Happy Holidays, aloneisawesome!
Title: The Trouble With Tree Trimming
Recipient: alone is awesome
Rating: NC-17 (Mature)
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Warnings: vague tree-on-demon violence and very light bondage
Summary: Crowley gets into a fight with a Christmas tree, Aziraphale watches, and we discover the true meaning of Christmas (or something)
> Crowley, where the bloody hell are you?
> on my way angel
> You said that an hour ago.
> How long does it take to buy a Christmas tree?
> Crowley?
> oi! firstly; there’re far too many humans out and about complicating matters, and secondly; if you expect me to help decorate this tree and call it my own, then it bloody better well be perfect! >B(
> and worry not, im right outside
> You could have just said so in the first place.
> BP
> You’re awful, my dear.
Aziraphale’s attention was drawn away from his mobile by an excited rapping coming from the front of the bookshop. Before he’d managed to extricate himself from his armchair and leave the back room, he heard the bell above the door let out a merry jingle.
“Aaaangelll, I’m hooome!”
“Must you always overuse that phrase?” he grumbled while rounding the corner.
Crowley stood in the doorway, having already propped open the door with an old brick*. There was a breeze blowing in behind him, ruffling his ungelled hair, and his cheeks were flushed from the cold. Aziraphale’s heart clenched.
* In saying “old”, we mean old. To be even clearer, very old. Aziraphale had actually rescued the brick from the ruins of the First Temple. It had been an impulsive decision, but not one he’d ever regretted.
“Well then, let’s get this thing in here before you get on my case about ‘letting the cold in on the poor books’ or something.” Crowley paused. “Not that I’d mind you getting on me,” he added, waggling his eyebrows over his sunglasses.
Aziraphale sighed, fondly exasperated.**
** Of course, not everything could be forgotten with just a sigh. Contained within that exhale was a mental note to deny Crowley his orgasm for even longer than usual the next time they fell into bed. He hadn’t even put any effort into that innuendo; things like that couldn’t simply be passed over.
“So,” Crowley continued, “still planning to set it up in the same spot just left of the fireplace? Let me know now if you’ve changed your bloody mind, because I am not waltzing around the bookshop with a pine tree. The needles get bloody everywhere and they itch.” His voice had pitched into a whine and he wriggled in his jacket as he said it, proving his point by causing a few of the aforementioned needles to drop to the bookshop floor.
“I’ve already shifted all the furniture to one side. It should be simple enough to drag the tree in and stand it up in the corner,” said Aziraphale, pulling on his coat and slipping into his boots. Outside, the sky above London was a rare brilliant blue, not a trace of any clouds on the horizon. The angel inhaled the crisp air deeply and let out a puff of breath. And then froze.
“What,” he said disbelievingly, “is that.”
“It’s our tree!” said the demon, voice tinged with pride.
“Crowley, when my old plastic tree fell apart after last year, we discussed the merits of replacing it with a real one come this year. A nice little tree to sit in the corner.”
Aziraphale’s glare was like daggers pinning Crowley in place.***
*** Or one dagger. A rather large dagger. A rather sword-like dagger. Possibly flaming.
“There is nothing little about this tree,” he said icily.
Strapped to the top of the Bentley was a Christmas tree. Well, presumably it was strapped to the Bentley, as the tree was so large and full that it seemed to be swallowing up half the car in its branches.
“Ah,” started the demon, in a tone that knew he’d bollocksed things up and yet still somehow thought something could be salvaged before the winter of Aziraphale’s discontent blew harsh and cold and obliterated everything in its path. “You see. I was looking at the smaller trees, but they were sad, ratty things, angel. Barely even suitable for lighting a fire to roast your chestnuts over.”
He briefly considered making an innuendo out of the benefits of having one’s chestnuts roasted before he thought better of it and continued with his defence.
“Er… This tree is much better?” Crowley finished, voice going up in a cheery pitch at the end of his sentence.
Aziraphale huffed, turned around, and strode back into the bookshop. Crowley was left standing awkwardly by the side of the road; a lanky, lonely figure juxtaposed with a large black car being eaten by an even larger green tree.
However, it was only a few seconds before the angel seemed to take pity on him, poking his head back around the doorjamb to witness the sorry sight.
“Fine,” Aziraphale called out.
Crowley brightened, the beginnings of a grin twisting his lips upwards.
“You can have the honour of bringing it in and setting it up,” he finished sweetly.
Crowley blessed under his breath.
~*~*~*~
Forty-two minutes, eleven close calls with toppling bookshelves, five high-pitched shrieks, two near meltdowns, and the invocation of every major and most minor deities of every pantheon he knew**** later, and Crowley had managed to wrestle the tree (which Aziraphale had oh-so-lovingly nicknamed Goliath) into the corner of the back room.
**** and a partridge in a pear tree
Crowley already knew he was going to smell like a Christmas tree lot for at least a week, and that he’d be picking needles out of uncomfortable places for nearly as long. At this rate, they ought just to have done away with Goliath only to drape some tinsel on him and call it a day. It would come to the same result, after all.
“There,” said Aziraphale, seated in his armchair and wrapped up the most violently tartan blanket he owned, sipping hot cocoa from a mug while he flipped through a harlequin novel with a shirtless man in a kilt on the cover. “That turned out to be not quite so difficult after all, didn't it? You did a fine job getting the tree to fit, dear heart.”
Crowley threw the angel a glare, its effect slightly weakened by the fact that his sunglasses had been knocked askew in the preceding pine-scented scuffle, before draping himself across the other armchair and throwing his legs over one side.
“Bugger doing it the human way,” he muttered, dropping his sunglasses onto the small end table. He then raised his left hand, snapped his fingers, and suddenly the tree was decorated tip to trunk in clear, spun-glass ornaments and shiny silver tinsel.
Aziraphale let out a low chuckle and murmured “bugger indeed”. Putting down his book, after carefully marking the page with an old receipt, he turned to Crowley and raised an eyebrow.
“What happened to ‘embracing humanity’s creativity and cleverness,’ then, hm?” he said with a near evil grin.
“I have pine needles where no pine needles should ever be,” Crowley moaned pitifully.
The angel smirked before taking a turn to snap his own fingers. Half of the decorations on the tree were suddenly surprised to discover that they were now significantly more wooden and tartan.
Aziraphale got up from his seat, and went over to Crowley’s armchair to stare down at him. “Have we learnt our lesson?” he asked, not even attempting to hide the smug expression on his face.
“Yeah, yeah; pride is a sin and I’m being punished for my Tree of Babel. However,” Crowley looked up, a light blush colouring the tips of his ears, “a bet’s a bet.”
“You did technically cheat in the end,” Aziraphale mused.
“Technically, the bet was only about setting up the tree. Nothing was actually said about trimming it.”
“Fair point,” said the angel, pulling a strand of ribbon from out of the ether. Crowley made a face.
“Tartan? Really?”
“Hush now dear,” Aziraphale said while helping Crowley stand up from his chair, “You wanted to give me an early Christmas present, but grant me the simple pleasure of choosing the ribbon and I’ll ignore the shortcut you took.”
Crowley wanted to argue, but it became a difficult and frankly counterproductive task when Aziraphale’s tongue insinuated itself between his lips. The demon gave a soft, appreciative hum, and allowed his eyelids to flutter closed.
Aziraphale’s hands, which had been resting on Crowley’s hips, moved upwards to trace a slow path from the base of the demon’s ribs to his shoulders; right hand deliberately pausing over Crowley’s heart for a beat before continuing onwards. Still leading the kiss, the angel loosened the demon’s tie and undid the top few buttons of his shirt, and then gently pushed Crowley down. He hadn’t even hit the floor when he felt his tie, shirt, and sweater get vanished. Aziraphale then, kneeling over him, brought both his wrists up over his head, letting go only once they were tied together and finished off with a tartan bow. Aziraphale then rolled his shoulders, vanishing his own shirt and sweater.
There was the sudden whoosh of wings being unfurled.
Crowley’s shy gaze met the bright eyes of the angel perched above him.
“Happy Christmas, Aziraphale,” he whispered.
Aziraphale gave a warm smile, brushing a few pine needles from Crowley’s hair and leaning down to cover his demon.
“Happy Christmas, Crowley.”
Recipient: alone is awesome
Rating: NC-17 (Mature)
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Warnings: vague tree-on-demon violence and very light bondage
Summary: Crowley gets into a fight with a Christmas tree, Aziraphale watches, and we discover the true meaning of Christmas (or something)
> Crowley, where the bloody hell are you?
> on my way angel
> You said that an hour ago.
> How long does it take to buy a Christmas tree?
> Crowley?
> oi! firstly; there’re far too many humans out and about complicating matters, and secondly; if you expect me to help decorate this tree and call it my own, then it bloody better well be perfect! >B(
> and worry not, im right outside
> You could have just said so in the first place.
> BP
> You’re awful, my dear.
Aziraphale’s attention was drawn away from his mobile by an excited rapping coming from the front of the bookshop. Before he’d managed to extricate himself from his armchair and leave the back room, he heard the bell above the door let out a merry jingle.
“Aaaangelll, I’m hooome!”
“Must you always overuse that phrase?” he grumbled while rounding the corner.
Crowley stood in the doorway, having already propped open the door with an old brick*. There was a breeze blowing in behind him, ruffling his ungelled hair, and his cheeks were flushed from the cold. Aziraphale’s heart clenched.
* In saying “old”, we mean old. To be even clearer, very old. Aziraphale had actually rescued the brick from the ruins of the First Temple. It had been an impulsive decision, but not one he’d ever regretted.
“Well then, let’s get this thing in here before you get on my case about ‘letting the cold in on the poor books’ or something.” Crowley paused. “Not that I’d mind you getting on me,” he added, waggling his eyebrows over his sunglasses.
Aziraphale sighed, fondly exasperated.**
** Of course, not everything could be forgotten with just a sigh. Contained within that exhale was a mental note to deny Crowley his orgasm for even longer than usual the next time they fell into bed. He hadn’t even put any effort into that innuendo; things like that couldn’t simply be passed over.
“So,” Crowley continued, “still planning to set it up in the same spot just left of the fireplace? Let me know now if you’ve changed your bloody mind, because I am not waltzing around the bookshop with a pine tree. The needles get bloody everywhere and they itch.” His voice had pitched into a whine and he wriggled in his jacket as he said it, proving his point by causing a few of the aforementioned needles to drop to the bookshop floor.
“I’ve already shifted all the furniture to one side. It should be simple enough to drag the tree in and stand it up in the corner,” said Aziraphale, pulling on his coat and slipping into his boots. Outside, the sky above London was a rare brilliant blue, not a trace of any clouds on the horizon. The angel inhaled the crisp air deeply and let out a puff of breath. And then froze.
“What,” he said disbelievingly, “is that.”
“It’s our tree!” said the demon, voice tinged with pride.
“Crowley, when my old plastic tree fell apart after last year, we discussed the merits of replacing it with a real one come this year. A nice little tree to sit in the corner.”
Aziraphale’s glare was like daggers pinning Crowley in place.***
*** Or one dagger. A rather large dagger. A rather sword-like dagger. Possibly flaming.
“There is nothing little about this tree,” he said icily.
Strapped to the top of the Bentley was a Christmas tree. Well, presumably it was strapped to the Bentley, as the tree was so large and full that it seemed to be swallowing up half the car in its branches.
“Ah,” started the demon, in a tone that knew he’d bollocksed things up and yet still somehow thought something could be salvaged before the winter of Aziraphale’s discontent blew harsh and cold and obliterated everything in its path. “You see. I was looking at the smaller trees, but they were sad, ratty things, angel. Barely even suitable for lighting a fire to roast your chestnuts over.”
He briefly considered making an innuendo out of the benefits of having one’s chestnuts roasted before he thought better of it and continued with his defence.
“Er… This tree is much better?” Crowley finished, voice going up in a cheery pitch at the end of his sentence.
Aziraphale huffed, turned around, and strode back into the bookshop. Crowley was left standing awkwardly by the side of the road; a lanky, lonely figure juxtaposed with a large black car being eaten by an even larger green tree.
However, it was only a few seconds before the angel seemed to take pity on him, poking his head back around the doorjamb to witness the sorry sight.
“Fine,” Aziraphale called out.
Crowley brightened, the beginnings of a grin twisting his lips upwards.
“You can have the honour of bringing it in and setting it up,” he finished sweetly.
Crowley blessed under his breath.
~*~*~*~
Forty-two minutes, eleven close calls with toppling bookshelves, five high-pitched shrieks, two near meltdowns, and the invocation of every major and most minor deities of every pantheon he knew**** later, and Crowley had managed to wrestle the tree (which Aziraphale had oh-so-lovingly nicknamed Goliath) into the corner of the back room.
**** and a partridge in a pear tree
Crowley already knew he was going to smell like a Christmas tree lot for at least a week, and that he’d be picking needles out of uncomfortable places for nearly as long. At this rate, they ought just to have done away with Goliath only to drape some tinsel on him and call it a day. It would come to the same result, after all.
“There,” said Aziraphale, seated in his armchair and wrapped up the most violently tartan blanket he owned, sipping hot cocoa from a mug while he flipped through a harlequin novel with a shirtless man in a kilt on the cover. “That turned out to be not quite so difficult after all, didn't it? You did a fine job getting the tree to fit, dear heart.”
Crowley threw the angel a glare, its effect slightly weakened by the fact that his sunglasses had been knocked askew in the preceding pine-scented scuffle, before draping himself across the other armchair and throwing his legs over one side.
“Bugger doing it the human way,” he muttered, dropping his sunglasses onto the small end table. He then raised his left hand, snapped his fingers, and suddenly the tree was decorated tip to trunk in clear, spun-glass ornaments and shiny silver tinsel.
Aziraphale let out a low chuckle and murmured “bugger indeed”. Putting down his book, after carefully marking the page with an old receipt, he turned to Crowley and raised an eyebrow.
“What happened to ‘embracing humanity’s creativity and cleverness,’ then, hm?” he said with a near evil grin.
“I have pine needles where no pine needles should ever be,” Crowley moaned pitifully.
The angel smirked before taking a turn to snap his own fingers. Half of the decorations on the tree were suddenly surprised to discover that they were now significantly more wooden and tartan.
Aziraphale got up from his seat, and went over to Crowley’s armchair to stare down at him. “Have we learnt our lesson?” he asked, not even attempting to hide the smug expression on his face.
“Yeah, yeah; pride is a sin and I’m being punished for my Tree of Babel. However,” Crowley looked up, a light blush colouring the tips of his ears, “a bet’s a bet.”
“You did technically cheat in the end,” Aziraphale mused.
“Technically, the bet was only about setting up the tree. Nothing was actually said about trimming it.”
“Fair point,” said the angel, pulling a strand of ribbon from out of the ether. Crowley made a face.
“Tartan? Really?”
“Hush now dear,” Aziraphale said while helping Crowley stand up from his chair, “You wanted to give me an early Christmas present, but grant me the simple pleasure of choosing the ribbon and I’ll ignore the shortcut you took.”
Crowley wanted to argue, but it became a difficult and frankly counterproductive task when Aziraphale’s tongue insinuated itself between his lips. The demon gave a soft, appreciative hum, and allowed his eyelids to flutter closed.
Aziraphale’s hands, which had been resting on Crowley’s hips, moved upwards to trace a slow path from the base of the demon’s ribs to his shoulders; right hand deliberately pausing over Crowley’s heart for a beat before continuing onwards. Still leading the kiss, the angel loosened the demon’s tie and undid the top few buttons of his shirt, and then gently pushed Crowley down. He hadn’t even hit the floor when he felt his tie, shirt, and sweater get vanished. Aziraphale then, kneeling over him, brought both his wrists up over his head, letting go only once they were tied together and finished off with a tartan bow. Aziraphale then rolled his shoulders, vanishing his own shirt and sweater.
There was the sudden whoosh of wings being unfurled.
Crowley’s shy gaze met the bright eyes of the angel perched above him.
“Happy Christmas, Aziraphale,” he whispered.
Aziraphale gave a warm smile, brushing a few pine needles from Crowley’s hair and leaning down to cover his demon.
“Happy Christmas, Crowley.”