Happy Holidays, rroselavy!
Title: A Christmas Crowley
For: rroselavy
From: romanticidiot
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: Like ... PG-13? Maybe?
Summary: What would the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future have to say to Crowley?
Note: I made the decision not to write in Agnes Nutter's dialect because I would rather not mangle it completely. I hope this is still okay. Happy exchange!
--
The angel was playing Christmas carols. Crowley could hear them as he pulled up outside the dingy little Soho bookshop. He tried vainly to hope they were coming from the adult shop next door but ... it was unlikely they'd be singing the Hallellujah chorus at quite such unlikely decibels. Still, it was better than anticipating the alternative, which was Aziraphale decked out in his favourite reindeer jumper that, like the Bentley, had been around since reindeer jumpers were invented.
Crowley'd tried a time or two to unravel it. A badly placed hook here, a splinter on a desk there, but somehow the blasted thing was always alive and well the next year. Crowley wasn't actually really sure Aziraphale had ever noticed. It was more likely he just expected the jumper to be there in the box of decorations every year and there it was. Aziraphale tended to believe that all clothing was built to last, despite Crowley's every effort to the contrary.
He continued to hope the shop next door had had a sudden change of festive heart, right up until he opened the bookshop door and found Aziraphale - yes, as he had suspected - in the green reindeer jumper, standing on a stool in the middle of the bookshelves, stringing tinsel from one corner to the other. He winced. It was every bit as bad as he'd feared. He was singing, too, which wasn't really the worst bit, because well, there'd been a choir at one point, hadn't there? But -
"The Little Drummer Boy? Really, Aziraphale?" he asked, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind him.
"Oh, hello dear," Aziraphale called from around a mouthful of gold ... shimmer. "Well, he was really such a nice boy. What are you doing here? I thought you had a staff meeting?”
"Usually I do," Crowley said with a scowl. "But - it was cancelled this year. Couldn't get the budget or something. Is all this really necessary?" He crushed a glass bauble under foot.
"Yes," Aziraphale said. "I mean, of course not. But it's fun, isn't it? And Jesus was such a sweet child, it's really just like a birthday celebration, don't you think? I wonder what he's doing now. So quiet. Never fussed at all. Do you remember when he lost his rattle?"
"Yes," Crowley said sourly. "Do you know how hard it is to find a child's toy in the clouds? It's ridiculous is what it is, don't try it."
"You do exaggerate," the angel murmured, finally climbing down from his stool and surveying his handiwork. Crowley looked around. Everything looked the same as it had for years. The same nativity scene was in the corner, the same handmade decorations from children, and the same candle with the melted Santa's eye. "So what are you doing here? It's not that I'm not glad to see you, of course, it's just, usually I'm alone around this time."
"Well, like I said the meeting was cancelled," Crowley answered, slouching down into a seat near the dusty old desk. "And I thought, who best to commiserate with?"
"Ah," Aziraphale looked knowing. "It's liquid fortification you're after, is it? Well, you'll have to wait. There's carols in the park tonight and I'm going."
Crowley stared at him.
"Angel, really? Carols in the park?"
Aziraphale bristled.
"This happens to be a very busy time of the year for me," he said stiffly. "There's a lot of good will that brews when people come together. Sometimes they just need a bit of a push to do something with it. And there's lots of people who don't have much to be thankful for, Crowley. Someone's got to keep an eye on them. A few Christmas miracles, you know."
Crowley shook his head.
"Well, if you insist," he replied, and stood up. "I'll see you in a week, when all this madness has passed."
Aziraphale's eyes twinkled.
"'Bah, humbug', Crowley?" he asked. "Why don't you come with me? There're plenty of high tempers at Christmas, and I'm sure you can find some drinks to spill, or sound equipment to break. What about candles? They've all got wax that needs dripping on new cameras."
"I will let you keep Christmas in your own way, angel. Let me keep it in mine." he replied.
"But you don't keep it!" Aziraphale returned.
"Yes," Crowley smiled, his tongue flickering out for a moment. "Isn't it wonderful?" And he slid out of the bookshop neatly, as though he had never even been there.
Aziraphale sagged down into the cushions of his chair and sighed.
---
"Crowley!" The angel exclaimed, losing his balance and tumbling off the step stool he was using to hang decorations. "What are you doing here? This is two years in a row, you know."
"I know," Crowley said sourly. "This year they couldn't get the numbers."
"Oh," the angel said, accepting Crowley's hand in helping him up from the floor. "Well, in that case - do you want to come to the Carols this year?"
The demon made a face of distaste.
"Again, angel?" he asked. "You went last year."
Aziraphale gave him a disapproving look.
"Lost souls don't work on an alternating schedule," he said.
Crowley sighed.
"If that's the way you want to play it." He turned and left the bookshop, and did not return until well into the New Year.
"Bah, humbug," the angel said to the Virgin Mary in his nativity scene. Her painted face stared compassionately back at him. "Bah, a humbug," he said and turned her face away.
Though she was righted again later. She really had been a very sweet girl.
---
"Cancelled again, Crowley?" the angel asked as the demon caught up to him outside Harrods. Aziraphale’s arms were full of presents and wholesome food, and candles.
“Yeah, couldn’t get -- biscuits or something, I don’t know. What’s with all the shopping?”
Aziraphale looked down sheepishly.
“Oh, I suppose I went a bit overboard this year, didn’t I? It’s for the shelter down the other end of the street from the bookshop.”
“And?” Crowley prompted.
Aziraphale blushed.
“Well, there’s the Carols, of course. One must always have spare candles, you know. And there are hampers for most festive outfit, and lucky dips for the children, and -”
“Stop, stop, stop,” Crowley begged. “You’re too good, angel.”
Aziraphale looked at him strangely.
“Yes?” he said, puzzled. “That’s kind of the ... You should come.”
“To the Carols?” Crowley scoffed. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, why not?” Aziraphale demanded. “There’s evil to do at Christmas the same as there is good, you know.”
“Of course,” Crowley replied. “But I don’t have to be in the midst of it. You hold down my end of the fort, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale admitted, colour rising in his cheeks again. “But it’s not the same as being there yourself. You’re so clever at finding ways to corrupt people,” he added admiringly. “I never can. I just tell them to drop their ice cream and get lost coming back from the loo.”
Crowley ignored this.
“Well, you can still come over for Christmas dinner, right? I’ll do the shop up all nice and warm the way I know you like it, and we can -”
“If you say sing carols, I swear I will throw you in front of a car, angel.”
“-drink eggnog.” Aziraphale continued, uninterrupted. The angel’s cheeks were flushed, his hair in disarray, creeping out from underneath a beanie with a pom pom, and his eyes were gleaming like the Bentley’s headlights in the dark. He was looking around him at the over-the-top decorations, and the harried shoppers, with a distinct aura of contentment. He looked ... he looked joyous.
"You really enjoy all this stuff, don't you?" he asked incredulously. Aziraphale nodded happily. "But ... it's so fake."
"Of course it is," Aziraphale returned. "But ... they want to mean it, Crowley. They are still trying to feel and say all the right things. Even though Santa no longer comes down the chimney for them, they're still always searching for the same feeling. They are passing on those memories to their children, and their children to their children. This feeling, this ... need to belong to someone ... it isn't dying, Crowley. Despite everything. Despite us, despite the Apo -- everything. Don't you think that's worth something?"
"No," Crowley said shortly, and shoved the package he was holding back on top of the angel’s pile. “I’ll see you in a week.”
The Bentley rolled up beside them, and the demon slid in without a backward glance.
Aziraphale just sighed.
--
The thing was, Crowley didn’t even have a doornail. He had a sleek, silver, swipe-card entry monolith, and it did not have a middle-aged woman with a glare slap bang in the middle of it. He stared at it for a moment, blinked, and when he opened his eyes, it was gone. He continued on.
“Didn’t you like the doornail?”
The words seemed to come from thin air, until Crowley looked at his microwave. In it was the face from the door, backlit by the little light inside that had never had a chance to shine before.
“Not particularly,” Crowley answered, hanging up his coat. “Should I have? Was it intended to please me?”
“Not particularly,” the face answered. “Anyway, I’ve got a message for you.”
“Oh, yes?” Crowley answered patiently. “Did you want a coffee?”
“No,” the microwave answered. “Bit difficult in my state, anyway. Do you want to hear the message or not?”
“Sure,” Crowley agreed, miracling up a scotch and leaning his hip against the kitchen bench.
At once, the face drew itself up imperiously, and it seemed to draw storm clouds about itself, darkening the kitchen and dulling all the gleaming surfaces.
“You can do without the theatrics,” Crowley said, unimpressed. The face dimmed.
“Oh, please,” it said. “I never get to do this anymore. I’ve been dead a very long time, you know. Oh what fun I used to have as a girl, turning people into newts and things. They all got better, of course, but -”
“Oh, go on, then,” Crowley said wearily, cutting it off. The little globe behind it lit up again and the appliances all shook with thunder.
“Crowley,” the face began, its tones deep and imperious. “You will be visited by three spirits.”
Crowley made a face.
“Really?” He wasn’t a big fan of ghosts. Usually they were either terribly depressed or intent on revenge, and not very much use for anything.
“Crowley,” the microwave continued. “You will be visited by three spirits-”
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. The microwave glared.
“You will be visited by three spirits,” it repeated pointedly. Crowley held his tongue this time. “When the bell tolls one.”
“Seriously?” he asked, sighing. He’d been hoping to get in a good week of sleep over Christmas, but if he was up seeing to ghosts, he’d never fit it in.
“When the bell tolls one,” the microwave said again. “When the bell tolls one.”
Crowley rolled his eyes.
“When the bell tolls one.” It said one more time, before the little light gave its final bow and dimmed out.
“Bah, a humbug,” Crowley said for good measure and finished off his scotch in a gulp. Well, if he was going to be playing nursemaid for the evening, he’d better get in as much rest as possible. He sighed and turned towards the bedroom. He made sure to sleep in his suit and glasses.
--
He was quite suddenly aware that he was awake, and he was not entirely sure why. He lay on his bed feeling his way carefully through the ether but there was nothing. His flat was silent. Not a creature was stirring, not even a - wait. There was actually a small noise, coming from the kitchen, a small ‘ping’ every second. He counted, three, four, five. He crawled from the bed and came into the kitchen to find the kettle glowing unearthly red and pinging desperately.
Eight, nine, ten, he counted, watching it. He swept it off the table and it smashed satisfyingly to the ground. It paused for a moment as if to catch its breath and then valiantly pinged two more times before it quivered and lay silent. He stared at it. Its broken remains glared defiantly back at him. He sneered at it and went to sit in the lounge room. It was never good to surprise a ghost, but he was damned if he was going to wait where he was told. He sat upright on his most uncomfortable chair, waiting. Demons can be very patient when they choose to be, and Crowley was so patient and concentrated so hard that nearly all of an hour had passed before his next blink.
It was only one minute to. He waited.
At exactly one second until one, he stood. Nothing happened. He blinked.
Ping!
The room was instantly full of a white light. Crowley had to shield his eyes. The light brought with it the smell of open skies, freshly mown grass, and rain. It reminded him of long afternoons eating popsicles and being home late but it not really mattering, and lying on top of his bedclothes because it was too hot underneath even a sheet. None of which he’d ever experienced, of course.
The light dimmed a little after a minute, and he was able to pry his eyes open. Then he sighed. Adam Young stood in the middle of his living room grinning at him with two missing teeth.
“Crowley!” he exclaimed. Crowley groaned.
“Are you the spirit the bint foretold to me?” he demanded. Adam nodded happily.
“Yup! Agnes Nutter! She’s like my … ” his face screwed up as he thought. “Great great great … a lot of greats, anyway, Godmother.” He said. “Come on, I’ve got loads to show you. You won’t believe it.”
“Wait, wait,” Crowley said, scrambling to catch up. “What are you showing me? I just thought I had to look after you or something. Usually with spirits you help them get revenge or realize they’re actually dead or whatever. They never show you things.”
“Well, I’m not dead, am I? You only saw me last week.” Adam said practically. “Look, I’ve got to show you - I’m the ghost of Christmas Past!” He said this last part proudly, as though he’d landed the role of Robin Hood in the school musical.
Adam grabbed Crowley's hand before the demon could even mutter under his breath about how once a month was enough, thank you Aziraphale, who insisted on bringing cheese scones to Tadfield regularly, having taken the godfathers thing a bit too literally. They were quite suddenly zipping along the streets of London and Crowley was very glad indeed that he’d decided to wear his suit to bed.
Zip! And they were in Kings Cross.
Zip! And they were passing the Thames.
“Where are we going?” he asked Adam. “And do your parents know you’re out?”
“Course,” Adam said scornfully. “It was them who said I should help out a bit with my powers, you know. Lend a hand here and there.”
“And that’s not meddling?” Crowley demanded, still smarting a little over that comment.
“Nope,” Adam returned. “It’s only small stuff. Keeping the weather nice, and the occasional visitation like this one, that’s all. They’re fun, really.”
“Fun,” Crowley muttered but then they were wherever they were going, and they weren’t zipping anymore but sort of coasting along. Things slowed down enough for him to begin to recognize things. “Oh, I know where we are,” he said suddenly.
“Oh really?” Adam asked, looking around him. “Where is it then? It looks a bit naff, you know.”
Crowley swallowed a laugh.
“Well, you tell that to Aziraphale next time you see him,” he told the boy. Adam looked up in horror.
“Aziraphale lived here?”
“Oh, yes,” Crowley replied grimly. “Look.”
And sure enough, the door of the little shelter opened and the angel came out, watering can in hand, and began to talk to the planter box plants as he drowned them in water.
“What is he wearing?” Adam hissed. Crowley winced.
“The green reindeer jumper. He still has it.”
Adam looked ill.
“There you go, my friends,” Aziraphale said kindly to the plants. “You’ll be grateful for this, won’t you? You’re all looking a bit brown. I’m not sure why,” he added doubtfully. “I did everything the book said.”
“He's never been able to keep a plant alive,” Crowley confided to Adam in a whisper. “He doesn’t know how to talk to them. He thinks you coach them to stay alive, fool.”
“Look!” Adam exclaimed. “It’s you!”
It was.
Crowley watched himself emerge from the little structure, and the look of distaste on his face was probably the twin to the one on his face right now.
“Angel, I must ask you to reconsider,” he said. “This is … Aziraphale, I have no words for what this is.”
Aziraphale looked around himself happily.
“Isn’t it wonderful? I’ve got everything the stories say people want at Christmas. I have a gingerbread house, and happy plants, and plastic Santa decorations and fake snow. The reindeer aren’t here yet, of course, but they’re due at lunch time.”
“Yes,” Crowley interrupted. “But an actual gingerbread house is … well, it’s kind of off-putting.”
In fact, there had been a lot of snow the night before and the gingerbread house was listing heavily to one side. The roof was burnt. The sweets on the side were slowly sliding down as if they were trying to get away, and the marzipan door was mostly collapsed. The small shroud of trees and plants Aziraphale had somehow coaxed to grow outside his door were sickly and off-colour, and the chocolate pebble driveway was squashed and blackened from people walking past it very quickly after a glimpse of the house.
Crowley suddenly remembered with horrible accuracy where this particular Christmas memory was headed.
“Adam,” he said urgently. “We need to leave. I-I’ve seen enough of this one.”
“Why?” Adam asked curiously, and pushed his way through the door, where the past-Aziraphale and past-Crowley had just disappeared. “You’re just talking.” He said in confusion.
Crowley sighed.
“We are now,” he said. “Fast forward to later, if you’re not going to leave. But I’m going to wait outside.”
He turned on his heel and went back outside, leaving Adam alone to speed up time to the moment things obviously started to go pear-shaped.
He couldn’t resist watching from outside, though, peering through one of the little Christmas cracker windows, which fell apart as he neared. He watched the people come and go, just as he remembered, only in double time, until Adam had seen enough and slowed it down to catch the last few moments. They were sitting on the couch again.
“But why didn’t they come?” The angel asked, distraught. He was a number of cups deep into Christmas cheer at this point. He’d switched from eggnog early on, and was now nursing a tumbler of whisky.
“It’s … look, it’s a nice idea,” past-Crowley said, petting the angel’s hand awkwardly. “It’s just … maybe people aren’t ready for real elves just yet. And a real gingerbread house is just … didn’t you hear the Hansel and Gretel story?”
Aziraphale just stared at him unhappily. Past-Crowley sighed. So did Present-Crowley.
“They didn’t have to throw things,” the angel said gloomily. “And I don’t know why they had to call the police. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Was I?”
“No, no,” Crowley hastily assured him, taking another sip of his own whisky. “It’s maybe just … well, most reindeer don’t have actual glowing red noses, so when Rudolph turned up, it seemed to them like you had … altered … him in some way. And that’s … uh frowned upon.”
Aziraphale just looked at him. His chin wobbled.
“And the … and the elves … look, angel. Most men don’t have scores of children in costumes running around. It’s … again, it’s not looked upon kindly. It … it means … look, there are connotations, alright?”
“But they were elves,” Aziraphale said mournfully. “Didn’t they see the ears?”
“Yes,” Crowley said, and rubbed his hand over his face. “That’s … well, that’s another thing. People don’t have real pointed ears these days. It - well, it frightens them.”
Aziraphale’s face collapsed and he turned his entire body into Crowley’s, who nearly dropped his whisky in surprise. He rescued the angel’s from his hand and put them both on a nearby coffee table, before he tentatively put an arm around the quivering angel.
“How could I get it so wrong,” Aziraphale sobbed. “I just wanted to make a nice Christmas for people, and … and … they evicted me from their entire county. I don’t understand.”
“There there,” Crowley said. If he was still the praying kind of being, he’d have been pleading for an interruption of some kind. Any kind. Anything to make this moment end sooner. He didn’t know what to do. This was usually Aziraphale’s domain. Miserable people loved Aziraphale. He fussed and beamed and glowed at them, and made them tea and patted their hair and was just so kindly they couldn’t help but feel better. “Do … do you want some tea?” he asked cautiously.
Aziraphale did not answer, just buried his face further into Crowley’s neck. It tickled, but felt kind of nice, too. Past-Crowley felt a horrible squirming in his chest, a hot, dull, heavy feeling he’d never had before. He didn’t know how to help the angel. Present-Crowley felt it too, and scowled.
“Blimey,” he heard from behind him and jumped. Adam had exited the dilapidated gingerbread house while Crowley had been caught up in his self-reflection. “That was awkward.”
Crowley looked away.
“You have no idea.”
Adam looked at him curiously.
“You could have left, though,” he said. “I mean, you’re a demon. You didn’t have to stay with him.”
Crowley glared.
“Do we have somewhere else to be?” he demanded. Adam looked at him, assessing.
“Yep,” and he held out his hand. Crowley took it and they were zipping through the ether again. When they stopped, Crowley recognized where they were immediately.
“Oh bollocks,” he groaned. “Do we have to see this Christmas?”
“Are we in Rome?” Adam asked, looking around.
“Look, I’ve got plenty of others. Really crappy ones,” Crowley continued. “You know, stuck up a mountain, lunch with Hastur, stuck in a drainage pipe. Loads. Take your pick. Really.”
Adam looked interested.
“Sorry, Crowley,” he said regretfully. “This is on my list. It can’t be that bad, surely.”
Crowley said nothing, and then the procession came into view anyway. Crowley could see the pope’s hat bobbing as he made his way through the crowd. He hid his blush as Past-Crowley came into sight, wearing the robes of a novice.
Beside him, he heard Adam stifle a laugh.
“Isn’t there something a bit wrong with this picture?” He asked through his fingers. Crowley glared.
“I was undercover, okay?” he said. “Big operation. Break it down from the inside.”
Adam raised his eyebrows.
“How did that go for you?”
Crowley smirked.
“Haven’t you heard the stories?”
Adam’s eyes widened.
They stood back as the procession passed, and followed Past-Crowley, who looked as uncomfortable in the robes as Present-Crowley remembered. They were heavy and awkward and Crowley spent most of his time trying not to trip over them. The other half he spent trying to keep them clean. Past-Crowley peeled off with the rest of the novices for quiet prayer and reflection, and the ghostly voyeurs followed. Past-Crowley'd had a headache for the past year from all the chanting and the kneeling. He’d give anything for a good, hearty meal, as well.
Past-Crowley was pulling on the collar of his robe, and scratching underneath his cowl when he was suddenly pulled from the line of good little novices. He stumbled and found himself in the vestry. He looked around and blinked. Aziraphale stood there, looking awkward and sheepish in his priest robes.
“Angel!” Crowley exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
Aziraphale looked amused.
“Given where we are, aren't I supposed to say that?”
Crowley blushed.
“Yes, I suppose so. But - this isn’t your usual haunt.”
Aziraphale smiled.
“No, but we priests do visit each other every now and then,” he replied. “But what are you doing here? You can’t tell me you’ve suddenly had a change of heart.”
“Well, no,” he replied awkwardly. “But are you sure you want to know? I mean, you might be obliged to thwart me, and that’d be kind of awkward.”
Aziraphale looked at him sharply.
“It’s not going to bring the church down, is it?” he demanded.
“No, no,” Crowley was quick to reassure him. “It’s more … undermining than … bringing down.”
Aziraphale looked unconvinced.
“I mean,” Crowley added hurriedly. “It’s not like the church really matters, does it? It’s only pomp and circumstance.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “But it holds the people’s faith. I can’t just let that go.”
“You won’t have to,” Crowley assured him.
Aziraphale stared at him with pursed lips.
“All right,” he said eventually. “But I will smite you if the church comes down and I find you lied to me.”
“Promise, angel,” Crowley returned cheerfully. “Now, are you going to hide in the vestry all day or was there something you wanted?”
“Oh,” Aziraphale stumbled. “I … really, I just couldn’t handle another moment of kneeling and scraping and His Holiness.”
“Can I stay?” Crowley asked pathetically. “If you think it’s bad for you - I’m a novice, Aziraphale. Help me.”
Aziraphale surveyed him, a smile playing over his lips.
“Wellll,” he said thoughtfully. “There are some scrolls we need copying …”
Crowley glared. Aziraphale relented.
“All right, you can stay here. But you'll need to do something or it'll look suspicious.”
Crowley grinned and with a small miracle, there were a stack of copied scrolls lying tidily next to the untidy pile on the table. Aziraphale frowned, but his eyes were too bright, and he gave up quickly.
“Oh, come on then,” he said. “Here, have some wine. My parish makes an excellent red.”
Crowley sat down thankfully and took his glass.
An hour passed in this way, but Adam sped it up so they missed out on the boring bits of the conversation. How have you been, who have you smited, oh really, that was you, etc. Suddenly the door swung open and the angel hastily miracle away the excellent wine and tried to look priestly once again. Crowley immediately brought his cowl back up and bent over some scrolls, looking studious.
“Aziraphale,” the newcomer said. “We missed you at devotions.”
“Oh, did you?” Aziraphale replied, flustered. “Oh, I’m sorry, I was so caught up in - in copying the Lord’s work I must have missed it.”
“The bell tolls loudly enough to be heard in here,” the newcomer said. “But who is it you have with you?”
“Oh, Novice … ” Aziraphale looked at Crowley desperately, who stared back helplessly. “The novice was helping me with the scrolls.”
“All novices are supposed to be in vespers,” the newcomer observed disapprovingly. “As are priests. You’re a guest here, Aziraphale. I hope you have not forgotten your faith in the short time away from your parish.”
“No, indeed,” Aziraphale said, fighting for calm. “I will follow shortly, Michael.”
“See that you do,” Michael returned. “You will come with me, Novice.”
Crowley looked at Aziraphale for help.
“The novice will stay with me, Michael,” Aziraphale said firmly. “He is progressing well in his studies, I am told. I feel he would benefit from extended time with the works of Our Lord, contemplating their true meaning.”
Crowley turned a snicker into a cough. Michael surveyed them suspiciously.
“Very well,” he said reluctantly. “Vespers will begin soon. I expect you to be there.”
“Yes, Michael,” Aziraphale replied a little acerbically. “I am aware of my duties.”
“See that you are,” Michael replied and then turned and left as suddenly as he had come.
Aziraphale sighed.
“Well, I suppose that’s that,” he said.
“Don’t go,” Crowley said instantly. “He can’t do anything to you, can he?” He reached across the small table and rested his hand on Aziraphale’s. “Stay.”
The angel stared down at their joined hands.
“I can’t,” he said. He looked up and met Crowley’s eyes. A blush came into his cheeks and he stood up hastily, almost upsetting his chair. “That is, vespers are important. Michael is right. I must attend. You will be able to make use of this room for a while, but don’t stay too long. My protection is not … Good evening, Crowley.”
Crowley stood and stared at him, watching the blush spread across his face.
“Good evening, angel,” he said softly. The angel nodded once, straightened his robes and left the little room. Crowley stayed for another half hour and gave up, the mindlessness of prayers preferable to him than the loneliness of his thoughts once Aziraphale had departed.
Present-Crowley and Adam stared at the spot where Past-Crowley had been.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Adam said in confusion. “Sort of awkward, sure, but nowhere near as bad as I thought.”
“No,” Crowley murmured absently. “I suppose not.”
--
Adam looked around in interest and a healthy dose of fear at their next stop.
“Is this … is this Hell?” he asked quietly. Crowley nodded grimly. “This is my … I belong here?”
Crowley gripped his shoulder.
“Not really, kid,” he said. “Your Dad, he belongs here, but you’re something else entirely.”
Adam appeared unconvinced. He looked around again. They were still in London, at least to outward appearances. Until you realized something was very wrong. There were no people, no trees, no birds, no life. No homeless people, no water trickling, nothing. Everything was perfectly still. Rubbish littered the streets, blowing in a wind that couldn’t be felt. Buildings were grey and abandoned, roof shingles sliding off every so often with a muffled clang.
“Somehow I always imagined this …”
“More pits and hellfire, right?” Crowley responded. “Yeah we have that too but this is the employee level. Where are we supposed to go?”
Adam focused.
“Is there a meeting on?” he asked.
“Oh,” Crowley said gloomily. “Of course there is. This way.”
He took them up into industrial London, inside a shabby warehouse with a sleek, perfect interior. All the other demons were there already, including Crowley, who was by himself in a corner stealing Monte Carlos from a plate nearby.
So far there were no clues about which Christmas this would turn out to be.
An unnatural silence fell over the gathered demon horde, and a shimmery haze and the smell of brimstone heralded the arrival of Hastur, who was this year’s chairman.
“Flash bastard,” Crowley muttered. Both of them.
“Be seated,” Hastur said imperiously. Everyone obeyed. “The first item on the agenda is the Internet. Is it Ours or Theirs?”
There was a chorus of ‘theirs’ and ‘ours’.
“Crawly?” Hastur asked, cutting over the hubbub. Crowley twitched. Both of them.
“It’s neither Ours or Theirs,” he said, and a fresh squabble threatened to bubble over but he held up his hand. “But we control a good portion of the content.”
“Good. Keep on it, Crawly.” Hastur said. “Second, Christmas. Crawly, report.”
“More commercial every year,” he replied promptly.
“Homeless?”
“Up five percent.”
“The angel. Crawly, report.”
“It remains difficult to successfully tempt,” he said instantly. “There is progress, however. This year it forewent its usual Christmas celebrations to seek rare bookshops.”
“We thought you might say that,” Hastur said with a smile that sent chills over Crowley’s body. Both of them. “So we brought It in for you to deal with once and for all. It was quite a bit of work, too. This hasn’t happened in more than a millennia, you know.”
Crowley froze.
Hastur gestured and the space between him hissed and fizzed, and greats gouts of steam came billowing out around a circle so black colour seemed to simply shy away from it. Inside it crouched Aziraphale in his favourite tartan trousers, bound by black shackles on his hands and ankles. He looked around as he realized where he was.
“Oh, hello,” he said, smiling cheerfully. “Staff meeting is it?”
“Be silent!” Hastur roared. Aziraphale frowned.
“Your manners, dear,” he said mildly.
“Crawly,” Hastur fumed. “Finish it.”
Crowley hesitated.
Understanding dawnedon the angel.
“Oh, it’s one of those meetings,” he said. “I must say, I’d expected it to be a bit more formal. Oh well, one must move with the times, I suppose.” He turned his kind eyes on Crowley, who was hovering anxiously near his chair, trying to look decisive. “Go on, my dear.”
Crowley looked at him askance.
“Don’t you know what happens if I do it here?” he hissed, moving closer.
“Of course,” the angel replied. “Not much I can do about it though, is there? I’m quite tightly bound,” he shook his manacles to prove his point.
Crowley shook his head.
“I can’t -“ he began.
“Sorry, I can’t hear you,” Aziraphale said louder. “What was that about making me betray my faith?”
“Angel-”
“No, I won’t,” the angel exclaimed. “Thou art wicked, demon, but my Lord’s will is stronger. Just do it,” he hissed to Crowley. “One of us may as well benefit from this. Go on.”
“Crawly,” Hastur called from behind him. “Why do you linger? The beast must be abolished. Unless you can’t do it.” He mocked. “Too much time Earth-wise turned you soft? Or is it possible you care about It?”
Crowley glanced back at the gathered demons, who were watching him expectantly, wondering why the angel was not a steaming pile of tartan by now. He looked down at Aziraphale’s curly blond hair and kindly eyes. He committed to memory the curve of his shoulder, the pink of his lips, the crinkle under his eyes. And struck.
A great wail went up through the cavernous warehouse, and the figure that was Aziraphale exploded into a million white shiny pieces, which ricocheted off every corner of the warehouse. Every demon in the room ducked, and watched in awe as the pieces reassembled into human form for a moment, before they split again, and formed a tornado of energy, spiraling up towards the ceiling. Crowley’s hands shook and he hid them in his pockets.
There came a tremendous bang and the vortex disappeared with a hiss of steam.
Silence reigned.
Then a rolling, thunderous cacophony began, with all the assembled demons thumping the tables and stamping their feet. It was a cheer.
“Well done,” Hastur said, although it was clear he had been hoping for another outcome. “Regain your seat.”
Crowley did so woodenly, hardly attending to the rest of the meeting continuing on around him. They’d discorporated each other before, of course, but to battle an angel in Hell and win meant the actual, true, end of the angel. There would be no more lunches at the Ritz, no more ducks in St James’s park, and no more late nights with a bottle or two of wine. Crowley clenched his fists under the table and waited for the meeting to be over.
“Wow,” Adam said eventually, after the meeting was dismissed. “That was intense.”
“Yeah,” Crowley said shortly.
“He’s fine, though, obviously,” Adam continued.
“Obviously,” Crowley repeated.
Adam looked at him slyly.
“We’ve got time. I’d like to see how you found out.”
“I’d rather not-“ Crowley began, but it was too late. Adam had grabbed his hand and they were zipping back up to the Earthly plane, until they were outside the little bookshop in Soho. Adam looked around.
“This place never changes, does it?”
Crowley brightened.
“No. Not since the early 70s when he added the green door trim.”
Adam looked at it distastefully.
“You couldn’t talk him out of it?”
“I was out of town,” he returned testily. Actually, they hadn’t been speaking after Crowley told him about the great new festival he’d created in Glastonbury.
Adam’s attention was caught by the arrival of Past-Crowley, who turned up in his usual style. He stood staring at the run-down bookshop for some time. He sighed and gathered up the courage to enter.
He stood staring around the familiar little place, all the dust still in order. He walked around, checking. Everything was still in its place, including the stash of 19th century alcohol under the desk. The place felt empty.
“Oh, angel,” he sighed, collapsing into the angel’s desk chair.
“Yes?”
Crowley leaped out of the chair as though it had burnt him. He spun around searching for the source of the voice. The angel was standing in the doorway, a bag of books in his arms. He looked curiously at Crowley’s stunned look.
“My dear boy,” he said, stepping inside and putting the package down. “What’s wrong?”
Almost without thinking about it, Crowley was around the desk and through the shop and launching himself at the angel, who instinctively brought his arms around the demon.
“Crowley, Crowley, dear, what’s wrong?” the angel fretted, petting his hair, and running a hand down his back.
“Nothing,” Crowley said an instant later, straightening up. He could still feel the angel’s solid form in his arms, and it calmed him. Aziraphale looked disbelievingly at him.
“That wasn’t nothing,” he said. “Tell me what happened.”
“I discorporated you,” Crowley returned, picking up the package by the doorway. “Books, angel?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale said, puzzled. “I told you I was going on a book-finding holiday. Did you forget?”
“No,” Crowley said, and he gave a slightly hysterical laugh. “It’s just, you died this morning.”
“Oh, yes, that,” the angel replied, fussing with his new books. “Well, I had to put on a show or they wouldn't have believed it.”
“I believe it, angel,” Crowley said a little hoarsely and cleared his throat. “I mean, it was a good show.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale said, a little smugly. “I mean, it tingles and you're supposed to just accept it but I told it I'd rather stay.”
“And it ... let you?”
“Yes,” the angel replied. “Well, it took some persuading but it was easy enough in the end. You are awfully pale, my dear.”
“Yes, I was just leaving,” the demon said abruptly. “Tempting, you know. See you again ... later.”
“Wait,” the angel said, standing up with him and blocking his exit. “Crowley-”
“Huh,” Adam said. “Interestin'.”
“Don’t say a word,” Crowley snapped. “Are we done yet?”
Adam looked guilty.
“Yes, actually. I’ve run over time. I’ll have to apologise to the next ghost. Anyway, let’s go.”
He took the demon’s hand and they zipped back through time, and London, and ended up back in Crowley’s flat.
“Well, that’s that,” Adam said, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I suppose I’ll see you in another month. Would you tell Aziraphale to bring a cake next time, please? His cheese scones are awful. Bye!”
And he was gone. Crowley had a moment of awareness to slump back into his chair before he was asleep.
--
Ping!
Crowley’s eyes snapped open. The damn kettle again. He slid blearily out of bed and headed down the hallway. He paused just before he stepped out of the darkness of the corridor. He’d gone to sleep on the couch, hadn’t he? Bugger. He was still wearing his suit, at least. He gathered his wits and stepped into the living room.
The entire place was decked out in pink and doilies. He shuddered.
“Come in, and know me better - oh it’s you,” a voice said. He knew that voice. He turned. Madame Tracy was dressed in all her finery, sitting on his kitchen stool.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said in equal distaste. “You’re also a spirit the bint foretold to me?”
“Yes,” she sighed. “The ghost of Christmas Present. Not that I’m really dead,” she added.
“I figured,” Crowley said. “Shall we get on with it, then?”
“Yes,” Madame Tracy said, and heaved herself up. “Take my hand.”
Crowley did so, and they phased out. When they phased back in, they were in the bookshop again. Madame Tracy brightened as she began to snoop around.
“Is this really Aziraphale’s place?” she asked. “Oh it’s so dusty. It needs a woman’s touch, it does. Wouldn’t take much to make this place nice, you know.”
“Don’t touch anything,” Crowley muttered anxiously. “He knows where every speck of dust is, you know.”
He was distracted a moment later by the entrance of the angel, who was dressed in tartan pants and the green reindeer jumper. His arms were full of hampers and candles. He was headed to the carols. Crowley groaned. He was going to end up at the damn carols in spite of himself. He watched as Aziraphale picked up the phone.
“Oh, hello, Crowley,” he said into it. “No, stop talking. I’m off to the carols, and I just wanted make sure you didn’t want to come.” He paused. “I’d … I’d really like it if you did. Anyway. Merry Christmas.”
He hung up the phone and stared quietly at it for a moment. Then he seemed to gather himself and picked up the candles and hampers once more, and left.
“Come on,” Madame Tracy said. Crowley dutifully followed.
--
The carols were in St James’s park. A giant stage had been erected at the far end, and the atmosphere was controlled chaos. Crowley and Madame Tracy watched as Aziraphale made his way towards the back of the stage, greeting people he met as old friends. Perhaps they were. They followed him up the backstage steps, and into the changing room, where he deposited his candles and hampers in a storage cubby hole with his name on it.
“Hallo, Aziraphale,” a man with short black hair called, catching the angel’s attention. “You’re on after Maddy Prior.”
“Thanks, Adrian,” Aziraphale smiled.
Crowley blinked.
“He sings?”
Madame Tracy shrugged.
“He must do,” she replied. “Don’t you know?”
“I guess not,” he said quietly.
They watched the angel through the evening, as he distributed his candles to kids without them, and hampers to harassed-looking parents. He soothed insect bites, and found lost teddy bears. He located missing kids, found a spare dollar for an ice cream, and comforted chucked girlfriends or boyfriends. He also encouraged adult fun under blankets, sent feedback through the speakers, changed the words in the programs, flickered out candles, and spilled drinks. The two ghostly specters watched it all.
Finally, the angel hurried backstage again, was quickly wired up with a microphone, and headed out on stage.
“Good evening everyone,” he said, smiling his beaming smile out at the masses of gathered people. “I want everyone right now to think about someone they care about. It doesn’t matter who it is. I want you to think of them during this song, and wish them a merry little Christmas.”
He smiled back at the orchestra and they started up.
“Have yourself … a merry little Christmas,” the angel began. Crowley let his voice wash over him as he watched. He could see the angel weaving a miracle over the crowd. It was nothing special, just a feeling of peace. Crowley wished he was there in the flesh to feel it himself. “Faithful friends who are dear to us … gather near to us … once more.”
Madame Tracy was watching him but said nothing. He schooled his face into his usual composure and watched Aziraphale leave the stage at the end of the song.
“Another good year,” Adrian said as he met the angel in the wings, ready to dismantle the battery pack and microphone. “Your friend not here again?”
Aziraphale shook his head.
“No. He’ll come one year, I’m sure of it.”
Adrian looked at him sadly.
“Aziraphale, you know that I-”
Aziraphale patted his shoulder.
“Yes, Adrian. But would you really want it by nothing more than proxy?”
Adrian sighed.
“If anything changes …”
Aziraphale smiled.
“I’d as soon a move a mountain,” he said. Crowley smirked because he knew that particular angel had indeed moved mountains.
“It’s time to go,” Madame Tracy said with a light touch to his hand.
They were back in his living room. Crowley looked up in surprise.
“Don’t you have two more to show me?”
She looked miffed.
“Yes, but the whippersnapper ran over-time,” she said. “Now be a good boy and lie down there and go to sleep, will you? Himself’ll be along soon, don’t you worry.”
And he did.
--
Ping!
He was definitely getting a new kettle.
He rolled over on the couch and smushed his face into the upholstery.
“Who is it?” he demanded, still face down. There was no answer. There was no blinding white light, either, or pink doilies and pout pouri. He cracked open both eyes. The living room was as dark as it should be, the curtains drawn and the lights off. He sat up. There was a strange, pervasive cold beginning to work its way through the flat. That was new.
He peered through the murkiness, mist beginning to encompass the small living room. Through the fog there came a definite shape, tall and wrapped in grey robes.
“Are you the third ghost the bint foretold to me?” he asked it. It did not reply. He crossed his arms and waited. So did the ghost. Crowley grew uncomfortable by degrees.
“Are you the third ghost the bint foretold to me?” he asked again. Again it did not reply but lifted its hand and pointed towards the window. Crowley sighed. “I see. Okay, out the window we go.”
He held out his hand but the ghost did not take it. He glared.
“Look, I can fly but I can’t time travel, so you’d better start showing some initiative here.”
The ghost just pointed. Crowley strode forward and before the ghost could react, he pulled its cowl down and exposed the face beneath.
“… Ebenezer?” Crowley demanded. “What are you doing here? You really are dead.”
Ebenezer sighed irritably and crossed his arms.
“I should have known you’d be a trouble maker. Yes, I’m a ghost. It was part of the deal for the ghosts. They don’t tell you that until later, though.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Crowley replied. “Do we need to get a move on, then?”
“Yes,” Ebenezer replied. “Now take my bloody robes and let’s go.”
“Ohh, your robes,” Crowley mocked. “Of course.” But he took them nonetheless. There was no zipping around this time, no phasing in and out. They just were.
They were at the Carols again. They follow Aziraphale in his green reindeer jumper as he wiled and thwarted and wiled and thwarted until it was time for his performance again. Crowley watched happily as he took his spot on stage once more.
“I’d like everyone to think of someone they love, tonight.” He said. “But also … think of someone you lost. Someone who you wish could be with you tonight. And wish them … a merry little Christmas.”
There was a different note to the song tonight, but Crowley could not figure it out. The miracle that swept over the crowd was almost melancholy, a little lacking in Christmas cheer. The same could be said for the angel. At least, until he came off stage and was met by Adrian, who lingered a little longer in stripping his microphone gear.
“That sounded different tonight,” he commented as he unstrapped the cord from behind Aziraphale's neck. Was he leaning forward just a little bit more?
“Yes,” Aziraphale admitted, tilting his neck to give him more room. “It … was.”
Adrian stilled his movements.
“Did you … has something changed?”
Crowley could hear a note of hope in his voice, and it cooled something inside of him. He clenched his fists.
“Yes,” the angel said softly, and met his eyes. “That was … a goodbye, I suppose.”
Adrian’s hands settled on the angel’s shoulders.
“Does that … ” he swallowed. Aziraphale smiled and took the other man’s hands in his own.
“Would you like to get a hot chocolate tonight?” he asked. “After the show, I mean?”
A smile crept over Adrian’s face.
“Yes,” he said, beaming into Aziraphale’s face. The angel smiled back. “I’d like that a lot.”
Crowley watched the angel squeeze the man’s hands and drop them.
“I have to get back out there,” he said. “The chorus begins soon.”
“Of course,” Adrian said, but it didn’t seem like he was really attending. It seemed like he was glowing.
The cold in Crowley's chest bit painfully into him as he watched. After a moment he felt Ebenezer's cold hand on his shoulder.
“It is time to go,” he said. Crowley just nodded, his eyes on the angel taking his place for the Hallellujah chorus.
--
They were at the Ritz. Crowley was pleased to see himelf in his usual spot across from the angel, and the cold feeling in his chest melted a little bit.
“And then the wife walked in and she was not happy, I am telling you.”
Aziraphale's mouth was pressed together in disapproval but his eyes were dancing.
“Really, my dear,” he said, picking up his wine glass.
“Oh, don't even bother,” Future-Crowley said. “I can see you don't mean it.”
Aziraphale did not reply.
“So I was thinking,” Future-Crowley said, and he seemed unaccountably nervous. “That we could maybe go flying tonight? It's been a while and I thought -”
Aziraphale looked torn.
“I - thank you, my dear, but it is Christmas Eve and Adrian and I are -”
“Oh, Adrian,” Future-Crowley spat out before he could help himself. “That simpering -! He's a mortal, Aziraphale, I don't understand what the allure is.”
“You wouldn't,” Aziraphale returned calmly.
“He'll be gone in another 30 years or so, you know,” Crowley said cruelly. “And you'll still be here. With me.”
“I know,” Aziraphale said, calmly slicing into his meal.
“Then what -”
“I told you you wouldn't understand,” Aziraphale said quietly, unruffled.
Crowley fell silent, watching him eat.
“I'm not even sure why you are so concerned,” Aziraphale said eventually.
“I'm not,” Crowley returned instantly. “It's just that I'm worried about the Arrangement, you know?”
Aziraphale regarded him across the table.
“I thought so,” he said softly, and stood up. “See you in a week, Crowley.”
He left, leaving Future-Crowley alone at the table.
“Bah, humbug,” he said.
-
The light was bright in his eyes when he woke. He rolled over in his bed, wondering why he’d slept in his suit. And then it all came back to him in a rush. He stood up suddenly, bolting down the corridor into the living room. It looked the same. No doilies, no blinding light, no fog. Could he have dreamt it? Demons don’t dream. But the alternative …
He dithered in the living room for a moment, trying to go in three directions at once. He wanted to change his suit, and go to the bookshop, and find and destroy Adrian. He forced himself to slow down. He changed his suit, taking a moment to make sure he was as sleek as possible.
He slid into the Bentley with his usual grace and then sped to the bookshop in Soho.
“Aziraphale!” he demanded when he arrived. “Aziraphale!”
The angel opened the door, completely bemused.
“Crowley?” he asked. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you usually in ---mmph!”
Crowley pushed the angel back inside the shop with a kiss, pressing him against the doorframe.
“Crowley!” The angel exclaimed. “What is it, what's happened?”
Crowley pulled back for a moment.
“There were ghosts,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “And I saw the gingerbread house -”
Aziraphale blushed.
“And the Vatican and the carols-”
“But you don't like ghosts,” Aziraphale said, trying to catch up.
“I didn't like these either,” Crowley said. He tried to kiss the angel again but Aziraphale pushed him back further and put some distance between them.
“What kind of ghosts?”
“Three of them,” Crowley replied, tugging on the hem of the green reindeer jumper. “Adam, Madame Tracy, and Ebenezer Scrooge, you remember him.”
“Yes, indeed. Nasty fellow, rich as sin, threw us out of his shop.”
“Yes, well, he was there, and -”
“How was Adam looking?” Aziraphale fretted. “Maybe I should make some more scones-”
“He said bring cake next time,” Crowley replied, suddenly remembering.
“Cake?” Aziraphale repeated.
“Yes, cake. Look, can we get to the important part?”
“I suppose,” the angel said dubiously.
“I saw Adrian,” Crowley said. Aziraphale frowned.
“Adrian?”
“At the Carols,” he said.
The angel blushed.
“He is a very nice boy-”
“I know that, angel,” Crowley said, beginning to get impatient. “But you choose him over me, in the future, and I can't have that.”
“So ... you're here because I have another friend?”
“It was a hell of a lot more than friendship,” Crowley said bitterly, his eyes narrowing. “And I just won't stand for it.”
He kissed the angel again, pinning his hands to the wall.
“Please don't make me say it,” he whispered hotly, pressing their foreheads together.
There was a tense moment.
“Alright,” Aziraphale said softly and the tense red hotness in the demon's chest eased.
“Good,” he growled and finally pulled the reindeer jumper over the angel's head.
“So ... you were jealous, is that right?” Aziraphale asked.
“Yes, I was jealous,” Crowley hissed. “Can we stop talking now?”
Aziraphale did not reply for some time.
-
A few days later a Christmas card arrived in the mailbox of the bookshop. It was of a little gingerbead house with the words, “Better luck next time!” It was from Adam. Aziraphale did not mention it to Crowley.
A Christmas card was sitting innocently on Crowley's kitchen bench. It was a picture of the Vatican, with the word, “Heh!” It was from Adam. Crowley did not mention it to Aziraphale.
~end
Happy Holidays, rroselavy, from your Secret Writer!
For: rroselavy
From: romanticidiot
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: Like ... PG-13? Maybe?
Summary: What would the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future have to say to Crowley?
Note: I made the decision not to write in Agnes Nutter's dialect because I would rather not mangle it completely. I hope this is still okay. Happy exchange!
--
The angel was playing Christmas carols. Crowley could hear them as he pulled up outside the dingy little Soho bookshop. He tried vainly to hope they were coming from the adult shop next door but ... it was unlikely they'd be singing the Hallellujah chorus at quite such unlikely decibels. Still, it was better than anticipating the alternative, which was Aziraphale decked out in his favourite reindeer jumper that, like the Bentley, had been around since reindeer jumpers were invented.
Crowley'd tried a time or two to unravel it. A badly placed hook here, a splinter on a desk there, but somehow the blasted thing was always alive and well the next year. Crowley wasn't actually really sure Aziraphale had ever noticed. It was more likely he just expected the jumper to be there in the box of decorations every year and there it was. Aziraphale tended to believe that all clothing was built to last, despite Crowley's every effort to the contrary.
He continued to hope the shop next door had had a sudden change of festive heart, right up until he opened the bookshop door and found Aziraphale - yes, as he had suspected - in the green reindeer jumper, standing on a stool in the middle of the bookshelves, stringing tinsel from one corner to the other. He winced. It was every bit as bad as he'd feared. He was singing, too, which wasn't really the worst bit, because well, there'd been a choir at one point, hadn't there? But -
"The Little Drummer Boy? Really, Aziraphale?" he asked, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind him.
"Oh, hello dear," Aziraphale called from around a mouthful of gold ... shimmer. "Well, he was really such a nice boy. What are you doing here? I thought you had a staff meeting?”
"Usually I do," Crowley said with a scowl. "But - it was cancelled this year. Couldn't get the budget or something. Is all this really necessary?" He crushed a glass bauble under foot.
"Yes," Aziraphale said. "I mean, of course not. But it's fun, isn't it? And Jesus was such a sweet child, it's really just like a birthday celebration, don't you think? I wonder what he's doing now. So quiet. Never fussed at all. Do you remember when he lost his rattle?"
"Yes," Crowley said sourly. "Do you know how hard it is to find a child's toy in the clouds? It's ridiculous is what it is, don't try it."
"You do exaggerate," the angel murmured, finally climbing down from his stool and surveying his handiwork. Crowley looked around. Everything looked the same as it had for years. The same nativity scene was in the corner, the same handmade decorations from children, and the same candle with the melted Santa's eye. "So what are you doing here? It's not that I'm not glad to see you, of course, it's just, usually I'm alone around this time."
"Well, like I said the meeting was cancelled," Crowley answered, slouching down into a seat near the dusty old desk. "And I thought, who best to commiserate with?"
"Ah," Aziraphale looked knowing. "It's liquid fortification you're after, is it? Well, you'll have to wait. There's carols in the park tonight and I'm going."
Crowley stared at him.
"Angel, really? Carols in the park?"
Aziraphale bristled.
"This happens to be a very busy time of the year for me," he said stiffly. "There's a lot of good will that brews when people come together. Sometimes they just need a bit of a push to do something with it. And there's lots of people who don't have much to be thankful for, Crowley. Someone's got to keep an eye on them. A few Christmas miracles, you know."
Crowley shook his head.
"Well, if you insist," he replied, and stood up. "I'll see you in a week, when all this madness has passed."
Aziraphale's eyes twinkled.
"'Bah, humbug', Crowley?" he asked. "Why don't you come with me? There're plenty of high tempers at Christmas, and I'm sure you can find some drinks to spill, or sound equipment to break. What about candles? They've all got wax that needs dripping on new cameras."
"I will let you keep Christmas in your own way, angel. Let me keep it in mine." he replied.
"But you don't keep it!" Aziraphale returned.
"Yes," Crowley smiled, his tongue flickering out for a moment. "Isn't it wonderful?" And he slid out of the bookshop neatly, as though he had never even been there.
Aziraphale sagged down into the cushions of his chair and sighed.
---
"Crowley!" The angel exclaimed, losing his balance and tumbling off the step stool he was using to hang decorations. "What are you doing here? This is two years in a row, you know."
"I know," Crowley said sourly. "This year they couldn't get the numbers."
"Oh," the angel said, accepting Crowley's hand in helping him up from the floor. "Well, in that case - do you want to come to the Carols this year?"
The demon made a face of distaste.
"Again, angel?" he asked. "You went last year."
Aziraphale gave him a disapproving look.
"Lost souls don't work on an alternating schedule," he said.
Crowley sighed.
"If that's the way you want to play it." He turned and left the bookshop, and did not return until well into the New Year.
"Bah, humbug," the angel said to the Virgin Mary in his nativity scene. Her painted face stared compassionately back at him. "Bah, a humbug," he said and turned her face away.
Though she was righted again later. She really had been a very sweet girl.
---
"Cancelled again, Crowley?" the angel asked as the demon caught up to him outside Harrods. Aziraphale’s arms were full of presents and wholesome food, and candles.
“Yeah, couldn’t get -- biscuits or something, I don’t know. What’s with all the shopping?”
Aziraphale looked down sheepishly.
“Oh, I suppose I went a bit overboard this year, didn’t I? It’s for the shelter down the other end of the street from the bookshop.”
“And?” Crowley prompted.
Aziraphale blushed.
“Well, there’s the Carols, of course. One must always have spare candles, you know. And there are hampers for most festive outfit, and lucky dips for the children, and -”
“Stop, stop, stop,” Crowley begged. “You’re too good, angel.”
Aziraphale looked at him strangely.
“Yes?” he said, puzzled. “That’s kind of the ... You should come.”
“To the Carols?” Crowley scoffed. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, why not?” Aziraphale demanded. “There’s evil to do at Christmas the same as there is good, you know.”
“Of course,” Crowley replied. “But I don’t have to be in the midst of it. You hold down my end of the fort, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale admitted, colour rising in his cheeks again. “But it’s not the same as being there yourself. You’re so clever at finding ways to corrupt people,” he added admiringly. “I never can. I just tell them to drop their ice cream and get lost coming back from the loo.”
Crowley ignored this.
“Well, you can still come over for Christmas dinner, right? I’ll do the shop up all nice and warm the way I know you like it, and we can -”
“If you say sing carols, I swear I will throw you in front of a car, angel.”
“-drink eggnog.” Aziraphale continued, uninterrupted. The angel’s cheeks were flushed, his hair in disarray, creeping out from underneath a beanie with a pom pom, and his eyes were gleaming like the Bentley’s headlights in the dark. He was looking around him at the over-the-top decorations, and the harried shoppers, with a distinct aura of contentment. He looked ... he looked joyous.
"You really enjoy all this stuff, don't you?" he asked incredulously. Aziraphale nodded happily. "But ... it's so fake."
"Of course it is," Aziraphale returned. "But ... they want to mean it, Crowley. They are still trying to feel and say all the right things. Even though Santa no longer comes down the chimney for them, they're still always searching for the same feeling. They are passing on those memories to their children, and their children to their children. This feeling, this ... need to belong to someone ... it isn't dying, Crowley. Despite everything. Despite us, despite the Apo -- everything. Don't you think that's worth something?"
"No," Crowley said shortly, and shoved the package he was holding back on top of the angel’s pile. “I’ll see you in a week.”
The Bentley rolled up beside them, and the demon slid in without a backward glance.
Aziraphale just sighed.
--
The thing was, Crowley didn’t even have a doornail. He had a sleek, silver, swipe-card entry monolith, and it did not have a middle-aged woman with a glare slap bang in the middle of it. He stared at it for a moment, blinked, and when he opened his eyes, it was gone. He continued on.
“Didn’t you like the doornail?”
The words seemed to come from thin air, until Crowley looked at his microwave. In it was the face from the door, backlit by the little light inside that had never had a chance to shine before.
“Not particularly,” Crowley answered, hanging up his coat. “Should I have? Was it intended to please me?”
“Not particularly,” the face answered. “Anyway, I’ve got a message for you.”
“Oh, yes?” Crowley answered patiently. “Did you want a coffee?”
“No,” the microwave answered. “Bit difficult in my state, anyway. Do you want to hear the message or not?”
“Sure,” Crowley agreed, miracling up a scotch and leaning his hip against the kitchen bench.
At once, the face drew itself up imperiously, and it seemed to draw storm clouds about itself, darkening the kitchen and dulling all the gleaming surfaces.
“You can do without the theatrics,” Crowley said, unimpressed. The face dimmed.
“Oh, please,” it said. “I never get to do this anymore. I’ve been dead a very long time, you know. Oh what fun I used to have as a girl, turning people into newts and things. They all got better, of course, but -”
“Oh, go on, then,” Crowley said wearily, cutting it off. The little globe behind it lit up again and the appliances all shook with thunder.
“Crowley,” the face began, its tones deep and imperious. “You will be visited by three spirits.”
Crowley made a face.
“Really?” He wasn’t a big fan of ghosts. Usually they were either terribly depressed or intent on revenge, and not very much use for anything.
“Crowley,” the microwave continued. “You will be visited by three spirits-”
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. The microwave glared.
“You will be visited by three spirits,” it repeated pointedly. Crowley held his tongue this time. “When the bell tolls one.”
“Seriously?” he asked, sighing. He’d been hoping to get in a good week of sleep over Christmas, but if he was up seeing to ghosts, he’d never fit it in.
“When the bell tolls one,” the microwave said again. “When the bell tolls one.”
Crowley rolled his eyes.
“When the bell tolls one.” It said one more time, before the little light gave its final bow and dimmed out.
“Bah, a humbug,” Crowley said for good measure and finished off his scotch in a gulp. Well, if he was going to be playing nursemaid for the evening, he’d better get in as much rest as possible. He sighed and turned towards the bedroom. He made sure to sleep in his suit and glasses.
--
He was quite suddenly aware that he was awake, and he was not entirely sure why. He lay on his bed feeling his way carefully through the ether but there was nothing. His flat was silent. Not a creature was stirring, not even a - wait. There was actually a small noise, coming from the kitchen, a small ‘ping’ every second. He counted, three, four, five. He crawled from the bed and came into the kitchen to find the kettle glowing unearthly red and pinging desperately.
Eight, nine, ten, he counted, watching it. He swept it off the table and it smashed satisfyingly to the ground. It paused for a moment as if to catch its breath and then valiantly pinged two more times before it quivered and lay silent. He stared at it. Its broken remains glared defiantly back at him. He sneered at it and went to sit in the lounge room. It was never good to surprise a ghost, but he was damned if he was going to wait where he was told. He sat upright on his most uncomfortable chair, waiting. Demons can be very patient when they choose to be, and Crowley was so patient and concentrated so hard that nearly all of an hour had passed before his next blink.
It was only one minute to. He waited.
At exactly one second until one, he stood. Nothing happened. He blinked.
Ping!
The room was instantly full of a white light. Crowley had to shield his eyes. The light brought with it the smell of open skies, freshly mown grass, and rain. It reminded him of long afternoons eating popsicles and being home late but it not really mattering, and lying on top of his bedclothes because it was too hot underneath even a sheet. None of which he’d ever experienced, of course.
The light dimmed a little after a minute, and he was able to pry his eyes open. Then he sighed. Adam Young stood in the middle of his living room grinning at him with two missing teeth.
“Crowley!” he exclaimed. Crowley groaned.
“Are you the spirit the bint foretold to me?” he demanded. Adam nodded happily.
“Yup! Agnes Nutter! She’s like my … ” his face screwed up as he thought. “Great great great … a lot of greats, anyway, Godmother.” He said. “Come on, I’ve got loads to show you. You won’t believe it.”
“Wait, wait,” Crowley said, scrambling to catch up. “What are you showing me? I just thought I had to look after you or something. Usually with spirits you help them get revenge or realize they’re actually dead or whatever. They never show you things.”
“Well, I’m not dead, am I? You only saw me last week.” Adam said practically. “Look, I’ve got to show you - I’m the ghost of Christmas Past!” He said this last part proudly, as though he’d landed the role of Robin Hood in the school musical.
Adam grabbed Crowley's hand before the demon could even mutter under his breath about how once a month was enough, thank you Aziraphale, who insisted on bringing cheese scones to Tadfield regularly, having taken the godfathers thing a bit too literally. They were quite suddenly zipping along the streets of London and Crowley was very glad indeed that he’d decided to wear his suit to bed.
Zip! And they were in Kings Cross.
Zip! And they were passing the Thames.
“Where are we going?” he asked Adam. “And do your parents know you’re out?”
“Course,” Adam said scornfully. “It was them who said I should help out a bit with my powers, you know. Lend a hand here and there.”
“And that’s not meddling?” Crowley demanded, still smarting a little over that comment.
“Nope,” Adam returned. “It’s only small stuff. Keeping the weather nice, and the occasional visitation like this one, that’s all. They’re fun, really.”
“Fun,” Crowley muttered but then they were wherever they were going, and they weren’t zipping anymore but sort of coasting along. Things slowed down enough for him to begin to recognize things. “Oh, I know where we are,” he said suddenly.
“Oh really?” Adam asked, looking around him. “Where is it then? It looks a bit naff, you know.”
Crowley swallowed a laugh.
“Well, you tell that to Aziraphale next time you see him,” he told the boy. Adam looked up in horror.
“Aziraphale lived here?”
“Oh, yes,” Crowley replied grimly. “Look.”
And sure enough, the door of the little shelter opened and the angel came out, watering can in hand, and began to talk to the planter box plants as he drowned them in water.
“What is he wearing?” Adam hissed. Crowley winced.
“The green reindeer jumper. He still has it.”
Adam looked ill.
“There you go, my friends,” Aziraphale said kindly to the plants. “You’ll be grateful for this, won’t you? You’re all looking a bit brown. I’m not sure why,” he added doubtfully. “I did everything the book said.”
“He's never been able to keep a plant alive,” Crowley confided to Adam in a whisper. “He doesn’t know how to talk to them. He thinks you coach them to stay alive, fool.”
“Look!” Adam exclaimed. “It’s you!”
It was.
Crowley watched himself emerge from the little structure, and the look of distaste on his face was probably the twin to the one on his face right now.
“Angel, I must ask you to reconsider,” he said. “This is … Aziraphale, I have no words for what this is.”
Aziraphale looked around himself happily.
“Isn’t it wonderful? I’ve got everything the stories say people want at Christmas. I have a gingerbread house, and happy plants, and plastic Santa decorations and fake snow. The reindeer aren’t here yet, of course, but they’re due at lunch time.”
“Yes,” Crowley interrupted. “But an actual gingerbread house is … well, it’s kind of off-putting.”
In fact, there had been a lot of snow the night before and the gingerbread house was listing heavily to one side. The roof was burnt. The sweets on the side were slowly sliding down as if they were trying to get away, and the marzipan door was mostly collapsed. The small shroud of trees and plants Aziraphale had somehow coaxed to grow outside his door were sickly and off-colour, and the chocolate pebble driveway was squashed and blackened from people walking past it very quickly after a glimpse of the house.
Crowley suddenly remembered with horrible accuracy where this particular Christmas memory was headed.
“Adam,” he said urgently. “We need to leave. I-I’ve seen enough of this one.”
“Why?” Adam asked curiously, and pushed his way through the door, where the past-Aziraphale and past-Crowley had just disappeared. “You’re just talking.” He said in confusion.
Crowley sighed.
“We are now,” he said. “Fast forward to later, if you’re not going to leave. But I’m going to wait outside.”
He turned on his heel and went back outside, leaving Adam alone to speed up time to the moment things obviously started to go pear-shaped.
He couldn’t resist watching from outside, though, peering through one of the little Christmas cracker windows, which fell apart as he neared. He watched the people come and go, just as he remembered, only in double time, until Adam had seen enough and slowed it down to catch the last few moments. They were sitting on the couch again.
“But why didn’t they come?” The angel asked, distraught. He was a number of cups deep into Christmas cheer at this point. He’d switched from eggnog early on, and was now nursing a tumbler of whisky.
“It’s … look, it’s a nice idea,” past-Crowley said, petting the angel’s hand awkwardly. “It’s just … maybe people aren’t ready for real elves just yet. And a real gingerbread house is just … didn’t you hear the Hansel and Gretel story?”
Aziraphale just stared at him unhappily. Past-Crowley sighed. So did Present-Crowley.
“They didn’t have to throw things,” the angel said gloomily. “And I don’t know why they had to call the police. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Was I?”
“No, no,” Crowley hastily assured him, taking another sip of his own whisky. “It’s maybe just … well, most reindeer don’t have actual glowing red noses, so when Rudolph turned up, it seemed to them like you had … altered … him in some way. And that’s … uh frowned upon.”
Aziraphale just looked at him. His chin wobbled.
“And the … and the elves … look, angel. Most men don’t have scores of children in costumes running around. It’s … again, it’s not looked upon kindly. It … it means … look, there are connotations, alright?”
“But they were elves,” Aziraphale said mournfully. “Didn’t they see the ears?”
“Yes,” Crowley said, and rubbed his hand over his face. “That’s … well, that’s another thing. People don’t have real pointed ears these days. It - well, it frightens them.”
Aziraphale’s face collapsed and he turned his entire body into Crowley’s, who nearly dropped his whisky in surprise. He rescued the angel’s from his hand and put them both on a nearby coffee table, before he tentatively put an arm around the quivering angel.
“How could I get it so wrong,” Aziraphale sobbed. “I just wanted to make a nice Christmas for people, and … and … they evicted me from their entire county. I don’t understand.”
“There there,” Crowley said. If he was still the praying kind of being, he’d have been pleading for an interruption of some kind. Any kind. Anything to make this moment end sooner. He didn’t know what to do. This was usually Aziraphale’s domain. Miserable people loved Aziraphale. He fussed and beamed and glowed at them, and made them tea and patted their hair and was just so kindly they couldn’t help but feel better. “Do … do you want some tea?” he asked cautiously.
Aziraphale did not answer, just buried his face further into Crowley’s neck. It tickled, but felt kind of nice, too. Past-Crowley felt a horrible squirming in his chest, a hot, dull, heavy feeling he’d never had before. He didn’t know how to help the angel. Present-Crowley felt it too, and scowled.
“Blimey,” he heard from behind him and jumped. Adam had exited the dilapidated gingerbread house while Crowley had been caught up in his self-reflection. “That was awkward.”
Crowley looked away.
“You have no idea.”
Adam looked at him curiously.
“You could have left, though,” he said. “I mean, you’re a demon. You didn’t have to stay with him.”
Crowley glared.
“Do we have somewhere else to be?” he demanded. Adam looked at him, assessing.
“Yep,” and he held out his hand. Crowley took it and they were zipping through the ether again. When they stopped, Crowley recognized where they were immediately.
“Oh bollocks,” he groaned. “Do we have to see this Christmas?”
“Are we in Rome?” Adam asked, looking around.
“Look, I’ve got plenty of others. Really crappy ones,” Crowley continued. “You know, stuck up a mountain, lunch with Hastur, stuck in a drainage pipe. Loads. Take your pick. Really.”
Adam looked interested.
“Sorry, Crowley,” he said regretfully. “This is on my list. It can’t be that bad, surely.”
Crowley said nothing, and then the procession came into view anyway. Crowley could see the pope’s hat bobbing as he made his way through the crowd. He hid his blush as Past-Crowley came into sight, wearing the robes of a novice.
Beside him, he heard Adam stifle a laugh.
“Isn’t there something a bit wrong with this picture?” He asked through his fingers. Crowley glared.
“I was undercover, okay?” he said. “Big operation. Break it down from the inside.”
Adam raised his eyebrows.
“How did that go for you?”
Crowley smirked.
“Haven’t you heard the stories?”
Adam’s eyes widened.
They stood back as the procession passed, and followed Past-Crowley, who looked as uncomfortable in the robes as Present-Crowley remembered. They were heavy and awkward and Crowley spent most of his time trying not to trip over them. The other half he spent trying to keep them clean. Past-Crowley peeled off with the rest of the novices for quiet prayer and reflection, and the ghostly voyeurs followed. Past-Crowley'd had a headache for the past year from all the chanting and the kneeling. He’d give anything for a good, hearty meal, as well.
Past-Crowley was pulling on the collar of his robe, and scratching underneath his cowl when he was suddenly pulled from the line of good little novices. He stumbled and found himself in the vestry. He looked around and blinked. Aziraphale stood there, looking awkward and sheepish in his priest robes.
“Angel!” Crowley exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
Aziraphale looked amused.
“Given where we are, aren't I supposed to say that?”
Crowley blushed.
“Yes, I suppose so. But - this isn’t your usual haunt.”
Aziraphale smiled.
“No, but we priests do visit each other every now and then,” he replied. “But what are you doing here? You can’t tell me you’ve suddenly had a change of heart.”
“Well, no,” he replied awkwardly. “But are you sure you want to know? I mean, you might be obliged to thwart me, and that’d be kind of awkward.”
Aziraphale looked at him sharply.
“It’s not going to bring the church down, is it?” he demanded.
“No, no,” Crowley was quick to reassure him. “It’s more … undermining than … bringing down.”
Aziraphale looked unconvinced.
“I mean,” Crowley added hurriedly. “It’s not like the church really matters, does it? It’s only pomp and circumstance.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “But it holds the people’s faith. I can’t just let that go.”
“You won’t have to,” Crowley assured him.
Aziraphale stared at him with pursed lips.
“All right,” he said eventually. “But I will smite you if the church comes down and I find you lied to me.”
“Promise, angel,” Crowley returned cheerfully. “Now, are you going to hide in the vestry all day or was there something you wanted?”
“Oh,” Aziraphale stumbled. “I … really, I just couldn’t handle another moment of kneeling and scraping and His Holiness.”
“Can I stay?” Crowley asked pathetically. “If you think it’s bad for you - I’m a novice, Aziraphale. Help me.”
Aziraphale surveyed him, a smile playing over his lips.
“Wellll,” he said thoughtfully. “There are some scrolls we need copying …”
Crowley glared. Aziraphale relented.
“All right, you can stay here. But you'll need to do something or it'll look suspicious.”
Crowley grinned and with a small miracle, there were a stack of copied scrolls lying tidily next to the untidy pile on the table. Aziraphale frowned, but his eyes were too bright, and he gave up quickly.
“Oh, come on then,” he said. “Here, have some wine. My parish makes an excellent red.”
Crowley sat down thankfully and took his glass.
An hour passed in this way, but Adam sped it up so they missed out on the boring bits of the conversation. How have you been, who have you smited, oh really, that was you, etc. Suddenly the door swung open and the angel hastily miracle away the excellent wine and tried to look priestly once again. Crowley immediately brought his cowl back up and bent over some scrolls, looking studious.
“Aziraphale,” the newcomer said. “We missed you at devotions.”
“Oh, did you?” Aziraphale replied, flustered. “Oh, I’m sorry, I was so caught up in - in copying the Lord’s work I must have missed it.”
“The bell tolls loudly enough to be heard in here,” the newcomer said. “But who is it you have with you?”
“Oh, Novice … ” Aziraphale looked at Crowley desperately, who stared back helplessly. “The novice was helping me with the scrolls.”
“All novices are supposed to be in vespers,” the newcomer observed disapprovingly. “As are priests. You’re a guest here, Aziraphale. I hope you have not forgotten your faith in the short time away from your parish.”
“No, indeed,” Aziraphale said, fighting for calm. “I will follow shortly, Michael.”
“See that you do,” Michael returned. “You will come with me, Novice.”
Crowley looked at Aziraphale for help.
“The novice will stay with me, Michael,” Aziraphale said firmly. “He is progressing well in his studies, I am told. I feel he would benefit from extended time with the works of Our Lord, contemplating their true meaning.”
Crowley turned a snicker into a cough. Michael surveyed them suspiciously.
“Very well,” he said reluctantly. “Vespers will begin soon. I expect you to be there.”
“Yes, Michael,” Aziraphale replied a little acerbically. “I am aware of my duties.”
“See that you are,” Michael replied and then turned and left as suddenly as he had come.
Aziraphale sighed.
“Well, I suppose that’s that,” he said.
“Don’t go,” Crowley said instantly. “He can’t do anything to you, can he?” He reached across the small table and rested his hand on Aziraphale’s. “Stay.”
The angel stared down at their joined hands.
“I can’t,” he said. He looked up and met Crowley’s eyes. A blush came into his cheeks and he stood up hastily, almost upsetting his chair. “That is, vespers are important. Michael is right. I must attend. You will be able to make use of this room for a while, but don’t stay too long. My protection is not … Good evening, Crowley.”
Crowley stood and stared at him, watching the blush spread across his face.
“Good evening, angel,” he said softly. The angel nodded once, straightened his robes and left the little room. Crowley stayed for another half hour and gave up, the mindlessness of prayers preferable to him than the loneliness of his thoughts once Aziraphale had departed.
Present-Crowley and Adam stared at the spot where Past-Crowley had been.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Adam said in confusion. “Sort of awkward, sure, but nowhere near as bad as I thought.”
“No,” Crowley murmured absently. “I suppose not.”
--
Adam looked around in interest and a healthy dose of fear at their next stop.
“Is this … is this Hell?” he asked quietly. Crowley nodded grimly. “This is my … I belong here?”
Crowley gripped his shoulder.
“Not really, kid,” he said. “Your Dad, he belongs here, but you’re something else entirely.”
Adam appeared unconvinced. He looked around again. They were still in London, at least to outward appearances. Until you realized something was very wrong. There were no people, no trees, no birds, no life. No homeless people, no water trickling, nothing. Everything was perfectly still. Rubbish littered the streets, blowing in a wind that couldn’t be felt. Buildings were grey and abandoned, roof shingles sliding off every so often with a muffled clang.
“Somehow I always imagined this …”
“More pits and hellfire, right?” Crowley responded. “Yeah we have that too but this is the employee level. Where are we supposed to go?”
Adam focused.
“Is there a meeting on?” he asked.
“Oh,” Crowley said gloomily. “Of course there is. This way.”
He took them up into industrial London, inside a shabby warehouse with a sleek, perfect interior. All the other demons were there already, including Crowley, who was by himself in a corner stealing Monte Carlos from a plate nearby.
So far there were no clues about which Christmas this would turn out to be.
An unnatural silence fell over the gathered demon horde, and a shimmery haze and the smell of brimstone heralded the arrival of Hastur, who was this year’s chairman.
“Flash bastard,” Crowley muttered. Both of them.
“Be seated,” Hastur said imperiously. Everyone obeyed. “The first item on the agenda is the Internet. Is it Ours or Theirs?”
There was a chorus of ‘theirs’ and ‘ours’.
“Crawly?” Hastur asked, cutting over the hubbub. Crowley twitched. Both of them.
“It’s neither Ours or Theirs,” he said, and a fresh squabble threatened to bubble over but he held up his hand. “But we control a good portion of the content.”
“Good. Keep on it, Crawly.” Hastur said. “Second, Christmas. Crawly, report.”
“More commercial every year,” he replied promptly.
“Homeless?”
“Up five percent.”
“The angel. Crawly, report.”
“It remains difficult to successfully tempt,” he said instantly. “There is progress, however. This year it forewent its usual Christmas celebrations to seek rare bookshops.”
“We thought you might say that,” Hastur said with a smile that sent chills over Crowley’s body. Both of them. “So we brought It in for you to deal with once and for all. It was quite a bit of work, too. This hasn’t happened in more than a millennia, you know.”
Crowley froze.
Hastur gestured and the space between him hissed and fizzed, and greats gouts of steam came billowing out around a circle so black colour seemed to simply shy away from it. Inside it crouched Aziraphale in his favourite tartan trousers, bound by black shackles on his hands and ankles. He looked around as he realized where he was.
“Oh, hello,” he said, smiling cheerfully. “Staff meeting is it?”
“Be silent!” Hastur roared. Aziraphale frowned.
“Your manners, dear,” he said mildly.
“Crawly,” Hastur fumed. “Finish it.”
Crowley hesitated.
Understanding dawnedon the angel.
“Oh, it’s one of those meetings,” he said. “I must say, I’d expected it to be a bit more formal. Oh well, one must move with the times, I suppose.” He turned his kind eyes on Crowley, who was hovering anxiously near his chair, trying to look decisive. “Go on, my dear.”
Crowley looked at him askance.
“Don’t you know what happens if I do it here?” he hissed, moving closer.
“Of course,” the angel replied. “Not much I can do about it though, is there? I’m quite tightly bound,” he shook his manacles to prove his point.
Crowley shook his head.
“I can’t -“ he began.
“Sorry, I can’t hear you,” Aziraphale said louder. “What was that about making me betray my faith?”
“Angel-”
“No, I won’t,” the angel exclaimed. “Thou art wicked, demon, but my Lord’s will is stronger. Just do it,” he hissed to Crowley. “One of us may as well benefit from this. Go on.”
“Crawly,” Hastur called from behind him. “Why do you linger? The beast must be abolished. Unless you can’t do it.” He mocked. “Too much time Earth-wise turned you soft? Or is it possible you care about It?”
Crowley glanced back at the gathered demons, who were watching him expectantly, wondering why the angel was not a steaming pile of tartan by now. He looked down at Aziraphale’s curly blond hair and kindly eyes. He committed to memory the curve of his shoulder, the pink of his lips, the crinkle under his eyes. And struck.
A great wail went up through the cavernous warehouse, and the figure that was Aziraphale exploded into a million white shiny pieces, which ricocheted off every corner of the warehouse. Every demon in the room ducked, and watched in awe as the pieces reassembled into human form for a moment, before they split again, and formed a tornado of energy, spiraling up towards the ceiling. Crowley’s hands shook and he hid them in his pockets.
There came a tremendous bang and the vortex disappeared with a hiss of steam.
Silence reigned.
Then a rolling, thunderous cacophony began, with all the assembled demons thumping the tables and stamping their feet. It was a cheer.
“Well done,” Hastur said, although it was clear he had been hoping for another outcome. “Regain your seat.”
Crowley did so woodenly, hardly attending to the rest of the meeting continuing on around him. They’d discorporated each other before, of course, but to battle an angel in Hell and win meant the actual, true, end of the angel. There would be no more lunches at the Ritz, no more ducks in St James’s park, and no more late nights with a bottle or two of wine. Crowley clenched his fists under the table and waited for the meeting to be over.
“Wow,” Adam said eventually, after the meeting was dismissed. “That was intense.”
“Yeah,” Crowley said shortly.
“He’s fine, though, obviously,” Adam continued.
“Obviously,” Crowley repeated.
Adam looked at him slyly.
“We’ve got time. I’d like to see how you found out.”
“I’d rather not-“ Crowley began, but it was too late. Adam had grabbed his hand and they were zipping back up to the Earthly plane, until they were outside the little bookshop in Soho. Adam looked around.
“This place never changes, does it?”
Crowley brightened.
“No. Not since the early 70s when he added the green door trim.”
Adam looked at it distastefully.
“You couldn’t talk him out of it?”
“I was out of town,” he returned testily. Actually, they hadn’t been speaking after Crowley told him about the great new festival he’d created in Glastonbury.
Adam’s attention was caught by the arrival of Past-Crowley, who turned up in his usual style. He stood staring at the run-down bookshop for some time. He sighed and gathered up the courage to enter.
He stood staring around the familiar little place, all the dust still in order. He walked around, checking. Everything was still in its place, including the stash of 19th century alcohol under the desk. The place felt empty.
“Oh, angel,” he sighed, collapsing into the angel’s desk chair.
“Yes?”
Crowley leaped out of the chair as though it had burnt him. He spun around searching for the source of the voice. The angel was standing in the doorway, a bag of books in his arms. He looked curiously at Crowley’s stunned look.
“My dear boy,” he said, stepping inside and putting the package down. “What’s wrong?”
Almost without thinking about it, Crowley was around the desk and through the shop and launching himself at the angel, who instinctively brought his arms around the demon.
“Crowley, Crowley, dear, what’s wrong?” the angel fretted, petting his hair, and running a hand down his back.
“Nothing,” Crowley said an instant later, straightening up. He could still feel the angel’s solid form in his arms, and it calmed him. Aziraphale looked disbelievingly at him.
“That wasn’t nothing,” he said. “Tell me what happened.”
“I discorporated you,” Crowley returned, picking up the package by the doorway. “Books, angel?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale said, puzzled. “I told you I was going on a book-finding holiday. Did you forget?”
“No,” Crowley said, and he gave a slightly hysterical laugh. “It’s just, you died this morning.”
“Oh, yes, that,” the angel replied, fussing with his new books. “Well, I had to put on a show or they wouldn't have believed it.”
“I believe it, angel,” Crowley said a little hoarsely and cleared his throat. “I mean, it was a good show.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale said, a little smugly. “I mean, it tingles and you're supposed to just accept it but I told it I'd rather stay.”
“And it ... let you?”
“Yes,” the angel replied. “Well, it took some persuading but it was easy enough in the end. You are awfully pale, my dear.”
“Yes, I was just leaving,” the demon said abruptly. “Tempting, you know. See you again ... later.”
“Wait,” the angel said, standing up with him and blocking his exit. “Crowley-”
“Huh,” Adam said. “Interestin'.”
“Don’t say a word,” Crowley snapped. “Are we done yet?”
Adam looked guilty.
“Yes, actually. I’ve run over time. I’ll have to apologise to the next ghost. Anyway, let’s go.”
He took the demon’s hand and they zipped back through time, and London, and ended up back in Crowley’s flat.
“Well, that’s that,” Adam said, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I suppose I’ll see you in another month. Would you tell Aziraphale to bring a cake next time, please? His cheese scones are awful. Bye!”
And he was gone. Crowley had a moment of awareness to slump back into his chair before he was asleep.
--
Ping!
Crowley’s eyes snapped open. The damn kettle again. He slid blearily out of bed and headed down the hallway. He paused just before he stepped out of the darkness of the corridor. He’d gone to sleep on the couch, hadn’t he? Bugger. He was still wearing his suit, at least. He gathered his wits and stepped into the living room.
The entire place was decked out in pink and doilies. He shuddered.
“Come in, and know me better - oh it’s you,” a voice said. He knew that voice. He turned. Madame Tracy was dressed in all her finery, sitting on his kitchen stool.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said in equal distaste. “You’re also a spirit the bint foretold to me?”
“Yes,” she sighed. “The ghost of Christmas Present. Not that I’m really dead,” she added.
“I figured,” Crowley said. “Shall we get on with it, then?”
“Yes,” Madame Tracy said, and heaved herself up. “Take my hand.”
Crowley did so, and they phased out. When they phased back in, they were in the bookshop again. Madame Tracy brightened as she began to snoop around.
“Is this really Aziraphale’s place?” she asked. “Oh it’s so dusty. It needs a woman’s touch, it does. Wouldn’t take much to make this place nice, you know.”
“Don’t touch anything,” Crowley muttered anxiously. “He knows where every speck of dust is, you know.”
He was distracted a moment later by the entrance of the angel, who was dressed in tartan pants and the green reindeer jumper. His arms were full of hampers and candles. He was headed to the carols. Crowley groaned. He was going to end up at the damn carols in spite of himself. He watched as Aziraphale picked up the phone.
“Oh, hello, Crowley,” he said into it. “No, stop talking. I’m off to the carols, and I just wanted make sure you didn’t want to come.” He paused. “I’d … I’d really like it if you did. Anyway. Merry Christmas.”
He hung up the phone and stared quietly at it for a moment. Then he seemed to gather himself and picked up the candles and hampers once more, and left.
“Come on,” Madame Tracy said. Crowley dutifully followed.
--
The carols were in St James’s park. A giant stage had been erected at the far end, and the atmosphere was controlled chaos. Crowley and Madame Tracy watched as Aziraphale made his way towards the back of the stage, greeting people he met as old friends. Perhaps they were. They followed him up the backstage steps, and into the changing room, where he deposited his candles and hampers in a storage cubby hole with his name on it.
“Hallo, Aziraphale,” a man with short black hair called, catching the angel’s attention. “You’re on after Maddy Prior.”
“Thanks, Adrian,” Aziraphale smiled.
Crowley blinked.
“He sings?”
Madame Tracy shrugged.
“He must do,” she replied. “Don’t you know?”
“I guess not,” he said quietly.
They watched the angel through the evening, as he distributed his candles to kids without them, and hampers to harassed-looking parents. He soothed insect bites, and found lost teddy bears. He located missing kids, found a spare dollar for an ice cream, and comforted chucked girlfriends or boyfriends. He also encouraged adult fun under blankets, sent feedback through the speakers, changed the words in the programs, flickered out candles, and spilled drinks. The two ghostly specters watched it all.
Finally, the angel hurried backstage again, was quickly wired up with a microphone, and headed out on stage.
“Good evening everyone,” he said, smiling his beaming smile out at the masses of gathered people. “I want everyone right now to think about someone they care about. It doesn’t matter who it is. I want you to think of them during this song, and wish them a merry little Christmas.”
He smiled back at the orchestra and they started up.
“Have yourself … a merry little Christmas,” the angel began. Crowley let his voice wash over him as he watched. He could see the angel weaving a miracle over the crowd. It was nothing special, just a feeling of peace. Crowley wished he was there in the flesh to feel it himself. “Faithful friends who are dear to us … gather near to us … once more.”
Madame Tracy was watching him but said nothing. He schooled his face into his usual composure and watched Aziraphale leave the stage at the end of the song.
“Another good year,” Adrian said as he met the angel in the wings, ready to dismantle the battery pack and microphone. “Your friend not here again?”
Aziraphale shook his head.
“No. He’ll come one year, I’m sure of it.”
Adrian looked at him sadly.
“Aziraphale, you know that I-”
Aziraphale patted his shoulder.
“Yes, Adrian. But would you really want it by nothing more than proxy?”
Adrian sighed.
“If anything changes …”
Aziraphale smiled.
“I’d as soon a move a mountain,” he said. Crowley smirked because he knew that particular angel had indeed moved mountains.
“It’s time to go,” Madame Tracy said with a light touch to his hand.
They were back in his living room. Crowley looked up in surprise.
“Don’t you have two more to show me?”
She looked miffed.
“Yes, but the whippersnapper ran over-time,” she said. “Now be a good boy and lie down there and go to sleep, will you? Himself’ll be along soon, don’t you worry.”
And he did.
--
Ping!
He was definitely getting a new kettle.
He rolled over on the couch and smushed his face into the upholstery.
“Who is it?” he demanded, still face down. There was no answer. There was no blinding white light, either, or pink doilies and pout pouri. He cracked open both eyes. The living room was as dark as it should be, the curtains drawn and the lights off. He sat up. There was a strange, pervasive cold beginning to work its way through the flat. That was new.
He peered through the murkiness, mist beginning to encompass the small living room. Through the fog there came a definite shape, tall and wrapped in grey robes.
“Are you the third ghost the bint foretold to me?” he asked it. It did not reply. He crossed his arms and waited. So did the ghost. Crowley grew uncomfortable by degrees.
“Are you the third ghost the bint foretold to me?” he asked again. Again it did not reply but lifted its hand and pointed towards the window. Crowley sighed. “I see. Okay, out the window we go.”
He held out his hand but the ghost did not take it. He glared.
“Look, I can fly but I can’t time travel, so you’d better start showing some initiative here.”
The ghost just pointed. Crowley strode forward and before the ghost could react, he pulled its cowl down and exposed the face beneath.
“… Ebenezer?” Crowley demanded. “What are you doing here? You really are dead.”
Ebenezer sighed irritably and crossed his arms.
“I should have known you’d be a trouble maker. Yes, I’m a ghost. It was part of the deal for the ghosts. They don’t tell you that until later, though.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Crowley replied. “Do we need to get a move on, then?”
“Yes,” Ebenezer replied. “Now take my bloody robes and let’s go.”
“Ohh, your robes,” Crowley mocked. “Of course.” But he took them nonetheless. There was no zipping around this time, no phasing in and out. They just were.
They were at the Carols again. They follow Aziraphale in his green reindeer jumper as he wiled and thwarted and wiled and thwarted until it was time for his performance again. Crowley watched happily as he took his spot on stage once more.
“I’d like everyone to think of someone they love, tonight.” He said. “But also … think of someone you lost. Someone who you wish could be with you tonight. And wish them … a merry little Christmas.”
There was a different note to the song tonight, but Crowley could not figure it out. The miracle that swept over the crowd was almost melancholy, a little lacking in Christmas cheer. The same could be said for the angel. At least, until he came off stage and was met by Adrian, who lingered a little longer in stripping his microphone gear.
“That sounded different tonight,” he commented as he unstrapped the cord from behind Aziraphale's neck. Was he leaning forward just a little bit more?
“Yes,” Aziraphale admitted, tilting his neck to give him more room. “It … was.”
Adrian stilled his movements.
“Did you … has something changed?”
Crowley could hear a note of hope in his voice, and it cooled something inside of him. He clenched his fists.
“Yes,” the angel said softly, and met his eyes. “That was … a goodbye, I suppose.”
Adrian’s hands settled on the angel’s shoulders.
“Does that … ” he swallowed. Aziraphale smiled and took the other man’s hands in his own.
“Would you like to get a hot chocolate tonight?” he asked. “After the show, I mean?”
A smile crept over Adrian’s face.
“Yes,” he said, beaming into Aziraphale’s face. The angel smiled back. “I’d like that a lot.”
Crowley watched the angel squeeze the man’s hands and drop them.
“I have to get back out there,” he said. “The chorus begins soon.”
“Of course,” Adrian said, but it didn’t seem like he was really attending. It seemed like he was glowing.
The cold in Crowley's chest bit painfully into him as he watched. After a moment he felt Ebenezer's cold hand on his shoulder.
“It is time to go,” he said. Crowley just nodded, his eyes on the angel taking his place for the Hallellujah chorus.
--
They were at the Ritz. Crowley was pleased to see himelf in his usual spot across from the angel, and the cold feeling in his chest melted a little bit.
“And then the wife walked in and she was not happy, I am telling you.”
Aziraphale's mouth was pressed together in disapproval but his eyes were dancing.
“Really, my dear,” he said, picking up his wine glass.
“Oh, don't even bother,” Future-Crowley said. “I can see you don't mean it.”
Aziraphale did not reply.
“So I was thinking,” Future-Crowley said, and he seemed unaccountably nervous. “That we could maybe go flying tonight? It's been a while and I thought -”
Aziraphale looked torn.
“I - thank you, my dear, but it is Christmas Eve and Adrian and I are -”
“Oh, Adrian,” Future-Crowley spat out before he could help himself. “That simpering -! He's a mortal, Aziraphale, I don't understand what the allure is.”
“You wouldn't,” Aziraphale returned calmly.
“He'll be gone in another 30 years or so, you know,” Crowley said cruelly. “And you'll still be here. With me.”
“I know,” Aziraphale said, calmly slicing into his meal.
“Then what -”
“I told you you wouldn't understand,” Aziraphale said quietly, unruffled.
Crowley fell silent, watching him eat.
“I'm not even sure why you are so concerned,” Aziraphale said eventually.
“I'm not,” Crowley returned instantly. “It's just that I'm worried about the Arrangement, you know?”
Aziraphale regarded him across the table.
“I thought so,” he said softly, and stood up. “See you in a week, Crowley.”
He left, leaving Future-Crowley alone at the table.
“Bah, humbug,” he said.
-
The light was bright in his eyes when he woke. He rolled over in his bed, wondering why he’d slept in his suit. And then it all came back to him in a rush. He stood up suddenly, bolting down the corridor into the living room. It looked the same. No doilies, no blinding light, no fog. Could he have dreamt it? Demons don’t dream. But the alternative …
He dithered in the living room for a moment, trying to go in three directions at once. He wanted to change his suit, and go to the bookshop, and find and destroy Adrian. He forced himself to slow down. He changed his suit, taking a moment to make sure he was as sleek as possible.
He slid into the Bentley with his usual grace and then sped to the bookshop in Soho.
“Aziraphale!” he demanded when he arrived. “Aziraphale!”
The angel opened the door, completely bemused.
“Crowley?” he asked. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you usually in ---mmph!”
Crowley pushed the angel back inside the shop with a kiss, pressing him against the doorframe.
“Crowley!” The angel exclaimed. “What is it, what's happened?”
Crowley pulled back for a moment.
“There were ghosts,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “And I saw the gingerbread house -”
Aziraphale blushed.
“And the Vatican and the carols-”
“But you don't like ghosts,” Aziraphale said, trying to catch up.
“I didn't like these either,” Crowley said. He tried to kiss the angel again but Aziraphale pushed him back further and put some distance between them.
“What kind of ghosts?”
“Three of them,” Crowley replied, tugging on the hem of the green reindeer jumper. “Adam, Madame Tracy, and Ebenezer Scrooge, you remember him.”
“Yes, indeed. Nasty fellow, rich as sin, threw us out of his shop.”
“Yes, well, he was there, and -”
“How was Adam looking?” Aziraphale fretted. “Maybe I should make some more scones-”
“He said bring cake next time,” Crowley replied, suddenly remembering.
“Cake?” Aziraphale repeated.
“Yes, cake. Look, can we get to the important part?”
“I suppose,” the angel said dubiously.
“I saw Adrian,” Crowley said. Aziraphale frowned.
“Adrian?”
“At the Carols,” he said.
The angel blushed.
“He is a very nice boy-”
“I know that, angel,” Crowley said, beginning to get impatient. “But you choose him over me, in the future, and I can't have that.”
“So ... you're here because I have another friend?”
“It was a hell of a lot more than friendship,” Crowley said bitterly, his eyes narrowing. “And I just won't stand for it.”
He kissed the angel again, pinning his hands to the wall.
“Please don't make me say it,” he whispered hotly, pressing their foreheads together.
There was a tense moment.
“Alright,” Aziraphale said softly and the tense red hotness in the demon's chest eased.
“Good,” he growled and finally pulled the reindeer jumper over the angel's head.
“So ... you were jealous, is that right?” Aziraphale asked.
“Yes, I was jealous,” Crowley hissed. “Can we stop talking now?”
Aziraphale did not reply for some time.
-
A few days later a Christmas card arrived in the mailbox of the bookshop. It was of a little gingerbead house with the words, “Better luck next time!” It was from Adam. Aziraphale did not mention it to Crowley.
A Christmas card was sitting innocently on Crowley's kitchen bench. It was a picture of the Vatican, with the word, “Heh!” It was from Adam. Crowley did not mention it to Aziraphale.
~end
Happy Holidays, rroselavy, from your Secret Writer!