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The bookshop was cold. Aziraphale pulled on a sweater and then a scarf and then even seriously considered doing That Which Aziraphale Is Forbidden To Ever Do Again (making a fire in the bookshop, even just in the fireplace), before he finally stopped to wonder why it was cold. In his defense, he was distracted by an intriguing new book.
Crowley, on the other hand, sauntered into the shop and immediately made a Why-are-you-such-an-idiot face.
“What?” Aziraphale asked, rather testily.
“Cold in here.” Crowley, snake that he was, stuck out his tongue to test the temperature.
“I noticed,” Aziraphale said, trying very hard to look like this realization had not occurred in the last thirty seconds.
Crowley was not fooled. “Got an intriguing new book?”
“Oh! Yes. Malleus Maleficarum. 1685.” Aziraphale picked up the book with gentle care.
“ The Witches’ Hammer!” Crowley grinned. “I had a hand in writing that, you know.”
“You did not. There’d be more unsuitable puns.”
“Unsuitable,” Crowley sniffed, taking the book. “You tell me how a bunch of dick jokes would not have been suitable—”
“Crowley.”
“The author was obsessed with ‘hammers’—”
“Crowley.”
“Sorry, am I being unsuitable?” Crowley looked quite proud of himself.
“You are, and you’re not sorry.”
“Well, at least I don’t have a hole in my ceiling.” Crowley gestured upwards with his free hand. Aziraphale gasped. A piece of the bookshop ceiling had in fact crumbled to the ground, exposing the white winter sky above. No wonder it was so cold. “It’s going to storm,” Crowley said. “Going to turn into a snowglobe in here if you don’t—”
“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, but it was too late.
oOo
“You should’ve said,” Crowley complained for the fourth time. He was looking up at Aziraphale, who was floating in the water that surrounded them, amid glittering pieces of plastic the size of his hands. “The Maleficarum’s not a grimoire, why should I have guessed it had magical powers to grant wishes? Wasn’t even a wish! Was a threat.”
Aziraphale tried to swim down toward the floor. Unfortunately, angels floated extremely well. At least he and Crowley didn’t have to breathe, or they’d surely have drowned in this— what had Crowley called it? A snowglobe. Water and glitter encased by transparent walls. And all attempts at miracling themselves free had been unsuccessful.
Crowley reached up and grasped Aziraphale’s hand, tugging him toward the floor.
“The books,” Aziraphale said sadly, looking around at his shop. “They’re all submerged, they’ll be ruined.”
“Nah,” Crowley said, with an encouraging smile. As Aziraphale finally landed, Crowley knocked his fingers against the book on the nearest table, sending ripples through the water. “It’s plastic, angel. And it’s not the whole shop, just the closest shelves. See?”
“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said. “That’s a problem.”
Crowley looked bewildered.
“The Maleficarum,” Aziraphale said. “You can’t wish us— threaten us— back again if the book’s not real. Oh, damn it.”
“Did you just swear inside a Christmas decoration?” Crowley looked delighted.
“We’re going to do everything inside a Christmas decoration for the rest of our lives if we don’t figure this out.” Aziraphale tapped his hand on the nearest transparent wall. “Glass. It will break.”
“Not from hitting it with plastic books.”
Aziraphale peered through the glass. The bookshop wavered confusingly. Everything looked huge.
Or maybe it was huge. “Are we on my end table?” Aziraphale asked.
Crowley squinted over his sunglasses. “You know, I think we are. I think that’s the floor down there.”
“Well then, we just knock ourselves off! The fall will break the glass.” Aziraphale smiled triumphantly.
“The fall will break us,” Crowley said. “And I don’t want to spend the next three Christmases doing paperwork. We’re stuck, angel. At least it’s not cold in here.”
Aziraphale put a hand over his heart. “Crowley, you’re a genius.”
Crowley immediately shook his head. “Oh, no, no, no. You only say that when you want to blame some hairbrained scheme on me.”
“I do not.”
“Do so. Remember the raisins? And the swimming pool? And the tornado?”
“But this is a good idea. Oh.” Aziraphale looked at the floor. “Except I’ll probably die.”
Crowley spread his hands in a wordless I told you so. “Let’s hear it.”
“Water expands when frozen. The snow in here could be real snow, instead of plastic. Make it cold enough and the pressure would gently break the glass. And you’d be fine, hellfire in your veins.”
“But you’d freeze to death. Yeah, not happening.” Crowley frowned at the giant bookshop on the other side of the glass. “Unless—”
Aziraphale blinked at him. “Have I suddenly become expendable?”
Crowley snorted. “I’m not answering that. I just meant, snow’s an insulator, right? We could make a little snow nest or something—”
“Birds don’t make nests in snow.”
Crowley shot him a withering look. “Name three birds, right now.”
“Crows, ravens, and um—” Aziraphale frowned. “Those little red ones. You know, with the— the feathers.”
Crowley looked gratified. “Anyway, doesn’t matter, we’re not birds.”
“Then why—”
“Would you rather dick jokes?”
“I would rather you simply stop being annoying.”
“Sorry, it’s in the job description. Also I’m not sorry.” Crowley grinned. “Anyway, we’ll make a nest of snow. I’ll keep you warm and we’ll be back in the shop before you can say— well, something long and complicated, probably.”
“You— you’ll keep me warm?” Aziraphale was looking at his shoes.
“S’only fair,” Crowley said. “I threatened us in here.”
When Aziraphale dared to look up, Crowley was again holding a hand out to him.
oOo
It had been a long while since they’d been this close. Aziraphale might not know the names of birds, but he could remember every single time he’d been in Crowley’s arms, and none of it had ever been like this— huddled close in a little cocoon of snow, hidden from the world. Crowley must have turned up his internal temperature, because his arms were like firebrands, the curve of his hip a blazing coal. It was, ironically, heavenly.
They didn’t speak, waiting to hear the cracking of the glass as the ice expanded around them. Aziraphale started wondering very stupid things, like what it might be like to just stay here for the rest of existence. What it might have been like if he’d ever asked Crowley to keep him warm before.
Maybe, he promised himself, after this— he’d ask Crowley to do it again.
The glass cracking wasn’t as gentle as Aziraphale had hoped, but the snow cushioned them as the snow globe broke. They landed in a heap of glitter and ice on Aziraphale’s end table, with the Maleficarum right beside them, huge compared to their tiny forms. Crowley put a snowy hand on it and said, “The bookshop is not going to turn into a snowglobe. Or it will face dire consequences.”
The table broke beneath their suddenly full-sized bodies, and they landed again, this time on the floor. Crowley groaned and lay back, brushing bits of ice off his shirt.
Aziraphale waved a hand and the bookshop roof mended itself. He looked at Crowley proudly. “And now would you like to hear why this particular edition of the Maleficarum has magic powers?”
“No,” Crowley said, getting up and arranging himself on the couch, quite as if he had no other choice. “Suppose you’re going to tell me anyway.”
“I suppose I am.” Aziraphale hesitated a moment beside his usual armchair, and then, quite as if it was normal, sat down beside Crowley on the couch.
And, quite as if it was normal, Crowley’s arm snaked around his shoulders, just as warm and comforting as before.
Though perhaps Crowley’s eyes were a little more sparkly than usual. It was probably just leftover glitter from the snow globe. But it almost looked like happy tears.