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It wasn’t so much a white Christmas as a sludgy grey one, plagued by bitter cold and bouts of icy snowfall. Mushy snow gathered at the side of the road and was sprayed onto unlucky pedestrians by careless drivers, who were mostly just people eager to get home, and out of the cold. One such driver owned a spanking new vintage Bentley, and one such pedestrian was a bespectacled blond man whose tartan sweater, after being seemingly soaked with the half-melted snow that coated the roads, was still marvellously clean, a sight which a nearby bank teller chose not to think too hard about. The car swung to a smooth stop by the curb, and the passenger door popped open.
“Get in, angel,” the driver said, and the man in the sweater obliged. The Bentley swung back out and zipped down the road at far too dangerous a speed, narrowly avoiding hitting a department store Santa, who could have sworn he heard Freddie Mercury singing Thank God it’s Christmas as the car whipped around the corner.
Aziraphale fumbled a bit with the seat belt before throwing an admonishing glare in Crowley’s direction. “You could have killed the poor man!”
“Ah,” said Crowley, as he increased pressure on the accelerator, and the car responded with an alarming increase in speed. “But you would have made sure he survived.”
Instead of sputtering in rage at Crowley’s presumptuous remark, Aziraphale settled for something vaguely more angelic, like smoothing his slacks out, and glowing (he liked doing that, it made him feel Special). “Of course. You know me so well.”
“Spending six thousand years with the same person would do that, I believe.” Crowley had now reached an emptier stretch of road, and was able to cruise without having to swerve violently to avoid hitting other cars, or people, or lost animals and other creatures, like small children and aliens.
Despite the fact that Crowley really was quite dangerous on the road, Aziraphale enjoyed car rides like these, because it was far better than walking or paying for those overpriced taxi services, especially in this weather. There was one thing about Crowley’s car, however, that took up all of Aziraphale’s angelic disposition to tolerate.
Especially when it was turned up loud.
Buddy you’re a boy make a big noise playing in the street gonna be a big man some day-
“Do you really like this band?” Aziraphale made a face that still managed to look graceful, despite the fact that it portrayed a very obvious disgust.
Crowley sighed and pushed his shades up so they perched on the top of his head. Aziraphale never failed to complain about his choice of music every time he took a ride in his car. No matter what kind of angelic power he bent towards Crowley’s cassette tapes, they remained, very staunchly, Queen cassette tapes. Crowley used to buy new tapes every now and then, but eventually he realised there was no real point. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with listening to Queen.
“No, but there’s nothing wrong with listening to Queen,” he said, trying very hard to keep the defensive note out of his voice.
Aziraphale made a noise of exasperation and poked at the car radio. After some aimless jabbing, "WE WILL ROCK YOU" changed to an electronically generated intro to what was beginning to sound like a familiar love song.
That was when the actual words came in.
I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes.
Aziraphale couldn't decide which was worse, this terrible croaking, or more Freddie Mercury. Crowley just gritted his teeth and concentrated on driving, while his passenger twisted knobs in a desperate attempt to end the torture.
"Whatever happened to good, old-fashioned Christmas carols?"
"They disappeared, angel. Extinct, wiped out by hiphop and rap and what have you."
Aziraphale's long fingers stopped fiddling with the radio and moved to tap his chin. "Hip what?"
The car pulled to a stop outside a large block of apartment buildings, and managed to fit itself perfectly into a parking space that was, up till a few seconds ago, non-existent. Crowley slid his shades back down over his eyes and stepped out of the car.
"Come on, let's go upstairs."
-
“What is this?”
“It’s a DVD player, don’t touch it.”
“And this?”
“That’s the flat screen LCD TV now would you stop jabbing at my stuff?”
Crowley had disappeared into the kitchen, muttering curses under his breath, leaving Aziraphale standing in the middle of the living room, afraid to move for fear of damaging one of Crowley’s many high-tech gadgets. The curtains weren’t drawn, and the light from the late-afternoon sun reflected off the countless sleek, shiny, steel surfaces, causing Aziraphale to squint.
“Ah. So that’s why you wear sunglasses all the time.”
Crowley reappeared with a cup of tea for Aziraphale and a glass of wine for himself, placing both down on the steel coffee table before collapsing onto the sofa. Aziraphale sipped his tea and made a face, then dipped his finger into it and sort of stirred it around a little before leaning back next to Crowley with a sigh of contentment. Crowley switched the television on and flipped to a random channel. It was playing some dastardly music video, with a bevy of prancing girls in skimpy Santa suits, posing around an old geezer who was bellowing something awful.
Aziraphale sipped his tea, and Crowley his wine, as they watched in morbid fascination.
“Hmm.” I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes. “I guess he’s not half bad.”
Christmas is all around me, and so the feeling grows. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Crowley winced at the TV, but was too lazy to change the channel.
“It’s much better than,” You know I love Christmas “you know, that rubbish you have in your car.” I always will.
“It’s not my fault they all turn into Queen cassettes,” There’s no beginning, there’ll be no end. “it must be ineffable, or something.”
Cause on Christmas “If it was ineffable I’d like to think I’d know about it!” the angel replied rather indignantly, but was drowned out by the singer on TV trying to reach the high notes. You can depeeeeeenddd, ohhhhhh! It’s written in the wind, it’s everywh-
Luckily for the both of them, Crowley had just decided to slouch down in mock agony, and sat on the remote control, which, through some form of divine intervention, turned the TV off.
“Oh thank Go- Sa- Er. Someone.” Crowley took a gulp of wine rather thoughtfully. “My arse, I guess.”
“But we’d have to thank someone for your arse now, wouldn’t we,” Aziraphale commented to no one in particular, and buried his face in his teacup, avoiding the suspicious glance that was thrown in his direction.
And just for the sake of filling the ensuing silence, the television suddenly came on again, and both angel and demon watched in stoned bemusement as the girls pranced and the singer bellowed out verse after goddamned verse.
So if you really love me love me love me, come on and let it snoooooooowwwwww! Come on and let it snoooooooowwwwwwww!
"You know," Crowley spoke up, after a few minutes more of terrible Christmas warbling, "I really don't understand Christmas."
Crowley could practically feel Aziraphale's eyes boring into the side of his head. He lifted his right hand up in front of Aziraphale's face, silencing him. "Before you begin your holy little lecture on The Christ and all that, I'd just like to say that it's not all the Holy Virgin Mary mumbo jumbo that I don't get, it's all those presents. I mean, if it's Jesus' birthday, why does everyone else get presents?"
For a moment, Aziraphale vaguely resembled a fish, as he tried to think of a suitable reply. The demon had a point, actually, and a rather sensible one at that.
"Do you remember, back at the actual birth of Christ? What was I up to, hmm..."
Aziraphale set his empty teacup back down on the table, where it refilled itself instantly. "Probably whispering nasty things to King Herod. That was horrid of you, though."
Sticking his nose into his wine glass, Crowley gave a delicate sniff and drained the rest of the liquid. "At least I was following orders. You, on the other hand, were doing something else entirely."
Aziraphale's face suddenly turned a strange shade of maroon. Why, why did Crowley always have to bring this up at Christmas?
Crowley leant back, entirely nonchalant in that menacing way that usually scares the living daylights out of ordinary people, and waved his glass around. "Ah yes." He closed his eyes and sighed wistfully. "I was disguised as a trader and on my way to Bethlehem to see what all the fuss was about when I looked up and in the distance, hovering in the air over a bunch of petrified shepherds was, you know, the usual group of angels. I really wasn't going to think too much into it, until I spotted you." What could have been misconstrued as a wicked cackle issued from Crowley's mouth, and his tongue darted out to give the rim of his wine glass a quick swipe before he turned to Aziraphale with an innocent smile pasted on his face.
Aziraphale decided that it would be best for him if he protested now, rather than wait for Crowley to reduce his defence to pulp before he could actually begin.
"I had a good choirboy voice, back then! And singing is a wonderful way to pass the time, especially if you're feeling joyous over the birth of the Lord Jesus."
"True, true," and now Aziraphale wondered if he should start to feel slightly afraid. "But there was absolutely no need to you to be in that frock, was there?"
Aziraphale sat up a teensy bit straighter in his seat, and peered down at Crowley. "It wasn't a frock! It's called a robe, and it's perfectly all right to wear a robe."
Crowley didn't seem to take notice. "You had your wings out and everything, and singing the high part, and strumming a harp." At that, he seemed unable to control his mirth anymore, and dissolved into laughter, clutching his stomach and writhing on the sofa.
Take the high road, Aziraphale, the high road! He chanted this mantra over and over in his head, and took a soothing sip of hot tea. It was only a moment before Crowley recovered, and sat up properly.
"I wonder," he drawled, "can you still sing like that, or are those days gone with the wind?" He laughed again, and it was almost a giggle. Aziraphale studied Crowley's face, slightly worried. He plucked Crowley's sunglasses off and looked hard at his eyes. There was a Look in Crowley's eyes that was quite unsettling.
"Are you drunk?" Aziraphale tried to recall how many times Crowley had refilled his glass.
Crowley concentrated on a spot on the ceiling. "Hm. Maybe. A little. Wait here." And with that he leapt off the sofa and bounded into the kitchen. He was back moments later, with two new glasses and several dubious-looking bottles. While Aziraphale watched, Crowley poured and measured and mixed and stirred according what he could only assume was some kind of recipe, before triumphantly dumping the fruit of his labour into the two glasses. It looked for all the world like a glass of milk with a nice layer of froth on the top, but there was a wicked glint in Crowley's eye as he picked it up.
"This, my friend, is a Screaming Orgasm."
Deciding that the name was something not to be questioned, Aziraphale nodded slowly.
"It can be rather foul to taste but when it gets to your head it's amazing. Here." Aziraphale accepted the proffered glass between two fingers and his thumb and inspected it carefully, frown forming on his face.
"Are you sure this is safe to drink?"
Crowley grinned. "You can't die, can you? Temporarily displaced and all that, sure, but it can't really harm you, so there's nothing to worry about. Bottoms up!" With that, Crowley tipped the entire contents of the glass into his mouth. Aziraphale watched his throat bob he swallowed, then shut his eyes tight and followed suit.
For a few moments, neither of them spoke. The fact of the matter was, neither of them was in any condition to speak. They spent a few minutes staring blankly at each other, mouths hanging open and glasses dangling precariously off the tips of their fingers. Aziraphale was the first one to move.
"Oh," he said, swinging the glass over in the general direction of the coffee table, then dropping it. It hit the table with a dull clunk and rolled off. Crowley's glass soon joined it, except it hit the floor without even touching the table, and shattered instantly.
Crowley took a deep breath, then swayed in his seat, face inches away from Aziraphale's in a disturbingly leering way. He bared his teeth in what he must have thought was an amiable, friendly smile. "You see? S'brilliant."
Aziraphale's gut was feeling comfortably warm and his head was light and fuzzy. The sofa tilted itself up and threw him into Crowley's lap. "Mmm," they both chorused, then Aziraphale felt an inexplicable urge to wiggle his eyebrows. He wiggled his eyebrows. Crowley wiggled his back. After a few more ooh's and ah's they managed to make it to the bedroom and collapsed onto Crowley's king-sized bed, sprawled on top of each other.
"Ooh," went Crowley.
"Ah," went Aziraphale, as Crowley's hand began doing something unseemly to the front of his pants. He nibbled on his fingertip and batted his eyelashes. "S'good, Crawly, keep going."
So Crowley did, and after many many more ooh's and ah's and the occasional "OH YES MORE PLEASE" (not forgetting the obligatory scream or two), they both lay, tired and spent and delighted and stark naked on Crowley's previously clean sheets. Just as Crowley was about to fall blissfully asleep, Aziraphale poked him gently in the stomach.
"Crowley?" Aziraphale murmured, his mouth struggling to form coherent words. "Whassan orgasm?"
-
They both woke up groaning.
Crowley was the first to come to his senses. Concentrating hard, he pushed his splitting headache out of his system before it could cause him any more pain, then realised that Aziraphale was lying next to him, also just waking up, fingers rubbing his temples.
"I just had the weirdest dream," Aziraphale muttered and cleared his throat, which had suddenly become rather hoarse. "You were Adam and I was Eve and we ate the forbidden fruit but instead of looking for clothes and things we had sex." He pushed himself upright, but lay down again just as quickly. "Oh good grief, why does my arse hurt?"
Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Well. Was it good sex?"
The angel furrowed his brow and winced a little at the headache. "Not that I've had sex before, mind you, but yes. I believe it was rather enjoyable."
"Worth repeating?"
"Definitely."