat out. Crowley went to grab it, then realized he was meant to slide his arms into the sleeves. He hoped his face wasn't turning too red as Mr. Fell adjusted the coat around his shoulders. "I had a good time getting to know you better," he said. "You're an interesting person, Anthony."

The butterflies swooped. "You're interesting too. Sorry I'm the last one-"

"You don't need to apologize. Someone has to be the last," Mr. Fell gently turned Crowley to face him. "I was thinking we could keep getting to know each other better if you're amenable to that. When can I see you again?"

"We'll both be at the next shopkeepers and traders association meeting, right?"

"Not- I didn't mean a group meeting, I meant us."

Crowley felt unbearable heat creeping up his neck. Oh. Oh, like a date. He was being asked out. And he was fucking it up. Hot mess express. He had to un-fuck it up, quick. "Sorry, I don't- that was weird, okay, I know what you mean. I'm free this weekend, any time. Just us."

"Yes, just the two of us." Mr. Fell grinned, and Crowley couldn't help but grin back. "And you can call me by my first name if you like."

Crowley nodded, feeling giddy and a little light-headed. "Okay." He fumbled slightly reaching for the doorknob, but it opened and let in a blast of cold air. "Bye, I'll see you. Merry Christmas."

A quick kiss was pressed to his cheek- warm, a little scratchy. He hardly noticed the note (a phone number) being tucked into his hand. "Merry Christmas, Anthony. Text me when you get home safe."

Crowley was so happy and shocked that it took him half the walk back home to realize that there was just one problem.

He'd never actually heard anyone use Mr. Fell's first name. He had no clue what it was.

"Zira?"

Just short of a year later, Crowley closed the bookshop door behind him and set about trying to find his partner (whom he now knew the first name of, thank you very much). There was no response, so he must not be in the shop.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley called once he was upstairs, lifting the shopping bags onto the counter in the kitchen. Months ago, the action might have sent a familiar wave of pain down his arm. Today, it didn't. "Zira?"

"I'm sorry, dear, I'm here, I got tied up trying to-" Aziraphale paused in the doorway. He was holding a tangled mass of Christmas lights but didn't seem very interested in them at all anymore.

"I got the last of the baking stuff. And one more thing for Muriel; in light of their coming out I thought they might appreciate something pride-themed. And whipped cream. That was buy one get one. So- yeah, maybe some 'different' hot chocolate again this year?" Crowley was rambling. He couldn't seem to stop. Aziraphale hadn't said anything yet.

Before he had gone and run errands for the upcoming Whickber Street Christmas party, he had also cut his hair. Or, Anathema had. She was over at the flat a lot now, she and Newt being practically joined at the hip. Crowley didn't mind a whole lot, she was cool and they were never super loud. And she really was good at cutting hair.

It was an urge that had been quietly bothering him for a while, and Crowley finally decided to give in. Hair grows back, he reasoned. But maybe he should have sent Zira a picture before he showed up. Maybe he should have asked him about it before. Crowley's stomach twisted.

"Well, are you going to say something?" he asked. His boyfriend was still looking quietly, and it was beginning to unnerve him. "Do you not like it?"

The tangle of Christmas lights was set on the table and Aziraphale stepped closer. He ran his hands through the short red waves that were now cropped just below Crowley's jaw. "You're gorgeous," he said. Crowley started to recognize the adoration mixed with surprise in his expression. He didn't seem displeased at all, actually. "Can I see the back?"

Aziraphale watched his boyfriend do a small spin, trying to hide the shy grin on his face. "Gorgeous," he reiterated, meaning it absolutely. When Crowley had turned all the way back around, Aziraphale drew him in by his waist for a kiss. Crowley's arms settled around his neck, and they stood there in the kitchen letting the minutes slip away, lips pressed together.

"I'm so lucky," Crowley whispered when they finally parted long enough for a thought to make its way into coherent words.

"Why?"

He shrugged, his ears turning pink, and changed the subject. "We should get some of this stuff in the fridge."

"Oh, right," Aziraphale moved to help with putting away the groceries, starting with the cereal boxes. "Still quite a few things to do before tomorrow."

It would be Crowley's second Whickber Street Christmas party. He remembered wishing last year to make it to this one and smiled to himself. He'd gotten a lot more than that.

"So, what's new with Newt and Ana? Are they spending Christmas here?" Aziraphale asked. He carefully moved aside a plate of gingerbread people- inspector-constables, Muriel and Crowley had decided while making them, inspired by the weird shapes of their heads in spite of trying to cut their shapes out properly. This cleared up a little space on the counter where he would make deviled eggs later.

"I think Ana is taking Newt to meet her family. He's nervous. They're all very... witchy, you know?" Crowley had started sorting out the cold things, resisting the temptation to just empty everything out and restart their whole organization system.

"Apple didn't fall far from the tree?"

"Nah. You know, they might be moving in together soon."

"Really?" Aziraphale paused.

"Yeah. Our lease is up soon. They've been talking about adopting a puppy together. And looking at paint swatches." Crowley sighed. "I guess I should start looking too, then."

The following pause went on for so long that Crowley glanced back to check on his boyfriend. He had finished tucking the allspice and cinnamon that Crowley had picked up into the spice cabinet. "You okay?"

"Hm? Oh, I'm fine dear. I was just thinking."

"What about?" Crowley crumpled the now empty plastic bags and put them under the kitchen sink.

"You could move in with me," Aziraphale suggested softly.

For a moment, Crowley felt like he couldn't breathe. Move in? Here? After the initial panic, his brain started supplying daydreams he had previously shaken off. Sleeping in late here. Making breakfast here. Coming home after work and home being here. He already had lunch here most days. He already sat at this table and helped Muriel with their homework. He even had a toothbrush here. Maybe he shouldn't have been so surprised that Aziraphale would suggest this. His time already felt pretty evenly split between the flat above the bookshop and the flat he shared with Newt. The transition would be easy.

Would it be too easy? Was he too willing?

"Would that be too fast for you, dear? We can put a pin in this and talk about it later."

Would it be too fast? Crowley mulled that over. They had been dating for almost a year exactly. Was that enough? Would one more year change how he felt about this? he hadn't lived with a romantic partner since... he glanced down at his wrist brace.

And oddly enough, that put things into a bit of perspective. He never felt that way here. He'd never been hurt here. That feeling he'd gotten when he first stepped over the threshold- the emotional equivalent of slipping into a warm bath- he still felt it all the time. Even when he and Aziraphale argued or disagreed, he was never scared to be here.

"Crowley, dear?"

When he wanted to go home, he wanted to come here. Always.

"I would get my own house key?" Crowley blurted.

Aziraphale grinned. "I can get copies made of the keys. Is that a yes?"

"Yes, I want to live here," Crowley finally turned back around, powering through the wobbly, teary-eyed feelings. "I'd love to move in- if that's really okay with you-"

Crowley stopped babbling when he was wrapped in a warm embrace. "I wouldn't have proposed the idea if it weren't okay," Aziraphale said. Crowley shivered when his boyfriend's beard brushed his neck and clutched him tighter. "It sounds wonderful. Having you here."

"Sounds wonderful being here." Like a dream come true, Crowley thought to himself. When did I get so corny?

The next evening, the sitting room was tidied, and snacks set out- Chex Mix was stolen from the bowl by the cat- the little battery-powered candles were turned on and guests began to trickle in around eight-thirty. More food was brought, drinks were poured, and there was music and friends and warmth. Muriel tried their first taste of wine, wrinkled their nose, and bit into another gingerbread inspector-constable. Impossible as it had seemed to Crowley, this party might even top last year's. Maybe he was biased. Maybe having Aziraphale's arm around his waist for half the night, being pressed next to each other on the couch hip to hip, thigh to thigh, gentle kisses pressed to his temple throughout the night, and being called Uncle Crowley were all skewing the results of his little evaluation.

Maybe parties were just better when you helped host them- when afterward, guests gone and flat cleaned up, you weren't helped into your coat but into your pajamas. And you didn't go back outside into the cold but curled up under sheets and quilts and into the side of someone warm and lovely and soft.

(Maybe there was something to be said for the slowness and the relative quiet of it all.)