“It’s incredible, my dear,” Aziraphale said, dusting away snow from the top of the wall and sitting beside Crowley. “Like something out of a dream.”
Crowley hopped down from his perch so that he was sitting too, his legs draped over the other side of the wall so that they were like mirrors to one another. “The real thing is better,” he said. They were so close that Aziraphale could feel his warmth. He was breathtaking in the moonlight, his scarlet hair like embers, his sharp features made softer and more subtle by the shadows.
“Maybe,” Aziraphale conceded, “but I didn’t use to dream very much. This is the sort of thing I wish I had spent my life dreaming about.” He offered Crowley the bottle of wine, and the moonlight glinted off the dark glass. The way the moonlight reflected off the snow made the bottle act like a warped mirror. In the dark glass, only Crowley's fair skin stood out. Even his scarlet hair seemed like waves of night in the reflection, still beautiful, but haunting and inhuman. More honest, perhaps, to his true nature. “When I was a boy, all my dreams were of when I was being hunted.”
Crowley tipped the bottle up and took a drink to mask a guilty frown, and Azirphale rested his hand on Crowley’s thigh. Crowley, scorching hot in the winter night, froze at the touch.
“This is far better,” he said, stroking his thumb in gentle lines. “A moonlit night, a garden, and you by my side. If I can’t have the real thing, then let me have the dream.”
Aziraphale and Crowley are sat on a churchyard wall and wrapped in heavy cloaks and embroidered doublets. They face opposite sides but are turned towards each other, Aziraphale's hand gently resting on Crowley's thigh. Magically crafted flowers bloom at Aziraphale's feet. Against the night sky, the falling snow blends with the stars.