#anthony j whose house is this crowley

[ladybracknellssherry]

i love how in the "babe go tell everyone it's time for my party" moment Crowley looks so disoriented like "something is wrong something is so fucking wrong" does he know it's b/c he's on the wrong side of Aziraphale

he looks like he's eaten an edible and walked into his own kitchen and is trying to figure out whose house he's in

[mehrto]

Of Interrupted Drag Shows and Failed Duck Walks

Anthony J. Crowley, a Mancunian drag queen, voguing pro, knitting amateur, and mother at the House of Gaia shares a tired cigarette with a hungry, snobby tailor whose shop is only just off Savile Row, thank you, one rainy night in Soho in 2008. They run into each other over and over again until they can't help but become friends and soft and each other's most significant other and a whole load of other things too, really.

About belonging and acceptance and figuring out how to make things work at a place in your life you never really thought you'd be at.

Featuring art by @mehrto, fic by @thyra279, and a whole load of softness and snippiness.

Rated E, first chapter coming on the 30th January!

Excerpt below the line:

"Hullo, Aziraphale." Crowley's long fingers trembled as they lit a cigarette, gave away the adrenaline still coursing through his body. He stepped up to the railing at the top of the half-stairs, leant over it almost casually with the first smoky exhale. The exhaustion set in as soon as he relaxed, ageing muscles finally allowing themselves to feel the strain.

He didn't let them for long, shifting his weight from one heeled boot to the other, settling one foot between two of the balusters. If it caused one of his long legs to peek out of the dress directly at Aziraphale, well. He was an old hand at this.

The bastard barely gave his leg a glance, looking up at Crowley’s face instead with that stupidly soft smile that always seemed so entirely, beautifully out of place in the thumping base and harsh lights of the club.

"You look wonderful tonight, my dear."

He forced himself to take a luxuriously deep inhale, exhaled just as slowly. Settled into his deeper, lazier off-duty voice. "See now, angel, you're saying that as if it's not an everyday occurrence."

A bead of sweat that made its way from his hairline down his cheekbone, clinging on for dear life at his chin for a moment before giving up, dropping on to the floor between them.

If it had fucked up his makeup, his perfectly pristine skin, he would bloody kill it.

Aziraphale merely smiled, taking the first step up towards him.

The bundle of roses crinkled in their paper wrapping behind Aziraphale's back as he did - they'd have given the game away if it wasn't blatantly obvious they were there, if it wasn't the hundredth time he'd brought him some. Red roses today, Crowley noticed with surprise, taking another drag.

"You were very good out there tonight. 'Fierce', I believe one might say?"

Crowley cracked a smile, couldn't help himself. "Sure. One might."

A cloud of nearly-white curls bounced gently as he nodded at his leg, now fully out in the open. Good. Half his arse was out on display at this point.

"How's your knee holding up, my dear?"

"Oh fuck right off. M'knee's fine."

Crowley hated the concern so obvious in the lines of Aziraphale's forehead, felt a mad urge to dab them away, drown them out with a good glue and plenty of foundation. Annoy him until he lost that soft, gentle hum in his voice, until the camp, harsh bastard emerged.

Of course, he had no such luck.

"Perhaps if you were to include fewer of those – those bouncy things… are they dog walks?"

Crowley blinked at him, sniffed. "Ducks."

"Duck walks. They can't be good for your poor knee."

A shrug. "They're integral, though."

Aziraphale ascended the rest of the stairs in his urgency, flowers hopping along down his side. "But you could include more of the other elements to make up for it? More hands might be very elegant, and you are so very good at those, so expressive."

"I can't just do hands, angel, 's not my style."

Aziraphale settled right beside him, gripping the railing tight. "Anthony, you must take care of yourself, we both know you aren't twenty anymore, it's been near-on thirty years since-"

"Alright alright, why don't you shout it a little louder Aziraphale, there's a guy in the basement loo getting blown who might not've heard you," he hissed.

He put his weight back on his dodgy leg to prove a point, sneering at him – and couldn't help but wince.

Aziraphale sighed beside him. "I'm only looking out for you."

Crowley softened. "I know. I do. I know. My guardian angel, always kindness itself." He gave his angel a little shove. Aziraphale stood quite firm, unsurprisingly, gave him a withering look from the step below that any old drag queen would've been proud of.

Aziraphale's beautifully intelligent eyes grew playful little by little, looking up at him.

"I brought you flowers."

"Oh, those for me?"

"Obviously."

"Red roses, Aziraphale," he muttered in a low voice, sidling just a little closer, not quite touching. "Trying to tell me something?"

The softly curl-crowned head looked straight ahead again. Crowley watched curiously as a blush crept from his curls all the way to his unusual, handsome, slightly arrogant nose.

"…Yes." He glanced at him quickly, couldn't help but smile at his expression. "I thought perhaps, if your knee is very bad this evening…" There was a maddening trill to his voice, low and intimate too. "I might carry you to your office upstairs. Take care of you…" he trailed.

Crowley managed nothing more than to close his mouth before his dramatic lips fell open again.

"Perhaps," he continued, sotto voce, brushing up Crowley’s hot, sweaty leg with his skilled tailor's fingers, "I could show you all the wonderful things one might do with one's hands?"

[aziraphales-library]

Hey! I was wondering if there was a fic out there that includes ball culture in New York? Thanks :)

Hello!

I’m not sure about ball culture in New York, but I did a search for you and this is what popped up!

Of Interrupted Drag Shows and Failed Duck Walks by mehrto, Thyra279 (E) - wip

Aziraphale allowed himself a moment's respite from his conundrum to enjoy the first hit of the nicotine and made sure his precious fiery charge was safely within the protection of his umbrella. Somewhere to his left, the dull thumping of some modern-day bebop announced that Soho's immortal nightlife had woken up.

So now. Back to his dilemma.

The Tesco Metro had those very nice salmon and lemon fishcakes on offer this week; Sainsbury's Local had delicious chicken samosas every Thursday and they might even be half price by now seeing how late it'd gotten. ___ Anthony J. Crowley, a Mancunian drag queen, voguing pro, knitting amateur, and mother at the House of Gaia shares a tired cigarette with a hungry, snobby tailor whose shop is only just off Savile Row, thank you, one rainy night in Soho in 2008. They run into each other over and over again until they can’t help but become friends and soft and each other’s most significant other and a whole load of other things too, really.

About belonging and acceptance and figuring out how to make things work at a place in your life you never really thought you’d be at.

~ Mod G

[lady-divine-writes]

Fic prompt "Open your eyes? Please? Do this for me?" for GO. Love your writing, btw

Hey, nonnie! Thank you so much :) Here goes. Hope you like it

In Trade

Crowley doesn’t enjoy working underground.

The noise-sucking quiet, the oily darkness that snuffs out even the strongest lights, the stench of earth, the dampness that seeps through his clothes and into his skin …

Some creatures find comfort in these things but Crowley never has. It’s the closest one can come to the experience of being entombed alive, which he has been once or twice.

Not for long though. And mostly just for show.

Unfortunately for Crowley, Hell happens to be the basement of the whole Goddamned planet, so there are times he can’t avoid it. But he doesn’t spend more time down there than he needs. Below ground is where the world forgets about you.

Which is why Evil tends to reside there – scheming and dealing and lying in wait.

Like this latest pet project of Hastur’s, grown from the seedier alleys of SoHo downward, churning through the underbelly of the city.

A bordello - one that appeals to a very specific clientele with detestable desires.

And Crowley doesn’t approve.

As demons, they’re supposed to influence humans to act upon their baser instincts not physically create the means for them to do so. If Hastur wants so badly to infiltrate the sex worker industry, then he should get the humans to build their own bordellos. Of course, humans have been doing that for thousands of years without demonic influence, and worse.

That’s the problem.

Like Crowley told Aziraphale ages ago, humans come up with much more diabolical ways to bring each other down than he ever could so he’d often let them have at it. Is it his fault that Hell commends him for things that were never his doing? The First Barbary War, the Second Barbary War, Fulani Jihad in Nigeria – he got the credit but he was asleep when all of that went down.

Best century of sleep he’s ever had really.

Hastur doesn’t have anything close to Crowley’s reputation (or dumb luck), but that’s because they spend a great deal of their time below. But they crave the recognition. And this haven of sin has managed to reap some pretty remarkable souls for their Master – everyone from celebrities to clergy.

Crowley can’t stomach it. He would rather be creative with regards to his tempting than to simply put a gun in someone’s hand and aim it for them. This masterpiece of Hastur’s is on a level of Evil that Crowley, even as a demon, doesn’t subscribe to. He feels that Hastur has gone a bit too far, but seeing as it has tipped the scales in Hell’s favor, Beelzebub chooses to routinely overlook some of the finer points of the demon’s plan.

But it’s a slave trade, pure and simple.

Crowley has seen slave trades - centuries of humans caging fellow humans and using them against their will as labor, guinea pigs, or for sex.

That’s what this is. A sex slave trade.

And some of the slaves that Crowley has seen being held here are children.

It turns his stomach to the point of wringing dry but he’s not in a position to say anything. Demons by the hundreds work down here, lurking in the shrouded corners, overseeing the day to day in order to raise their own numbers. Crowley can’t possibly fight all of them single-handed.

If he can sneak Aziraphale down here to bless them, maybe this can get sorted out without anyone knowing he was involved.

“So what do you think, Crowley?” Ligur asks, closing in on the end of his unsolicited tour. Hastur had summoned Crowley down there – to gloat, more than likely. But they’re nowhere to be seen, so Ligur has been playing guide. “Impressive, wouldn’t you say?”

“That’s one word for it,” Crowley grumbles, ambling along the yards of musty hallways, peeking over the frames of his glasses into room after room. They all look the same – a table, a lamp, and a single bed with some poor, hypnotized bastard chained to it. Crowley gets no joy out of this, unlike Ligur, beaming villainously, particularly when they pass a room housing a whimpering teenage boy and Crowley grinds his teeth together.

“Don’t be a sore loser just because you didn’t think of it … then again, you wouldn’t have, would you?”

“Probably not,” Crowley says, massaging his tense jaw. “The zoning laws alone must be a nightmare …”

“Always with the jokes, you.” Ligur grimaces in disgust, presuming disrespect by this clown for Hastur, an esteemed Duke of Hell. “That’s not what I mean and you know it. You have a soft spot for these mortals, don’t you?”

Crowley chuckles. It’s hollow, rather unconvincing, but he’s never actually cared what Hastur’s pet lizard ever thought of him, Duke or no. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I only care about one being on that miserable marble of a planet and that’s me. That’s all.”

Ligur snickers. “I bet. Speaking of, Hastur has arranged something special for you. Sort of a consolation prize, seeing as you won’t be the favorite around Hell anymore. Not when things here get off the ground.”

Crowley looks at the demon with his eyes popped, not a single clue what that could mean and not in the least eager to find out. “Oh, uh … I … no. That’s alright. I’ll abstain.”

“Are you sure? Because I think you’re going to want to see this.”

There’s a surreal sing-song quality to Ligur’s voice that leaves Crowley cold. Ligur is an old-school demon with no sense of humor that Crowley knows of. Even the sarcastic quips he’s come up with are uncharacteristic for him. His attitude over the past hour can best be described that way.

Uncharacteristic, but in a cocky way.

Confident.

Yes, that’s it.

He’s confident about something. Something he thinks can make Crowley change his tune.

That thought sends armies of sharpened steel nails crawling up Crowley’s spine.

“Fine,” Crowley says, grousing to cover up this new and very real concern. He suddenly feels he’s walking into a trap, and like an imbecile, he waltzed into it willingly. “I’ll take a look. Why not, right? While I’m down here. Before I go. Seeing as you lads went through the trouble ...”

Ligur leads Crowley further into the labyrinth of this bordello, hallways winding in on themselves, opening at the last, then leading to new ones. Farther and farther they walk - down, Crowley suspects when the air gets chiller and the torches around them flicker, each one after burning lower and lower, struggling to find air to breathe. With each step, the hallway gets darker, quieter, more removed from the hustle and bustle they left. Crowley stops seeing rooms before they ever reach the final hallway, no more poor souls trapped against their will. There is one room up ahead – a single doorway that this hallway was built to house.

That fact disturbs him on its own.

But it’s the light coming from the room that raises every alarm in Crowley’s body, every hair on his skin standing entirely on end.

A soft blue glow.

A familiar blue glow.

So familiar, in fact, that Crowley calls out before he’s even at the room.

“Aziraphale?”

Crowley runs for it, forgoing the cool, calm, and detached act he’d been plying until he could get himself out of here and go for help. He slides into the doorway, the slick soles of his snakeskin shoes finding no traction on the smooth stone floor. Crowley expects to see the same as the other rooms – a table, a lamp, and a bed. But there’s none of that here, and their absence makes the scene in front of him that more sinister.

In the center of the room he sees an angel on their knees, white wings extended outward in both directions, kept spread and aloft by chains dangling from the ceiling wrapped around the joints. The angel looks like Aziraphale, but in many ways not like Aziraphale. He looks ethereal but artificially so, as if his wings, hair, and skin have been miracled to appear whiter than they would normally whilst down here with Evil slowly seeping into his brain. He’s bound, arms behind his back tied from elbows to wrists in a complicated gauntlet made of steel rope, simmering with the subtle red cast of damnation so they can’t be miracled away by holy magic, the ends locked around his ankles, giving him no slack to stand. He’s been re-dressed from his usual attire into a loose-fitting drape of a garment, reminiscent of their robes from Eden, only this one has no sleeves and a neckline so baggy Crowley can see straight down to the angel’s chest and back. Aziraphale’s exposed skin seems to be marked, carved with symbols whose origins Crowley doesn’t know.

It’s not just the marks on Aziraphale’s skin that bother Crowley. There’s a hardness to his face. Instead of looking peaceful in this semi-sleep state, he looks charged, ready to fight.

Ready to kill.

Crowley glares at Ligur, his eyes behind dark lenses burning like a sulfuric flame. “What have you done to him?”

Ligur grins. Crowley doesn’t scare him. Who cares if he is one of Satan’s favorites? He’s a joke. A fool. Hastur tells them constantly. Vain and insipid Anthony J Crowley, who drives a human car, wears human clothes, drinks human alcohol, lives among them like a native.

And worst of all – who fell in love with an angel.

“Wat? We’ve done nuthin’ to him. Nuthin’ at all.”

“Then what the Hell are those marks!?”

“They’re demonic locks, meant to keep him down here. Hastur’s latest and greatest idea …”

“Hassstur …” Crowley hisses under his breath. “That ssson-of-a …”

There’s no reason for Hastur to devise such a plan against the angels. Demons don’t kidnap angels. That’s not in the nature of their battle against one another. Besides, Gabriel and Beelzebub are too egotistical to let their sides duke it out on their own and risk anyone rising victorious without the virtue of their leadership. So in their infinite wisdom, they decide when and where wars between angels and demons take place.

Another one’s due in about eleven years – an all or nothing, take no prisoners battle between good and evil – so such a weapon would be pointless.

Which means these locks were created to target Aziraphale and Aziraphale alone.

But this doesn’t end with Aziraphale. Crowley would be blind not to see it.

Capturing Aziraphale and bringing him below ground, binding him to this place and then parading him in front of Crowley …

… this was a plan by Hastur to get to Crowley as well.

Either to exact revenge or to figure out where his loyalties lie.

“Each demon put one on, that means each demon would need to unlock their own for the angel to leave, so don’t get any bright ideas. Unless …”

Crowley’s eyes don’t leave his angel’s face. Only a single raised brow signals that he’s still listening. “Unless …?”

Ligur shrugs as if the answer to Crowley’s question is ridiculously obvious. “If you corrupt him, you can save him.”

Crowley swallows hard.

Corrupt Aziraphale?

Make him fall?

Crowley can’t do that, not even to save him from this. Of course the horrific truth is he’ll have to if there is no other way. Would Aziraphale understand?

Would he forgive him?

“And how do you expect me to do that?”

“I don’t know. You’re an expert on corrupting humans. You spend all your time with them. I’m sure you can think of something.”

“Ligur!” Crowley growls at the demon’s back as they begin to saunter away.

“He’s already on his knees,” Ligur says, waving a dismissive hand. “That’s a good start from what I hear. Use your imagination.”

Ligur’s cruel, throaty laugh echoes as a door appears, just to slide closed behind them. It seals out the light, plunging Crowley and Aziraphale into total darkness. The only hint of illumination Crowley sees comes from the angel himself, but only just. Overwhelmed by the Evil around them, it’s fainter than Crowley has ever seen.

And growing even more so.

Which means he may be running out of time.

If that light goes out, Aziraphale won’t need Crowley to corrupt him.

The deed will be done.

The only difference is Aziraphale may turn on him after.

Crowley has often suspected (backed by things he’s seen and things he’s heard) that if Aziraphale were to fall, it would need to be at Crowley’s hand, or else he risks Aziraphale becoming his enemy. It’s the nature of demons to avoid one another when possible, be distrustful of each other constantly.

In his wickedest dreams, he’d hoped that if Aziraphale ever fell, it would be whilst the two of them made love, wrapped in each other’s arms.

Then they could be with each other forever.

If that is to be the way of it, Crowley refuses to let that happen here.

But will he have a choice?

Crowley drops to his knees. “Angel!?” He grabs Aziraphale’s upper arms and gives him a shake. “Can you hear me?”

“Mmm … Crowley?” Aziraphale replies, the voice sliding between his lips a mixture of the one Crowley knows and something tainted and coarse.

“Thank God,” Crowley breathes before he can catch himself. “Angel? I need you to open your eyes and look at me. Can you do that?”

Aziraphale hums in response. “I’ll … I’ll try.”

“Don’t try! Do it, Aziraphale!” Crowley’s head falls forward, his forehead finding Aziraphale’s and pressing gently against it. “Please, Aziraphale? Open your eyes. Do this for me. I need to make sure …” Crowley can’t finish, the words clogging his throat, wrenching his windpipe shut.

“All … all right.” Aziraphale clears his throat in between but it does nothing. Every word becomes rougher, the lyrical nature of his angelic voice eaten away. “I’ll … try.” His face scrunches as his eyelids pull, fighting to split and look upon his demon. Crowley hears him groan with the effort, this small task Herculean for some unknown reason.

Except there is one Crowley can think of, and it makes what’s left of his soul wither with the agony of defeat.

After several tense seconds of active praying on Crowley’s part, Aziraphale tips his head up, opens his eyes … and a single word escapes Crowley’s mouth. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “Please, God … no,” as Aziraphale comes to and blinks blood red eyes.

[qqueenofhades]

I have a mighty need to read your version of the Aziraphale and Crowley elevator scene should you be so inclined.

Based on this post. I don’t actually think they BANGED banged, mainly since they’re so bad at this that they might have a heart attack and die, but reasons. I may expand on this later, but yes. 

The inside of the lift down from heaven is white. An eerie, celestial white, polished and slick and almost, but not quite, reflective enough to see your face. All the buttons glow with gentle crystalline radiance, the tannoy voice is soothing (almost creepily so) and it never breaks down. Crowley, who has spent a lot of bloody time riding up from hell, is struck by the contrast. The lift up from hell looks straight from a 1970s horror film. It’s dingy, none of the buttons work, you’re struck by the constant impression that it might break down and leave you trapped for a hundred and twenty-seven hours and forced to eat your own arm to survive, and the tannoy voice sounds like your mum about to let herself into the house while you’re naked. No notion how. Just does.

None of this, however, is what Crowley is currently noticing. Not when he’s pressed up against the wall and (this isn’t the strangest thing to happen to him, but it’s close) getting the daylights snogged most bloody enthusiastically out of him by, well, himself. Course, it isn’t actually him, just his body, only with Aziraphale in it. Crowley in turn is parked in Aziraphale, and his hands reach out to clasp hold of his own arms, and all he can think dazedly if this is what it feels like to be inside Aziraphale when said snogging is happening, it sounds like a twenty-piece brass band where half of them are tubas. His knees are shaking and his hands are sweating and his mouth is opening and his arms, his hands are clutching and his entire faux-angelic heart is going like a kick-drum, and all he can wonder, with his very limited remaining critical faculties, is how on earth the angel played it more or less cool for six thousand years. He is steeped in Aziraphale’s adoration to every particle of his essence, and it –

(Aziraphale’s adoration. To some degree, Crowley was expecting it. Being of pure love and all that. But this is different. He is feeling what this tender little corporeal form of Aziraphale’s feels about him, and he would like to argue the point that maybe it isn’t him specifically, but he’s being rapidly disabused in all sorts of ways and He Does Not Know What To Do With That.)

Crowley reaches up with Aziraphale’s plump gentle hands, getting fistfuls of his own rather magnificent ginger hair and tugging. He wonders if Aziraphale thinks that Crowley is remotely suave and composed enough to initiate this kiss, entirely unexpected by both of them, that is the sort of thing that Crowley would do after they’ve both survived their bluffs, hellfire and holy water alike. He supposes he’s flattered that this is how Aziraphale sees him, the confident one, the competent lover. They can’t stop kissing either way, though it’s baffling since neither of them know how they started and they certainly have not the foggiest idea what they are doing. By human standards, it’s probably not a good kiss. By human standards, it might even be terrible.

(Crowley doesn’t give a single damn.)

For his part, Aziraphale is also experiencing what it is to be inside Crowley and to feel his entire soul come unstrung with the wanting, of the memory of six thousand years ago and that you what?, and the thought that followed, that moment of recognisance one soul to another, and oh, it’s you. He is discovering to his own consternation and confusion and shy, dawning delight just how much of an utter, total, literally godforsaken mess Anthony J. Crowley is around him, for him, and he likewise cannot fathom how Crowley did such a good job pretending otherwise. (That again is Aziraphale being absolutely blinded by love, because one could argue that Crowley did a very bad job indeed.) Aziraphale can sense the way Crowley’s hands have wanted to touch him for eons, the way he crowds him sharply against the wall and turns his head and cups his face and strains him on his tiptoes. Though Aziraphale is not presently in his own body, he can feel it as if he is, both himself and Crowley kissing him at once and it mixes up the two of them and turns their essence into one thing at once, bright and beautiful and blazing like the sun.

They keep kissing for several blinded, incoherent, hungry moments. They are not yet quite back on Earth and time is largely irrelevant. Aziraphale, in Crowley’s body, has not entirely finished getting dressed again from disrobing for his dunk in holy water, his shirt is open at the neck even further than it usually is, and Crowley, in Aziraphale, gives into what he realizes is Aziraphale’s burning desire to bite his collarbone. Their hands are tangled, they push each other against the wall still not quite sure whose body belongs to who, half-slipping back and thrusting again, breathless, breathless, breathless. It feels good on something far more than a physical level, since that is acting in a manner entirely outside its normal operation. It feels celestial. Ineffable.

The lift dings. They pull apart belatedly, gasping, wrecked, wet-mouthed, weak-kneed. It takes more than the usual strength of miracle for them to both look completely composed a split-second later. Aziraphale-Crowley gets out, finishing buttoning up his shirt. Played it fantastically cool, as always. Top job.

The lift dings again. Crowley-Aziraphale walks out more or less like a person who did not just ferociously make out with his crush, temporarily borrowing his own body to stop him being murdered in a demonic bathtub, for the first time after six millennia of pining. Nailed it.

“Now that,” he says to himself, “was playing with fire.”

(They are never going to talk about this again. Or at least, there’s no doubt that they never would have before. And yet. The apocalypse was cancelled. They are alive. They are alive. And both of them have just been given some rather incontrovertible proof as to how the other feels.)

The door opens. Earth is there, still there. Angel and demon glance at each other, and then as one, as ever, our own side now, they take the first step.

It is indeed a whole new world.

[freyjawriter24]

Advent Omens: Fire

My fic for yesterday’s advent prompt from @drawlight. Massive thank you to @oath-of-lovingkindness for beta-ing this one and answering my questions, I really appreciate it!

-----

Aziraphale crunched down the already-frosted path to the cottage, his breath forming thin clouds on the chilled winter air. He was back late from wandering the countryside for the day, but it wasn’t yet nightfall – not too late, yet.

He paused as he rounded the leafless apple tree to take in the full view of the house – their house – as perfect as it could be. The sun was setting behind it at this angle, the light spilling across the sky in a fiery halo, turning the few nearby clouds orange and pink as it sank towards the horizon.

The cottage wasn’t particularly big – small but spacious, the estate agent had said – but that suited the both of them just fine. Right now, it looked like the picture of cosiness; the warm light of the fire was bright enough right now to fill the window of the front room, sending a soft glow onto the grass in front of it. Welcome home.

The angel sighed happily. Home. It hadn’t been theirs for long – less than a year, a matter of months, really – and yet already this felt so right, so comfortable and intimate and perfect. He started up the path again, ready now to get inside and feel the warmth of that fire.

“You’re late,” a teasing voice said as Aziraphale pushed the door shut behind him. He looked up to see Crowley’s face peeking through the door to the kitchen, free of sunglasses and with his newly-long hair pulled back in a loose bun.

“Not quite!” the angel protested. Then he turned curious – “What have you been up to in there?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” the demon said, disappearing back out of sight. Aziraphale heard a click of fingers, and then Crowley was walking back towards him, hair falling suspiciously free around his shoulders. He just got changed. What was he wearing before, then?

“Come on, then, angel,” Crowley said, leading the way into the living room. “Time to light the candles.”

-----

It was Newt who had asked.

“Wait, you don’t go to church on Sundays?”

Aziraphale’s brow creased. “Not usually. I have been known to... Well, a handful of times over the centuries, perhaps...”

“My feet pretty much burn off if I walk into a church, so not me,” Crowley cut in.

Newt looked taken aback. “But...” He shook his head, confused. “I mean, you were there. Aren’t you like... the ultimate Christians?”

Aziraphale let out a peal of laughter. “Oh good gracious, no!”

Crowley was grinning widely. “We’d already been around for over four thousand years before Christianity was even thought of, mate,” he said. “If anything, we’re Jewish.”

“Oh.” The man paused for a moment, took off his glasses and fiddled with them, then shoved them back on again. “So... I mean, were you uncomfortable at Christmas last year, then? I didn’t think to ask. Do you celebrate Hanukkah?”

The celestial beings looked at each other.

“Uh, no,” Aziraphale said delicately. “We don’t really tend to celebrate... well, any of it. Last year was a first for us. Religion is more of a... human thing. We have direct proof, you see. No need for faith when you have belief based on certain knowledge.”

“Right, yeah,” Crowley agreed. “So Christmas is fine, Hanukkah is fine, it’s all just... participating in human stuff, you know? It doesn’t have the same meaning for us, I suppose.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said slowly.

Newt nodded, looking even more confused than before. “Okay...”

Hours later, though, back at their new cottage, the angel and the demon were still thinking about that conversation.

“We could, you know,” Crowley said, as casually as possible. “If you wanted to?”

“Could what?” Aziraphale said hesitantly.

“You know... Celebrate Hanukkah this year. I mean, we did Christmas last time with the others, it would only be fair...”

“What’s this? Anthony J. Crowley, talking about what’s fair?”

The demon glowered at him. “Oh, shut up.”

Aziraphale smiled softly and moved to take Crowley’s hand. “I think that sounds like a lovely idea, dearest. Thank you.”

“Ngh,” said Crowley. “Uh, well, yeah. Anything for you, angel.”

-----

They’d never done it properly before. Crowley looked up most of it online, to see what had changed and what hadn’t. It wasn’t like they were entirely new to this – after all, when you live for that long among humans, you pick up a thing or two – but it was still uncertain, there were still things they needed to rediscover.

Now, they’d done it. They were here, tucked away in their own little cottage, surrounded by candles and warm firelight, listening to the beautiful sounds of ‘Light One Candle’ playing from Crowley’s Hanukkah Spotify playlist filter through the air.

As the song came to an end and the now-familiar opening notes of ‘Hanukkah Oh Hanukkah’ struck up, Crowley swung himself up from the sofa. He moved to stand in front of Aziraphale, offering a hand to him.

“Got a surprise for you, angel.”

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale took the offered hand and allowed himself to be led out of the room.

He’d forgotten his earlier suspicion of Crowley’s quick change until they entered the kitchen. There, it suddenly all made sense.

The kitchen was a small but high-ceilinged room that felt bigger than it was. There was barely space for more than an oven, a sink, a fridge, and a little bit of work surface, but when the estate agent had left them with the keys, a miracle or two had managed to somehow cram in a little dining table there too, with just enough room for a couple of celestial beings to sit at. There, now, on the tiny table, was a veritable feast of Hanukkah delights.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, endless awe and adoration in his voice. He looked over the spread – latkes, sufganiyot, a little cheeseboard to one side, yet more fried food, though no meat to be found – and then turned to stare at the demon, whose unconcealed eyes were flicking nervously between the angel and the table.

“It’s wonderful, my dear. Thank you.”

“Don’t say anything yet, angel. You haven’t tried my cooking.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be delightful!” He plucked a sufgani from the display and took a bite.

“Mmm! You made these from scratch?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, running a hand through his hair in the epitome of casualness. “Took a few goes to get it right, but...”

“They’re amazing! Thank you so much!”

“It’s nothing,” the demon said, finally smiling now. He watched as the angel devoured the sweet, jam-filled doughnut and then immediately reached for another. “Hey, save one for me too! I made them – want to see what all the fuss is about.”

Aziraphale beamed and grabbed for a potato pancake instead. “Why don’t we bring it all through to the living room?”

“Good idea. Where’s the rest of the chocolate gelt gone? I’m going to beat you at dreidels this time...”

-----

They got a week of this. A whole week, of just each other in the evenings, of playing games and eating food and singing and reading ancient prayers and sitting in the warm glow of the fire and each other’s love. This was definitely something they should do again.

“Happy Hanukkah, angel.”

“Mazel tov, my darling.”