The warm sunlight filters in through the sheer curtains and Crowley groans. The bright light stings his golden eyes and he pulls the quilt over his head.

"Oh no you don't," a soft voice calls and tugs the quilt back.

"Angellllll, let me sleeeeeep."

"Absolutely not. It's Christmas and we are going to celebrate."

Crowley tried to glare with all his might at Aziraphale but the other man just laughed and smoothed the demon's messy red hair down.

"I love Christmas. Just do this for me, please. Come on, I'll make breakfast."

"Waffles?" the demon asked quietly.

"Yes, I'll make you waffles. Chocolate chip or regular?"

"...chocolate chip."

Aziraphale smiled, patted Crowley's thigh, and stood up. A few moments later there was the soft sound of bowls clattering and the creaking of the refrigerator being pulled open.

The demon slowly dragged himself upright and out of bed. As he stood up, his feet slid right into a pair of furry black slippers. Aziraphale must have put them there. They were warm from the sunlight and padded softly across the floor as he headed out towards the kitchen. The angel had rather impressively got the batter mixed already and was now spooning it into the waffle maker. Crowley gave him a hug from behind, his thin arms slipping around the angel's waist. They stood there intertwined for a minute, letting the intoxicating smell of sweet waffles wash over them before Crowley stepped away. He examined his small collection of plants soaking up the winter sun. One had a few small spots and he was about to scold it when Aziraphale called his name.

"Crowley, my dear, can you fetch the fresh milk from the front step?"

The demon rolled his eyes, his angel was probably the only person in London who still gets milk from a milkman. He made his way downstairs and opened the front door to find two bottles of milk and an envelope waiting for him. Opening the envelope, Crowley discovered it was a Christmas card from the milkman, thanking 'Mr. Fell' for his business and wishing him and his partner a warm holiday. A smile slid onto his face and he climbed back up the stairs. Through the wall, the demon could hear his angel singing a quiet Christmas tune.

"I'll be at the table in a minute, love." the other man called upon hearing the creak of the door. And so, not two minutes later (the angel was always punctual), both were seated around a little table. Crowley practically inhaled his chocolate chip waffles while Aziraphale ate with the delicate grace only he can radiate. The demon was remarkably quiet throughout the meal, choosing instead to wallow in the languid atmosphere that drifted lazily through the flat.

After the other man had finished his last waffle, Crowley miracled the dishes into the sink and pulled Aziraphale up and over to the sofa. The demon sat down and tugged his angel into a cuddle, snuggling together close. One hand carded through the angel's white curls while the other nonchalantly rubbed at the top of the man's spine. When rain began to patter at the window (Snow in London on Christmas was a very rare thing indeed), Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the fire roared up in the hearth. They stayed curled close for quite a while before the angel slid out of the man's grasp. Crowley shivered, missing the warmth and comfort his angel provided. He returned a few minutes later, however, with a small parcel and two glass mugs filled with a delicious mulled wine.

Aziraphale passed him the package wrapped in paper with a messy bow on top and one of the mugs.

"I thought we agreed no presents this year," Crowley chides, but there is no malice in his words. He pulls on the ribbon and it comes cleanly off before he runs a sharp finger under the edge of the paper.

"Dear, you don't have to open it neatly for my sake." Aziraphale smiles.

Crowley shrugs and then rips the paper open. Inside is a little red box with the words "Eau de Tenacite" in gold writing.

"It's cologne!" The angel adds in the silence.

"I know it's cologne, angel." The demon quips.

"I figured you could wear it, you know when you come around. It would, uh, keep the angels from knowing about our little agreement."

"Uh… thanks, angel." Crowley replies awkwardly. His face was as cool and detached as ever but inside his heart was alight. The angel wanted him around.

"Oh," he added, "I brought you something too."

Crowley reached over the couch and into the bureau behind it. He handed the angel a roughly wrapped parcel, its corners all bent and dinged. Aziraphale gently unwrapped the package, and upon seeing what was inside, his face lit up.

"You got me wool socks! They're perfect." He beamed, holding up the tartan-patterned socks.

"Hey there angel, not so fast. I didn't just get them. I made them."

"You WHAT?"

"Yeah…" The demon started, reaching a hand up to rub the back of his head, "I needed something to do during the downtime between centuries so I picked up knitting."

Aziraphale was gobsmacked. A demon, his demon, was a knitter. A knitter. With yarn and needles and stitches. And he made an angel a pair of socks. His smile was blinding and warmed Crowley in a million different ways. Aziraphale climbed back onto the couch, the new socks clutched to his chest. Crowley sighed and spread his arms beckoning the angel in.

The demon placed a gentle kiss to the man's temple, "Happy Crimbo, angel."

The soft sigh he heard escape Aziraphale's lips was the only answer he needed. Crowley reached out to snap his fingers and the small television tucked in the corner flickered on; the opening music of Mary Poppins softly playing. He loved this movie more than he let anyone else know and had watched it every Christmas since 1987. It was familiar and consistent. There were no demons that could interrupt him, no wars he needed to fight, no plans to undo. Just Crowley, old movies, sweet wine, and an angel who loved him.

And maybe somewhere up above, She was looking down at them and wishing them happiness too.