Aziraphale was playing a prank on him. Crowley was sure of it. What other explanation could there be for the green leaves and white berries hanging mockingly above the angel’s head?
Or maybe he just didn’t understand the significance of the plant and what it was meant to represent. What one was expected to do when someone stood under it. Or sat under it. As Aziraphale was. Right now.
Crowley would be lying if he said he didn’t want to. Of course he wanted to. He’d been… pining, (for that really was the best word for it, as loathe as he was to admit it,) for over six thousand years. It would be so easy, too, to just cross the room in three long strides and place his lips against Aziraphale’s.
But there were certain things you just weren’t meant to do. certain things he just wasn’t meant to have. And so he just stared, wondering how he had let his feelings get the better of him, how he had let that tiny little spark grow into whatever this was.
He lurched to his feet, looking wildly around the shop for his jacket. He had to leave. Now. The jacket was nowhere in sight, so he’d just have to do without it and hope he didn’t freeze to death on the way home. “I have to go,” he mumbled.
Aziraphale jumped to his feet, suddenly looking very distraught. “So soon?”
Crowley couldn’t face that look. If he faced it, he’d stay, and if he stayed he’d do something stupid. With a choked noise he turned, fully intending to get to the door and get out, but he found the way was blocked by a very anxious angel who must have miracled himself over in order to cross the room so quickly.
“W-wait!” Aziraphale said, in that fretful way he had, and how the fuck did every little thing only make Crowley fall harder? “I’m not trying to keep you from leaving, if you want to that’s fine, but before you go, I- I- I-”
Aziraphale stopped and licked his lips, and Crowley almost bolted right then and there, but he made himself remain still and listen to what Aziraphale had to say.
“…There was something I wanted to give you,” he said at last.
Before Crowley could ask what it was or could even process what he had said, he found himself being grabbed by the collar and pulled forward and kissed and oh.
Crowley’s consciousness jumped to a world that was empty and new, where he had stood on a wall with an angel who had sheltered him with his wing. How could he have been so blind?
He was pulled back to the present when their lips parted.
“I guess you didn’t see the mistletoe,” Aziraphale said softly and he nervously smoothed out the wrinkles in Crowley’s shirt.
“…I saw it,” Crowley whispered, still wondering if any of this was real.
“Oh…” Aziraphale said. And then another, “Oh!” as he jumped away from Crowley, apologies spilling from his lips, and oh, no, that just wouldn’t do. No, no, no.
Crowley crossed the room and plucked the mistletoe from the ceiling before he turned right back around and made his way back to Aziraphale, who looked near tears now as he choked out another apology.
He stopped, though, looking up in confusion when Crowley placed the mistletoe on his head and it stayed there, nestled in his curls.
Crowley cradled Aziraphale’s face in his hands, marveling at how soft it was. “Don’t,” he said, running his thumb under the corner of Aziraphale’s eye, where a tear had run loose. He brought their lips back together, gently, because Aziraphale was something precious, and did his best to communicate just how happy he was to be there in that moment with him.