Time wore on, as it had a tendency to do. The next time Crowley had gone in to the library, Sandra's animosity had vanished, as had the cold air of the rest of the staff. Much as with Charlene, he suspected that Azariah had had words with them. That seemed to be a thing with him, Crowley observed; avoiding confrontation wherever possible, but quietly ensuring that everyone knew what was what, and that he protected whoever needed it. The librarian had been true to his word about making the library safe for Crowley, too: he'd let Sandra catch a glimpse of his eyes once, partly by accident, but partly to test things out. She'd taken an extra blink or two that no one would have noticed if they hadn't been looking, but otherwise not missed a beat.
And once or twice when he'd laid his sunglasses on the table next to him in the Literature reading room, he'd felt a stare upon him, but glanced up to see Azariah glaring severely at the perpetrator, or stepping between them and Crowley and speaking a few unintelligible words in a low voice. The first couple of times he'd dared to remove the glasses in the library, he'd done so a bit nervously. Crowley wasn't ashamed of his eyes, but he didn't like the reactions they tended to cause in humans when he was just minding his own business. But Azariah's quiet defence of his peace made Crowley warm, and allowed him to recede into the fabric of the library, now a place where he could, in this way at least, be himself. It was an odd dichotomy, having to uphold the fiction of his humanity, while being able to release the tension of concealing his inhuman nature.
The search, too, wore on. The desperation with which Crowley had begun it calmed somewhat, as more time passed without any sign of anyone coming for Aziraphale, or otherwise raising threats. Still working his way steadily through the library, he no longer felt the need to rip through book after book at a feverish, and attention grabbing, pace. Crowley worked methodically, with plenty of time for reading, coffee breaks, and lunches in Azariah's company.
Winter came properly, throwing a spanner into the works. Crowley's hatred of the cold was not entirely his own fault, but it was difficult to explain in human terms that yes, he was literally cold-blooded and could not keep himself warm, yet had somehow ended up living in England. Even bundled up outside, the Bentley's heat blasting during the brief drives to and from the library, going out most days was wearing on Crowley. He had started wearing scarves and vests and long black jumpers in the library, and exclusively huddling next to radiators to read. More than once he'd caught Azariah casting him a concerned glance, and waved them off— although he had accepted a couple of illicit mugs of tea slipped to him by the librarian when no one was looking.
Then came a day when Crowley awoke, got out of bed, looked outside, turned around, slammed the bedroom door behind himself, and collapsed right back into bed. He burrowed beneath the covers, snaking one arm out from under them to snap the control of his electric blanket up to high before pulling it back in with a shiver. Unsatisfied, he made a pitiful sort of gesture against the mattress, and an additional duvet appeared miraculously atop the bed. Crowley huddled under the weight of the blankets, curled in on himself, not even his head poking out, until at last the heat built enough that he drifted back to sleep. That was where he stayed for the next several days, alternating between deep sleep, dozing, and considering if he ought to get out of bed, before dropping off again. The room was warm and dark, he was warm, and compulsion demanded he stay that way. His sleep was dreamless and warm, and in his somnambulous state, Crowley could see no reason to leave it.
Nearly a week had passed in this way, before anything disturbed Crowley's brumation. With a buzz and a whistle, the phone he'd dropped onto his nightstand days ago lit up. He squinted, eyes objecting to the light after so long in complete darkness, but Crowley poked an arm out to retrieve the device. Not many people had this number, so the chances of it being something important were fairly high. After a few blinks, his eyes adjusted, and he saw that it was a text from Azariah.
You ok?
The message in the little box on his lockscreen read, and Crowley closed his eyes with a soft groan. He and Azariah had traded numbers quite a while ago, but not had much cause to use them. But of course, he'd gone suddenly silent and absent for a week. Of course Azariah wanted to know what was up. And if he was anything like Aziraphale, which he was, he'd have waited until long after he first started to get anxious to say anything. Crowley flicked upward on the screen with his thumb, opening the messaging app.
Yeah.
He wrote back laboriously, tapping the message out with out-of-practice thumbs,
Sorry. Been unwell, didn't mean to drop off the face of the earth.
The little dots indicating that Azariah was typing appeared instantly.
Sorry to hear that, hope you're doing better now!
Yeah, much.
Need anything?
Nah am ok. Thanks tho.
Happy to drop by with a coffee even, it's no problem.
Crowley hesitated. It was tempting, but he didn't think he was quite ready for Azariah to appear in his flat. Especially not in the state he was currently in; the effort of getting the place sorted and making himself appear human might just sent him into another coma.
How about coffee tomorrow?
He suggested, and Azariah's dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. Crowley stared at them. Their little dance was causing an unexplained know in his stomach, and he silently willed Azariah to just get on with it. Which, finally, he did.
Great! Or if you're feeling up to it, would you maybe like to go to Winter Wonderland? It's supposed to be a little warmer tomorrow. Completely understand if not.
Crowley started at his screen again, this time in a consternation suffused with irony. Of course, no matter what form he was in, no matter whether he knew himself or not, Aziraphale wanted to go to that kitschy festival of festive nonsense. Still, he had pulled an accidental disappearing act on Azariah, and could easily beg off after a little while, pleading lingering illness or the cold. Maybe it wouldn't be that bad.
Sure. As long as we can get boozy cocoa.
My treat :)
Crowley let the phone fall back onto his nightstand with a clatter and rolled over onto his back, staring up at the dark ceiling. So, he had a bit more than a day to prepare himself for a winter outing full of fairy lights, obnoxious carols, and piles of sweets. Despite his general disdain for the event, he found himself beginning to contemplate what warm layers he should dig out and wear for tomorrow night.
They'd arranged to meet outside the library when Azariah got off work, and walk over to Hyde Park. It wasn't much slower than getting the tube normally, and with Christmas this close, might actually be faster. Azariah trotted down the steps just as Crowley was approaching and greeted him cheerily, asking after his health. After much reassurance that he was, indeed, alright, they set off together. Azariah filled Crowley in on the latest library gossip from the week he'd missed, including the latest antics of Sandra's useless boyfriend. Neither of them could understand why she stayed with him, and dissection of that particular relationship lasted them the greater part of the walk, with much vehemence and gesticulating. Azariah posited that they should try to set her up with someone better, to which Crowley retorted darkly that he wasn't much of a matchmaker. And that, of course, inspired Azariah to ask how he knew that. A minimally embroidered account of the disastrous attempt at getting Nina and Maggie together followed, because that story was ridiculous enough on its own, even with the miraculous and demonic elements removed. Azariah laughed uproariously as they approached the entrance to the park, and Crowley spent a wistful moment wondering if enough time had passed that Aziraphale would still have considered it funny now if fully himself.
"Ah look, boozy cocoa!" Azariah exclaimed, pointing ahead to one of the nearest booths inside the park. They hurried over together and ordered drinks, with the librarian opting for crème de menthe in his chocolate, while Crowley chose amaretto. Upon receiving his drink, Crowley realized that although the cup was hot, ungloved hands were no longer going to cut it if they had to be out of his trouser pockets. He sidled over to a nearby table and set down his chocolate, fishing around in a coat pocket for his gloves. Upon pulling the balled up gloves out of his pocket, however, Crowley realized that there was only a singular glove to be found.
"Damn it," he muttered, rapidly searching through all his other pockets, to no avail.
"What is it?" Azariah asked, sipping his chocolate.
"Ah, I've left a glove behind, or dropped it, or something," Crowley waved his uncovered hand in demonstration as he used the now-gloved one to pick up his cup again.
"Hmm." Azariah gave a brief, considering look, then took off his right glove. Crowley was about to protest that that wouldn't do much good when it was his left glove that was gone, and anyway, wouldn't they both be cold then, when he found his hand seized by Azariah's right, and shoved into the librarian's coat pocket, fingers intertwined. With a slightly smug tilt of the head, he gave Crowley a self-satisfied smile. Crowley, taken aback, stared at Azariah for a moment. Then, the warmth from their intertwined fingers radiating inside the pocket, he shrugged minutely and sipped his chocolate. Azariah's smile broadened, and with a slight pull of their hands inside his pocket, led the way into the festive crowd.
They stayed that was for the rest of the night, hands clasped in Azariah's pocket as they paused to watch musical acts, explore shopping stalls, and taste the endless varieties of marzipan on offer. And it was easy to stay that way, not just because of the shared warmth, but the relaxed closeness that came from their touch; unthreatening, comfortable, and just plain nice.
Crowley did notice that every so often they received fond glances from other festival-goers, which he took to mean something like aww look at those gents, holding hands in public. Well, they weren't wrong. At first it bothered him, but after one such moment, he glanced at Azariah and saw the librarian looking at him with a smiling warmth that made him feel suddenly pleased about it. Without thinking, he squeezed Azariah's hand and received a light pressure in return. Crowley could hardly believe that it'd been over two hours when Azariah pointed out the time, and suggested that they should probably get going so he could get his bus, but maybe one more alcoholic hot chocolate for the road? Crowley didn't need any tempting on that score, and they retrieved another helping of sweet, fume-laden goodness before making their exit.
Outside the raucous park, the nighttime London streets seemed quieter than usual. This time, Azariah insisted it was his turn to walk Crowley home, after leaving him behind at the bus stop so often, and Crowley agreed. They strolled along amicably, and snowflakes began to drift down around them as they walked, talking quietly and sipping their chocolate.
"So, big plans for Christmas?" Azariah asked eventually, "Family get together?"
"No, actually," Crowley thought of his various demonic acquaintances, briefly imagining Hastur in a Santa hat, "We, erm, don't really celebrate. I'll probably just stay in."
"Oh." Clearly surprised, Azariah fell silent for a moment. Then, he spoke up tentatively. "Would you like to come to mine for Christmas Eve?" Crowley turned to look at him, his pace slowing.
"Don't you have plans?"
"Not really, I don't get together with family either. Just me and the cat, but I do like to make an evening of it. Besides," Azariah went on, warming to his suggestion, "I did promise to cook for you sometime."
"That's true," Crowley laughed nervously. Then after a moment, said, "Well, yeah, sure! I'll come, thanks very much."
"Oh, my pleasure."
There was a renewed spring in Azariah's step as they crossed the final stretch to the entrance of Crowley's building. He turned to Azariah to say goodnight, and this time it was his turn to pause, the silence filled with something or other he couldn't quite name, before finally speaking.
"Thank you," Crowley said, "for a lovely evening." With one last squeeze of Azariah's hand, he unthreaded his fingers and slipped out of the librarian's pocket, before disappearing hurriedly inside. His hand felt empty in the lift as it hummed upwards, and upon entering his flat, Crowley did not look out the window to see if Azariah still lingered on the pavement below.