Thaw

November emerged from the fragrant pines like cigarette smoke and settled in Crowley's bones. The naked sky was concealed behind pewter clots and brought with it an icy misting of rain. A cold draft needled in through the ill-fitted window panes of the cottage and prodded at any exposed areas of Crowley's skin.

He'd napped for a better part of the afternoon. The cold was much too heavy for him and he ached from it. It drained him of any resolve to do anything at all-- so he hibernated instead. Like a cozy snake, with his head buried beneath a pillow and a comforter draped over his gangly limbs.

He was roused from his nap when he heard the jingle of the front door. The smell of the outdoors was swept in with a bitter gust of wind, and despite his aversion to the damp and cold, he abandoned his indent on the couch to greet the door.

"Oh, hello dear—" Aziraphale's smile was radiant. "I've brought back some things for dinner tonight. How does butternut squash soup sound? I thought it sounded toasty."

Crowley was dumbstruck; he wasn't a well-read man (he read the backs of cereal boxes, at most) however, Aziraphale made his fingers urge for pen and paper. It was embarrassing, to be put over the edge by something so mundane; he was just standing there, with his coat dampened from the winter's mist. But he looked ethereal, like a thousand summer nights and a warm cup of hot chocolate. Even the white tufts of hair that twinkled slightly in the low cabin light seemed to frame his face in a halo.

"Sounds good to me," Crowley managed eventually. He began to unload ingredients from the paper bags on the counter. There was an ache, ever-present in his chest. An ache that threatened to overwhelm him, and clog his throat with incoherent babble. It was a feeling he couldn't quite place, except that it made him giddy. And terrified. Terrifiedly-giddy, as it were. Like fire meeting ice, colliding, steaming, and burning him from the inside out. Aziraphale shirked his coat onto the designated rack, oblivious to Crowley's internal meltdown, and shook the cold from his shoulders like a duck shaking water off its back.

"Goodness! It's cold," he huffed. He rubbed his hands together, soothing his reddened fingers. "Is a window cracked?"

"Nah, this house is just drafty," Crowley said over his shoulder while he placed a can in the cupboard. Aziraphale tutted.

"Well, we'll just have to do something about that," he said with a nod. "Forget the groceries, dear. If I'm cold, I can't imagine how cold you must be." Crowley thought lots of things he would never admit in writing. Most of them would have made for excellent Hallmark card headlines, and all of them were sappy enough to pour on pancakes. (Somewhere between you're a great burning ball of compassion, how could I be cold? and I can't help but feel warm near you) It was disgusting, it was horrendous, and worse yet, it added a level of understanding behind bloody cheesy boybands lyrics. (The last thing Crowley needed was knowledge of any sort.)

Aziraphale took his hand and led him through the doorway to the living room. Crowley couldn't have cared less if they were heading straight into the front yard, he followed like an eager dog.

A small fireplace protruded from the wall and sat faintly grimy with the remnants of the past fires. While Crowley sat on the sofa, Aziraphale located a couple of blocks of wood and tossed them into the iron maw. He added a pinch of pine needles and he lit the fireplace with a match before settling back with Crowley on the couch.

A flame danced to life and licked up the logs, casting an orange glow onto the stone walls and the hardwood floor. He and Aziraphale shed dark shadows in the room, which danced in harmony with the flames. Crowley watched the fire as it flickered and crackled, blowing off glowing embers into the chimney. Crowley dipped his toes into a lazy cold draft as it drifted atop the floorboards.