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Crowley only goes to Canada once. Crowley does his best to never set foot in the place because he knows just how big a moose is (they were one of his inventions after all) and would rather not spend a lot of time around them. Plus everyone in Canada is outrageously nice, to the point that Crowley suspects even Aziraphale would become exhausted after the millionth polite greeting. He gets to see this proven correct when he receives a phone call from Aziraphale asking if he’d happen to be in the region. When questioned as to why, Aziraphale’s teeth chattering becomes apparent down the line and he mutters something about his holiday cabin having no heating. Crowley sighs down the phone and decides that, if Down Below were to question this miracle, he’d hand them directions to the nearest moose he could find and see whether they wanted to dispute his sudden trip to the frozen lands again.
The cabin Aziraphale has rented for the week is truly in the middle of nowhere. It’s not very clear how Aziraphale got there either because he doesn’t drive and it seems a frightfully stupid idea to fly through such cold weather. Crowley also has the inside knowledge that the angel is crap at maintaining his wings on his own. He shifts the bag on his shoulder and hops up the steps, willing the lock to let him in rather than knocking. The scene he’s met with is much along the lines of what he expected.
Aziraphale is sitting in front of a sad little fireplace barely spitting any sparks and definitely not putting out much in the way of heat. He’s got two blankets, awful ones that were clearly left by the owners of the cabin, wrapped around his shoulders and is still shivering under them. He looks up when Crowley enters with that devastatingly open smile lighting up his face much more than the fire’s weak attempts at the same thing. Crowley smiles back, can’t help it when he hasn’t seen his angel in a couple years.
“Holidaying on your own, angel?”
He turns his back on Aziraphale to kick his shoes off and drops the bag on the floor, it’s just food so it won’t go off if he turns his attention elsewhere for a while.
“Thought a break would be good for the soul,” Aziraphale says, genuine cheer edging his misery.
“You chose one heck of a place to stay in.”
“Did you just say ‘heck’?”
Crowley ignores him and goes about hunting in the kitchen area, smugly pleased when he finds an emergency stash of firewood shoved in the back of a cupboard. He carts it over to the fireplace and arranges the small logs so as not to squash the valiant embers. When that’s done, he goes about the tricky business of untangling the protesting angel from his blankets. Aziraphale complains and squeaks in outrage when Crowley just bundles the blankets under one arm.
“You’re not going to get much warmer by sitting on the floor,” he says, “there’s a perfectly good sofa. You haven’t even got the bloody duvet from the bed, you great idiot.”
Aziraphale huffs but helps, wobbly and a little blue around the edges, to pull the sofa up to the hearth. Crowley looks at him, considers going to get the duvet he’d spied through the open door manually and decides to miracle it to himself instead. It’s heavy; will do nicely, he thinks. With the air of someone who’s only really putting on a show out of routine, Crowley sits with his back against one arm of the sofa, blankets balanced on the back of it, and motions for Aziraphale to sit down between his legs. Aziraphale, ever slow on the uptake with things like this, blinks at him and clamps his jaw shut.
“The way I see it, angel, is I’m running hot and you’re at risk of frostbite. A little contact isn’t going to kill you.”
“You’re a snake, Crowley, you’re cold blooded.”
“Yes and I’m also a demon. They balance out.”
Aziraphale hums and ahs for a further minute, Crowley shooting down his objections easily, before giving in. There’s some shuffling and elbows in people’s ribs and cold feet on legs that cause copious amounts of swearing until they settle at last. Crowley practically acting as a pillow for the angel who lay back against him, his face turned slightly into Crowley’s neck. His nose is freezing cold. Crowley can’t help his own little shiver when Aziraphale wiggles a little, making himself comfortable. Crowley’s knees bracket Aziraphale’s; his feet on top of the angel’s in an attempt to warm them. The duvet and blankets are wrapped on top and around them, their own little cocoon. It takes a while for Aziraphale to stop shivering. By the time he does, Crowley is asleep, one hand still in Aziraphale’s hair, the other on Aziraphale’s stomach, rising with each of the Angel’s breaths.
In a cold cabin in Canada, decades before an almost apocalypse will reshape his world, Aziraphale finds himself inclined to sleep in the arms of the demon already sworn to be his.