Work Text:
The email arrived on a grey Monday morning in early December, tucked between a passive-aggressive note from IT about printer etiquette and a reminder about the upcoming health and safety training.
Subject: OFFICE SECRET SANTA - MANDATORY FUN!!!
Crowley deleted it immediately.
It reappeared thirty seconds later, marked as high priority.
Subject: RE: OFFICE SECRET SANTA - MANDATORY FUN!!! - THIS MEANS YOU, CROWLEY
He sighed and opened it.
Dear All,
It’s that special time of year again!
To boost morale and foster workplace cohesion, we’ll be doing Secret Santa.
£10 limit, no exceptions.
Please reply to confirm participation.
Draw will be this Wednesday.
Party and gift exchange Friday 20th December.
This is compulsory.
Yes, Crowley, that includes you.
Festive regards,
Gabriel
Senior Partner
Crowley slumped in his desk chair and contemplated the injustice of it all.
He’d worked at Heavenly & Infernal Solutions for three years now, and every December was the same.
Forced jollity, terrible Christmas jumpers, and Gabriel’s increasingly unhinged attempts to manufacture “team spirit.”
Last year’s Secret Santa had resulted in Hastur receiving a book on personal hygiene (anonymous, but everyone knew it was Ligur), Ligur receiving a written warning for the personal hygiene book, and Crowley receiving a Starbucks gift card from someone who clearly didn’t know him at all, considering he’d rather drink petrol than their coffee.
He was composing a reply explaining in great detail why he should be exempt when a head popped up over his cubicle divider.
“Morning, Crowley!”
Aziraphale from Accounts beamed at him, clutching a tartan thermos that undoubtedly contained hot chocolate.
He’d been at the company for six months, and Crowley still hadn’t worked out how someone could be that relentlessly cheerful about working in corporate tax services.
“Morning,” Crowley muttered, quickly closing the email.
“Did you get Gabriel’s message about Secret Santa?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Oh, it’ll be fun! I do love a good Secret Santa.” Aziraphale’s eyes practically sparkled.
How did he do that?
“Are you participating?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Well, technically yes, but Gabriel did make it sound rather compulsory.” Aziraphale leaned on the cubicle wall. “I think it’s a lovely idea, actually. It’s the thought that counts, isn’t it? Finding the perfect little gift for someone.”
Crowley looked at him, at his genuine enthusiasm, at the small Christmas tree pin on his sensible blue cardigan, and felt something in his chest go soft and useless.
He’d been harbouring what could only be described as a catastrophic crush on Aziraphale since approximately his second week at the company.
It had started innocently enough, just appreciation for a colleague who actually knew how to make a decent cup of tea in the break room.
Then Aziraphale had laughed at one of Crowley’s sarcastic comments during a particularly tedious budget meeting, and that had been it.
Game over.
Six months later, Crowley had it bad.
He’d memorised Aziraphale’s drink order (hot chocolate, extra cream, cinnamon on top), knew he brought in homemade biscuits every Friday, and had possibly, maybe, accidentally-on-purpose arranged his lunch breaks to coincide with Aziraphale’s.
Not that he’d done anything about it.
Aziraphale was sweet and kind and probably straight, and Crowley was a disaster who wore sunglasses indoors and had been described by Gabriel as “abrasive at best, actively hostile at worst.”
“I suppose I’ll participate,” Crowley said. “Since it’s compulsory and all.”
“Wonderful!” Aziraphale’s smile widened. “I do hope I get someone interesting. Last year at my old office I had Marjorie from HR, and she was very specific about only wanting practical gifts. I got her a stapler. It felt rather uninspired.”
“Staplers are useful.”
“But not very festive, are they?”
Crowley’s email pinged.
Another message from Gabriel, this time with a gif of Santa Claus dancing.
Crowley made a mental note to investigate the company’s policy on justifiable homicide.
“I should get back to work,” Aziraphale said reluctantly. “But I’ll see you Wednesday for the draw?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Crowley lied.
Aziraphale gave him a little wave and disappeared back towards Accounts.
Crowley listened to his footsteps fade, then turned back to his computer and grudgingly typed out a reply confirming his participation.
If he had to suffer through this, at least the whole office would be suffering with him.
Wednesday arrived with depressing inevitability.
Gabriel had decorated the conference room with an alarming amount of tinsel and set up a actual top hat on the table for the draw.
“Right, everyone!” Gabriel clapped his hands together.
He was wearing a Christmas jumper with actual working lights on it.
“Let’s get this festive show on the road. One at a time, draw a name. If you get yourself, put it back. No telling anyone who you’ve got. That’s the whole point.”
The office filed in reluctantly.
Crowley ended up wedged between Bee from Marketing, who smelled strongly of cigarettes, and Michael from HR, who radiated passive aggression like a space heater radiated warmth.
Aziraphale was near the front, chatting with Eric from IT.
He’d worn a cream-coloured jumper with small embroidered snowflakes on it.
Crowley tried not to stare and failed miserably.
One by one, people drew names.
Some looked pleased, others disappointed.
Hastur drew his name, swore, and had to go again.
Ligur drew what was presumably a good name, based on his evil grin.
Then it was Crowley’s turn.
He stuck his hand in the hat, rummaged around, and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
He opened it casually, expecting the worst.
Aziraphale Fell - Accounts
Crowley’s brain short-circuited.
No. Absolutely not.
This was a cosmic joke.
The universe was mocking him.
He must have made a face because Gabriel peered at him suspiciously. “All right there, Crowley?”
“Fine,” Crowley managed. “All fine. Very festive.”
He stumbled back to his seat, clutching the piece of paper like it might explode.
Aziraphale.
He’d drawn Aziraphale.
He had to buy a gift for the one person in this entire office whose opinion he actually cared about.
Ten pounds.
He had ten pounds to find something that would somehow convey “I think you’re wonderful and I’ve been uselessly pining after you for six months” without actually conveying that at all.
He was doomed.
Crowley spent the next week in a state of low-grade panic.
He rejected his first dozen ideas immediately.
A book? Too impersonal.
Chocolates? Too generic.
A tie? Aziraphale didn’t really wear ties.
Wine? Didn’t know if he drank.
Stationery? He’d be no better than Aziraphale’s stapler woman.
He needed something thoughtful.
Something that showed he’d paid attention.
Something that said “I notice you” without screaming “I’m obsessed with you.”
The problem was, he’d noticed too much.
He knew Aziraphale preferred tea to coffee in the afternoons, that he was reading a biography of Oscar Wilde, that he collected old bookmarks, that he hummed while he worked, that he had a habit of pushing his glasses up his nose when he was concentrating.
None of this translated into an obvious gift.
He was so distracted that he nearly missed their usual lunch break meetup on Thursday.
Aziraphale had claimed their preferred table in the corner of the break room, the one by the window that got actual natural light.
“There you are,” Aziraphale said as Crowley collapsed into the chair across from him. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten.”
“Never. Just busy.” Crowley pulled out his sad meal-deal sandwich. “Tax fraud waits for no man.”
“Tax evasion consultation,” Aziraphale corrected primly. “We don’t use the F-word.”
“Right. Much better.”
Aziraphale had brought something that looked homemade, a pasta salad with actual vegetables and everything.
He also produced two mince pies from a Tupperware container and offered one to Crowley.
“Made them last night. Bit early in the season, perhaps, but I got inspired.”
Crowley took the mince pie, which was still slightly warm and smelled incredible. “You made these?”
“Of course. Shop-bought ones are never quite right, are they? Too sweet, not enough spice.”
Crowley bit into it.
It was possibly the best mince pie he’d ever tasted, buttery and rich with just the right amount of brandy-soaked fruit. “This is amazing.”
Aziraphale pinked slightly. “Oh, well. I’m glad you like it. Baking relaxes me.”
“You should open a bakery. You’d make a fortune.”
“And leave the thrilling world of corporate accounts? Never.”
But Aziraphale was smiling, pleased. “Besides, I like baking for friends. Takes the pressure off.”
Friends.
Right.
That’s what they were.
Crowley’s phone buzzed.
A message from Bee: Have you sorted your Secret Santa yet? I’m stuck. Thinking of just getting everyone booze.
“Have you sorted your Secret Santa gift?” Crowley asked, trying to sound casual.
“Oh, yes, ages ago.” Aziraphale looked smug. “I think I’ve found the perfect thing, actually. I’m rather excited about it.”
“Who’d you get?”
“Now, now. That would be telling.” Aziraphale tapped his nose mysteriously. “But I’m quite pleased with myself. It’s thoughtful without being too personal. I do think they’ll like it.”
Crowley felt a stab of something that might have been jealousy.
Whoever had Aziraphale as their Secret Santa was lucky.
He’d probably put actual thought and care into it, not just grab something random from the shop on the last day.
Which is exactly what Crowley would normally do, except this time he couldn’t.
This time it mattered.
“I’m sure they’ll love it,” he said.
“I hope so.” Aziraphale started packing up his Tupperware. “Have you sorted yours?”
“Still thinking.”
“Well, don’t leave it too late. Only a few days left.”
“I know, I know.”
Aziraphale patted his hand as he stood up, a brief touch that made Crowley’s skin tingle. “You’ll think of something. You’re more thoughtful than you pretend to be.”
He left before Crowley could formulate a response to that.
By Monday, Crowley was getting desperate.
The office party was Friday.
He had four days.
He’d wandered through every shop on Oxford Street, scrolled through Amazon until his eyes glazed over, and even, in a moment of true desperation, asked Bee for advice.
“Depends,” Bee had said, not looking up from their phone. “You trying to impress them?”
“No. Maybe. It’s complicated.”
“Get them booze.”
“Not helpful.”
“Then you’re on your own, mate.”
On Tuesday, Crowley found himself in Hatchards during his lunch break, wandering the aisles in hope of inspiration.
Aziraphale liked books.
A book was a good gift.
Classic, thoughtful, not too weird.
But which book?
He was staring hopelessly at the fiction section when he overheard two women talking in the next aisle.
“…just the most beautiful bookmark I’ve ever seen. Art Nouveau style, real gold leaf…”
Crowley’s head snapped up.
Bookmarks.
Aziraphale collected bookmarks.
He’d mentioned it once, weeks ago, in passing during another lunch break.
He’d shown Crowley his favourite, a delicate Victorian one with pressed flowers.
Said his grandmother had given him his first one when he was seven and he’d been collecting them ever since.
Crowley abandoned the books and went hunting.
He found it in a tiny antique shop off Covent Garden, the kind of place he’d normally walk straight past.
The shop was crammed with old postcards, vintage jewellery, and the faint smell of dust and time.
The bookmark was in a display case, tucked between a tarnished pocket watch and some old fountain pens.
It was brass, delicately engraved with a pattern of intertwining vines and flowers, with a small cream tassel at the top.
Art Nouveau, or possibly Edwardian.
The kind of thing that looked like it had history, like it had marked pages in books that mattered.
It was also £15, which was over budget.
Crowley bought it anyway.
The shopkeeper wrapped it carefully in tissue paper and slipped it into a small box. “Lovely choice,” she said. “Someone special?”
“Something like that,” Crowley muttered.
He spent Tuesday evening wrapping it, which was harder than expected.
He’d never been good at wrapping presents, all his edges came out wonky and the tape never stuck properly.
But he persevered, using paper he’d bought from the fancy stationer’s (cream with gold stars, understated but festive), and even managed a somewhat respectable bow with some ribbon.
When he was done, he sat back and looked at it.
It was a nice gift.
A thoughtful gift.
Maybe too thoughtful?
Could you be too thoughtful in Secret Santa?
What if Aziraphale thought it was weird?
What if he didn’t like antiques?
What if he took one look at it and knew immediately that Crowley had spent far too much time thinking about this, which would lead to him realising that Crowley had spent far too much time thinking about him, which would make everything awkward forever?
Crowley put his head in his hands and wondered if it was too late to fake his own death.
Friday arrived with the inevitability of doom.
Gabriel had outdone himself.
The break room had been transformed into what could only be described as a Christmas explosion.
Tinsel everywhere, a massive tree in the corner, fairy lights that strobed, and a playlist of Christmas songs that was already on its second loop of Mariah Carey.
There was also a truly alarming amount of alcohol.
“Right, everyone!” Gabriel bellowed over the music.
He’d somehow acquired a Santa hat. “Let’s get this party started! Food’s on the table, drinks are flowing, and we’ll do Secret Santa in half an hour. Enjoy!”
Crowley grabbed a beer and retreated to a corner.
He’d worn his least offensive shirt (plain black) and had been forced to surrender his sunglasses at the door by Michael, who’d cited “company policy about appropriate party attire.”
He was scanning the room for Aziraphale when someone tapped his shoulder.
“There you are!”
Aziraphale was wearing a soft blue jumper and looked unfairly adorable.
He was also holding a glass of mulled wine and had a slightly flushed look that suggested it wasn’t his first.
“Been here the whole time,” Crowley said.
“Lurking in corners doesn’t count as being here.” Aziraphale pulled him towards the food table. “Come on, you have to try the sausage rolls. I made them.”
“You made party food? For the office?”
“Gabriel asked for volunteers and no one else offered. I could hardly let people go hungry.”
Of course he couldn’t.
Because Aziraphale was fundamentally incapable of not being kind and helpful, even when the beneficiaries were people like Hastur, who was currently seeing how many pigs in blankets he could fit in his mouth at once.
The sausage rolls were, predictably, delicious.
Crowley ate three while Aziraphale chatted happily about his plans for Christmas (visiting his brother in Oxford, cooking dinner for twelve, possibly too ambitious but he did love a challenge).
“What about you?” Aziraphale asked. “Any exciting plans?”
“Not really. Quiet one this year.”
“You’re not going to family?”
“Don’t really have much family. It’s fine, I prefer it quiet anyway.”
Aziraphale’s expression softened. “Well, if you find yourself at a loose end, you’d be very welcome in Oxford. My brother always does an open house on Boxing Day. Lots of people, lots of food.”
Crowley’s heart did something complicated. “That’s…that’s really nice of you. Thanks.”
“Of course. I can’t bear the thought of you all alone on Christmas.”
Before Crowley could explain that he was actually perfectly fine with being alone, Gabriel turned down the music and clapped his hands.
“Right, everyone! Secret Santa time! Gather round the tree!”
They assembled in a vaguely circular formation.
Gabriel had arranged all the gifts under the tree, each with a name tag.
He started calling people up one by one to collect their presents.
Crowley’s heart was hammering.
His gift looked small and understated compared to some of the others.
Hastur’s was clearly a bottle of something, badly wrapped.
Ligur’s was book-shaped.
Eric’s was making a rattling sound.
“Aziraphale Fell!”
Aziraphale made his way to the tree, looking delighted.
Gabriel handed him Crowley’s carefully wrapped package.
Aziraphale turned it over in his hands, examining it with a small smile.
“Oh, how lovely! Look at this wrapping!”
Crowley tried to sink into the floor.
Aziraphale carefully untied the ribbon and unwrapped the paper, taking care not to tear it.
He opened the small box, and his expression went still.
For a horrible moment, Crowley thought he’d miscalculated entirely.
Then Aziraphale’s face broke into the most radiant smile Crowley had ever seen.
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. He lifted the bookmark out carefully, holding it up to catch the light. The brass gleamed, the engraving delicate and intricate. “Oh, this is beautiful. This is…whoever got me this, this is absolutely perfect.”
Crowley’s face was on fire.
Several people were looking at the bookmark appreciatively.
Gabriel peered at it and whistled.
“That’s a nice find. Proper antique, that.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Aziraphale was still beaming, turning the bookmark over in his hands like it was precious. “I collect these. Someone’s really paid attention. Thank you, whoever you are.”
He scanned the group, his gaze passing over Crowley without stopping.
Crowley tried to look neutral and probably failed spectacularly.
The gift-giving continued.
Hastur got beard oil from someone with a sense of humour.
Ligur got a book on anger management and looked murderous.
But Crowley barely paid attention.
He was too busy watching Aziraphale, who kept looking at his bookmark, running his thumb over the engraving, smiling that soft, wondering smile.
As the party wound down and people started drifting away, Crowley considered just leaving.
Mission accomplished, gift successfully given, no need to stick around and be weird about it.
Then Aziraphale appeared at his elbow.
“Crowley, are you heading out?”
“Was thinking about it.”
“Walk with me to the tube?”
They collected their coats and headed out into the cold December evening.
It had started snowing, fat white flakes drifting lazily down, settling on the pavement and in Aziraphale’s hair.
He still had the bookmark, tucked carefully into his coat pocket.
“That really was the most thoughtful gift,” Aziraphale said as they walked. “I can’t get over it. Whoever drew my name must have really listened when I was babbling about my collection.”
“Maybe they just got lucky,” Crowley offered.
“I don’t think so. This is Victorian, or Edwardian possibly. You don’t find something like this by accident. Someone went looking.” Aziraphale glanced at him sideways. “You wouldn’t happen to know who, would you?”
Crowley’s heart stopped. “Why would I know?”
“Just a feeling.” Aziraphale stopped walking.
They were outside the tube station, under a streetlight, snow falling around them like something from a film. “It was you, wasn’t it?”
There was no point lying.
Crowley had never been good at lying to Aziraphale anyway.
“Maybe.”
“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice had gone soft. “This must have cost more than ten pounds.”
“Receipt’s long gone, can’t prove anything.”
“That’s not the point.” Aziraphale pulled out the bookmark again, cradling it in his palm. “Why would you go to so much trouble?”
This was it.
The moment where Crowley could either deflect or be honest, and honesty was terrifying but somehow, with Aziraphale looking at him like that, with snow in his hair and that soft smile on his face, it felt like the only option.
“Because you mentioned it once,” Crowley said quietly. “Months ago. That you collected them. And I remembered, and I thought… I wanted to get you something you’d actually like. Not just any old thing.”
Aziraphale was very quiet. Then he said, “You remembered that?”
“I remember most things you tell me.”
“Oh.”
They stood there in the snow, people streaming past them into the station, the city loud and bright around them.
Aziraphale was still holding the bookmark, and Crowley couldn’t read his expression.
“I should go,” Crowley said, because the silence was killing him. “Early start tomorrow, and...”
“I drew your name,” Aziraphale blurted out.
Crowley blinked. “What?”
“For Secret Santa. I drew your name.” Aziraphale reached into his other pocket and pulled out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, away from everyone else. It felt too personal for the office.”
He held it out.
Crowley took it automatically, numb with confusion.
“Open it,” Aziraphale urged.
Crowley unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a pair of vintage sunglasses, round frames with amber-tinted lenses.
They looked expensive.
They looked perfect.
“I know you wear sunglasses all the time,” Aziraphale said in a rush. “Even though Gabriel hates it. And I saw these in a shop in Camden Market and they reminded me of you. They’re vintage, 1960s I think, and I know it’s over budget but I couldn’t help myself, and I just thought you might...”
Crowley kissed him.
It wasn’t smooth or planned.
He just stepped forward, cupped Aziraphale’s face in one hand, and kissed him right there on the street corner in the snow.
Aziraphale made a small surprised sound and then kissed back, his free hand coming up to clutch Crowley’s coat.
He tasted like mulled wine and sugar, and when they broke apart, he was blushing furiously.
“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “So you… that is, I wasn’t sure if you…”
“I’ve been gone for you for six months,” Crowley admitted. “Possibly longer. I’m a disaster about it.”
“You’re not a disaster.” Aziraphale was smiling now, bright and delighted. “Or if you are, then so am I. I’ve been trying to work up the courage to say something for ages.”
“Really?”
“Really. Why do you think I kept finding excuses to talk to you? Or bringing in extra biscuits on Fridays?” Aziraphale laughed. “I’ve been absurdly obvious. Bee noticed weeks ago.”
“Bee knew?”
“Everyone knows, darling. We’re not subtle.”
Darling.
Aziraphale had called him darling, and Crowley felt like his heart might explode.
“So,” Crowley said, still holding the sunglasses. “We’re both idiots who’ve been pining for six months.”
“Comprehensively.”
“And we both went over budget on Secret Santa.”
“Significantly.”
“Worth it though.”
“Absolutely worth it.” Aziraphale was still smiling, snowflakes catching in his eyelashes. “So what do we do now?”
“Now?” Crowley slipped on the sunglasses.
They fit perfectly. “Now I take you to dinner. Somewhere nice. Somewhere without Gabriel or Christmas music or sausage rolls.”
“I like my sausage rolls.”
“Your sausage rolls are the exception. But tomorrow. Tonight, just you and me and somewhere we can actually talk without the entire office watching.”
“That sounds perfect.”
They walked to the tube together, hands linked, making plans.
Dinner tomorrow, and then maybe a film, and then who knew.
All Crowley knew was that Aziraphale was beaming at him like he’d hung the moon, and the bookmark was safely tucked in Aziraphale’s pocket, and somehow, against all odds, this had worked out.
“Best Secret Santa ever,” Aziraphale declared as they reached the platform.
“Didn’t even stick to the budget.”
“That’s what made it perfect.”
Crowley laughed and pulled him close, and thought that maybe, just maybe, Gabriel’s mandatory fun policy had finally paid off.
Though he’d never, ever admit it.