Crowley catches him out of the corner of his eye—sipping his tea, a finger holding his place in Sherlock Holmes and eyes directed wistfully out the cottage window at another rainy December afternoon.
“Something the matter angel? Only I can hear you thinking.”
Turning from the window, Aziraphale offers a reassuring smile.
“Nothing the matter, no. Just…caught up in a memory is all.”
“Mm, good memory I hope?”
“Definitely good then. Go on.”
“Scamp,” Aziraphale chuckles setting his book and cup aside.
“Your scamp.” Crowley grins (he’s been doing quite a bit of that recently, his cheeks have never been sore before). He slides closer until he can press a chaste kiss to his angel’s lips.
“Yes. Mine,” Aziraphale murmurs between kisses, the air between them thick with the love they can finally share, and Crowley basks in the warmth of it for a long moment.
They have all the time in the world after all.
“So? Your memory? Daring rescue perhaps? Hopefully one of the ones where I’m wearing something halfway fashionable, ideally not on horseback and ending with sexy results?”
“Oh you are full of it, you preposterous python,” Aziraphale huffs fondly. “Actually, I was thinking about snow. It’s been ages since we’ve been anywhere with proper snow…not since…gosh…”
“Alaska wasn’t it? 1925…”
“I believe you’re right. The Great Race of Mercy. Has it really been that long?” Aziraphale glances out the window again, a thoughtful crease to his brow.
“‘Bout froze my arse off, so I think I can reliably say that yes, angel, it’s been that long.”
“I always rather liked the snow. It’s pretty.”
“It’s just as pretty on the telly,” Crowley grumbles, even as the certainty that he could no more deny his angel a whim than he could deny the rising of the sun settles at the forefront of his mind. Pesky business, that.
Next to him, Aziraphale seems to deflate for a moment, bottom lip pouting in a way that Crowley’s sure is intended to garner sympathy and it’s irritatingly adorable enough that it very nearly works.
“I can go by myself, you know, I don’t need you to hold my hand—“
“Oh stop your grousing, you’ll do no such bloody thing,” Crowley drawls, relenting and taking his angel’s hands in his own.
(Okay, so the sympathy garnering worked, he’s weak, moving on.)
He tightens his grip. Threatens his corporation to stay at a reasonable temperature or else, and then their cottage living room is dissolving around them in a whirl of color.
“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaims moments later, looking around in delight as the snow-draped landscape of New York’s Central Park materializes around them.
His cheeks are bitten pink with the sudden cold and his beaming smile might well melt a few surrounding snowdrifts. The snowflakes catch in his wayward blond curls, twinkling like little diamonds before melting away.
Worth it, Crowley thinks as a warmth blooms in his chest totally independent of any threats. His angel is always worth it.
“S’not Alaska, but thought you’d appreciate this—“ Crowley points over Aziraphale’s shoulder at the statue of Balto.
It may have been bloody freezing, but he’d enjoyed soothing the sled dogs back during the relay. He’d enjoyed talking with them in the night while the mushers caught a few winks. Not that he’d ever tell anyone. Bad billing for a demon to go about blessing sled dogs when he’s supposed to be fomenting disease.
There’s a warm hand sliding against his own, interlacing fingers, Aziraphale stepping in close, and suddenly it’s not so cold after all.
“On second thought, I do need you to hold my hand,” Aziraphale presses a kiss to his cheek. “You romantic old serpent.”
(OP I got entirely carried away, inspired by your stunning art, I hope that’s okay!)
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis
titsay
pixelskylines
origamiaround
