The first boom makes Crowley scowl. “It’s not for hours yet,” he complains.
“Darling. I know full well it was you who put them up to it,” says Aziraphale, who’s settled rather cosily into his armchair, and contrives to continue with his book despite the best efforts of both fireworks and demon to distract him from it.
“Angel,” says Crowley, exasperated. He stands behind Aziraphale and drapes his arms over the back of the chair to rest his hands on broad shoulders. The jumper’s soft beneath his fingertips and he leans into the warmth, the solidity of Aziraphale. “Mm.” On second thought, he decides, better to tackle this head on; he slithers around to the front of the chair and takes a seat in Aziraphale’s lap.
Aziraphale flips the page.
Crowley pouts. “What’s the use of getting all dressed up for the occasion if you won’t even look at me?”
“Yes, you look very nice.”
Aziraphale turns to him and beams. “You look very nice,” he says, with a sincerity that sets Crowley’s chest to aching. “And I’d very much like to kiss you, wily serpent that you are.”
This sounds like an excellent plan to Crowley, who leans in and is bitterly disappointed to find a finger at his chest stopping his forward movement. “Wh–”
“It’s not for hours yet,” Aziraphale says, smiling a bastard’s smile.
“Could get a head start,” Crowley suggests quickly. “End the year right.”
For a moment, Aziraphale considers this idea. Crowley watches him turn it over in his mind, gazes at the little creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth, loves the genuine thoughtfulness in his expression; Aziraphale has never been one to take things lightly. Crowley waits, which he’s used to, but it’s not like before, because now he knows he’ll have an answer. He can ask his questions aloud. He can be heard.
“No, I think not,” Aziraphale concludes, and Crowley groans. “Oh hush. It’s only a little while longer and think how much more it will mean.”
Crowley’s protests are futile. He sulks, but not in any way that requires vacating Aziraphale’s lap. He waits. He checks his watch. He resynchronises it with the best satellite technology available to mankind. He waits. He stares at the wall. He steals glances at Aziraphale, who pinkens and pretends to ignore him. He updates his watch again. He waits. He waits. He waits.
Another, louder boom. Aziraphale looks up with interest. “Is it nearly time, then?”
“It’s 11:45 PM and thirteen seconds,” says Crowley, without consulting his watch.
“I see,” says Aziraphale, and resumes giving all his attention to his book.
Crowley frowns. “Gonna miss it,” he warns. “You’ll be so into that thing you’ll forget and then where will we be?”
Aziraphale’s lips twitch. “I imagine we’ll be right here. Still perfectly capable of kissing one another.”
Really he is absolutely impossible. It’s not about that! It’s the principle of the thing! Crowley folds his arms. “It’s traditional,” he says.
It’s a very human thing, all things considered. Celebrating a particular time of a particular day in a particular way. The ritualization of an unremarkable celestial happenstance, based entirely on an abstract manmade system erected around the limited view of the universe from the perspective of a single floating rock. Nothing concrete separates a year from the next; at some point, one society decided to start counting from this position in space, and now here they are. Arguing over New Year’s Eve midnight kisses.
11:56 and forty-seven seconds and counting. “Aziraphale,” says Crowley.
Another boom. “Are you sure we can’t get started?”
Back to sulking. Back to checking his watch.
11:58 and twenty-six seconds. “Now?”
Aziraphale sighs and sets down his book. “Crowley,” he says, in a tone that means he’s beginning some kind of lecture. “Dearest.”
Crowley cups Aziraphale’s cheek in one hand. “Mmyeah.”
Tragically, Aziraphale does not give in to the temptation to kiss Crowley’s palm. He says slowly, “I think we’ve had enough of waiting, don’t you?”
And before Crowley can answer, Aziraphale is kissing him, drawing him in close, and as Crowley kisses him back the fireworks crescendo and light sparkles through the window, brilliantly coloured, throwing the world into sharp relief with each crack of explosives, and the year is off to a wonderful start.
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