igrab
in
grabi_hands
❄ december third | the colors of christmas
title. the colors of christmas
pairing. crowley/aziraphale
written for. random00
wordcount. 751
summary. christmas was the one time when they didn't have to pretend to be on opposite sides.
Christmas was the best of times, the absolute best.
For Crowley, it was all about the malls - traffic jams, overworked salespeople, shoppers mowing each other over in their haste to get the best, the latest, the cheapest, all so their relatives could squander it away. People were horrible around Christmastime. He loved it.
For Aziraphale, it was - well - everything else. The lights, the snow, the spirit of giving and goodwill, and of course (though perhaps, guiltily, as a sidenote) the celebration of the birth of Christ.
It was the one time, they had wordlessly decided, when they didn't have to try and pretend like they were on opposite sides.
Crowley pushed in through the door weighed down with boxes of useless crap and stared at the inside of Aziraphale's bookstore. It was... well, decidedly less of a bookstore and decidedly more of a giant Christmas Tree.
"Aziraphale!" he yelled up the stairs, once he'd dumped the boxes on the shiniest bit of the floor, "what did you do down here?"
The angel in question came running down immediately. He was still in pajamas, blue with fuzzy white reindeer, and his hair pulled into a side ponytail. A side ponytail. Crowley made a note to fix that as soon as demonly possible. "Don't you like it? I've been having a bit of a problem lately," he added, absentmindedly kneeling to organize Crowley's pile of boxes.
"Yeah? Like what?" The tree hadn't yet been decorated. That's what most of his 'useless crap' was for, anyway, though they did have a few storage bins of old ornaments, stuff Aziraphale refused to throw away. Crowley always rolled his eyes at that. He'd rather just start over, every year.
"...People were coming in, looking to buy things," and he waved his hands at the few remaining shelves. "For Christmas presents. It was terrible; you know no one reads the books they get for Christmas!"
Himself included. Crowley got him books, every year, without fail. Aziraphale didn't read them. That wasn't the point of books.
"Uh huh," Crowley drawled. "So you moved all your 'merchandise' out of the way to keep customers out?"
"Precisely. And I'm tired of putting the tree up at your place; you take ornaments off when I'm not looking."
Crowley leaned over Aziraphale's shoulder and kissed his cheek - while sliding the ponytail holder off with one hand. "What makes you think I won't do that here, too?"
"Oh, go away." Flustered (and unable to unstick the tape holding Crowley's boxes together), Aziraphale threw his hands up and sat down fully on the floor. "What's in these boxes, anyway?"
Crowley flicked a pocketknife out. "Stuff. Tree stuff. Useless crap. I got you a potholder," he added, as he leaned further to cut neatly through each piece of tape.
"Did you?" The angel sounded pleased and flattered.
"Yep. It says 'my favorite thing to make for dinner is reservations'."
Aziraphale, who'd just opened the box with said potholder, whacked Crowley's shoulder with it. "It does not. It says 'kiss the cook'."
He should really learn to think before he spoke. Crowley grinned, catlike and sly, murmured "well all right then", and swooped down to kiss him, tilting the angel's head back to meet his.
A minute or so later, Aziraphale was finally able to push him away. "All right, all right, you've made your point," he muttered, but he was bright red, thoroughly embarrassed and even more thoroughly pleased.
The embarrassment makes up for it, Crowley told himself. And anyway, it's Christmas.
They spend the rest of the day and most of the evening unpacking ornaments, arguing over the placement of said ornaments, and (in Crowley's case) trying to feed tinsel to Aziraphale's cat. Finally, just before midnight, they agreed to disagree and curled up on the rug with hot chocolate.
"...I still think that Bethlehem bell should be torched," Crowley commented idly.
"Don't even start."
"It's not even real!"
"Crowley." Aziraphale put his mug down, climbed into Crowley's lap, and grabbed his face. "Listen to me. We. Are. Done. Arguing."
Crowley resisted, he really tried to, but he started grinning and couldn't help it. "No we're not."
And they weren't ever, really, but soon the verbal bit would end in kissing and from then on, neither of them really had anything to complain about.
pairing. crowley/aziraphale
written for. random00
wordcount. 751
summary. christmas was the one time when they didn't have to pretend to be on opposite sides.
Christmas was the best of times, the absolute best.
For Crowley, it was all about the malls - traffic jams, overworked salespeople, shoppers mowing each other over in their haste to get the best, the latest, the cheapest, all so their relatives could squander it away. People were horrible around Christmastime. He loved it.
For Aziraphale, it was - well - everything else. The lights, the snow, the spirit of giving and goodwill, and of course (though perhaps, guiltily, as a sidenote) the celebration of the birth of Christ.
It was the one time, they had wordlessly decided, when they didn't have to try and pretend like they were on opposite sides.
Crowley pushed in through the door weighed down with boxes of useless crap and stared at the inside of Aziraphale's bookstore. It was... well, decidedly less of a bookstore and decidedly more of a giant Christmas Tree.
"Aziraphale!" he yelled up the stairs, once he'd dumped the boxes on the shiniest bit of the floor, "what did you do down here?"
The angel in question came running down immediately. He was still in pajamas, blue with fuzzy white reindeer, and his hair pulled into a side ponytail. A side ponytail. Crowley made a note to fix that as soon as demonly possible. "Don't you like it? I've been having a bit of a problem lately," he added, absentmindedly kneeling to organize Crowley's pile of boxes.
"Yeah? Like what?" The tree hadn't yet been decorated. That's what most of his 'useless crap' was for, anyway, though they did have a few storage bins of old ornaments, stuff Aziraphale refused to throw away. Crowley always rolled his eyes at that. He'd rather just start over, every year.
"...People were coming in, looking to buy things," and he waved his hands at the few remaining shelves. "For Christmas presents. It was terrible; you know no one reads the books they get for Christmas!"
Himself included. Crowley got him books, every year, without fail. Aziraphale didn't read them. That wasn't the point of books.
"Uh huh," Crowley drawled. "So you moved all your 'merchandise' out of the way to keep customers out?"
"Precisely. And I'm tired of putting the tree up at your place; you take ornaments off when I'm not looking."
Crowley leaned over Aziraphale's shoulder and kissed his cheek - while sliding the ponytail holder off with one hand. "What makes you think I won't do that here, too?"
"Oh, go away." Flustered (and unable to unstick the tape holding Crowley's boxes together), Aziraphale threw his hands up and sat down fully on the floor. "What's in these boxes, anyway?"
Crowley flicked a pocketknife out. "Stuff. Tree stuff. Useless crap. I got you a potholder," he added, as he leaned further to cut neatly through each piece of tape.
"Did you?" The angel sounded pleased and flattered.
"Yep. It says 'my favorite thing to make for dinner is reservations'."
Aziraphale, who'd just opened the box with said potholder, whacked Crowley's shoulder with it. "It does not. It says 'kiss the cook'."
He should really learn to think before he spoke. Crowley grinned, catlike and sly, murmured "well all right then", and swooped down to kiss him, tilting the angel's head back to meet his.
A minute or so later, Aziraphale was finally able to push him away. "All right, all right, you've made your point," he muttered, but he was bright red, thoroughly embarrassed and even more thoroughly pleased.
The embarrassment makes up for it, Crowley told himself. And anyway, it's Christmas.
They spend the rest of the day and most of the evening unpacking ornaments, arguing over the placement of said ornaments, and (in Crowley's case) trying to feed tinsel to Aziraphale's cat. Finally, just before midnight, they agreed to disagree and curled up on the rug with hot chocolate.
"...I still think that Bethlehem bell should be torched," Crowley commented idly.
"Don't even start."
"It's not even real!"
"Crowley." Aziraphale put his mug down, climbed into Crowley's lap, and grabbed his face. "Listen to me. We. Are. Done. Arguing."
Crowley resisted, he really tried to, but he started grinning and couldn't help it. "No we're not."
And they weren't ever, really, but soon the verbal bit would end in kissing and from then on, neither of them really had anything to complain about.