Happy Holidays, Oddsbobs!
Title: And bring me round a nice hot cup of tea, or Two Christmases
Recipient: oddsbobs
Author: prestissima
Elements recipient wanted in gift: Aziraphale and Crowley in some capacity (gen or not), humor, I like history and music (especially classical), misunderstandings, terms of the Arrangement, seeing a relationship from an outside perspective, the Them, Newt and Anathema
Author's Notes to Recipient: I saw your profile and noticed you like Band of Brothers, so that inspired the first scene. I tried to have all of your elements, but could only get in mentions of the last three. Have a very happy holiday!
Corporal Forthright's gaze promenaded among the shivering men in the trench before it rested on the chaplain, Lieutenant Colonel Appleton. Appleton was sitting quietly against a shed wall. There had never been so much as a sermon from the man, though Forthright sometimes heard him screaming in his sleep. He did it more often now, and somehow they all slept better, as if Appleton's cries frightened away the lesser nightmares. Besides, screams about budgerigars tended to make you laugh into your pillow, rather ruining the mood for a proper cry.
Appleton's hair was plastered to his neck from the cold rain. Water sluiced down his chin and dripped onto his clasped hands. He hadn't moved for ages. He had been muddied and snowed on and rained on, but he didn't complain. Forthright wished that he'd at least mumble madly about circus animals or something.
Another flash of lightning streaked across the forsaken skies of Normandy. Forthright scratched the seat of his sagging brown trousers and tried to think of the last time he had dry pants. Probably around the same time their radio gave its last feeble chirrup.
"C-c-corporal?" Walters asked beside him.
"What is it, Walters?" Forthright asked with a sigh. With Appleton talking to nobody save the ducks in his dreams, Forthright was the only officer left.
"Sir, there's someone new," Walters said his voice quiet with awe, and Forthright looked beyond the wall of rain to find what they had been missing for such a long time. Finally.
He strode forward and saluted. The other man did the same.
"Corporal Forthright, I presume?" he asked in the most upper-class accent Forthright had ever heard. He had no aides, as if he'd merely walked into the trench. A second glance at the newcomer made Forthright think he hadn't been in the war long. The man looked almost criminally plump, when officers and enlisted alike had wasted down to a frayed collection of bones and nerves.
"Yes sir," Forthright forced himself to grit out. He was not a jealous man, but it made him angry to see this arse waddle in with a glow like a Christmas ham.
"I'm Staff Sergeant Gabriel Bennett," the man said with a grim smile. "I understand you have been missing someone from the Medical Corps for a while."
"Yes sir. A shell took out Charles Wilson. That was five months ago," Forthright reported. He normally would have said 'God rest his soul,' but he did not think God had anything to do with the shell. It had smashed through the officers' bunks. Miraculously, they'd found Appleton in the rubble, white-faced and quiet. Wilson's body had been pinning him down, shielding him. That was the day he'd gone silent.
"Let me have a look at your wounded then. Those near death first," Bennett said with a tired sigh, and began to roll up his sleeves.
"Sir," Forthright said, his voice quiet and astonished at what his mouth was about to utter. He was not sure if he was mad, but if he was telling Bennett, then it must be true. "We haven't had any injuries since then, sir. None at all. And the ones from before all got better." Forthright didn't know if he could believe himself, but the fact was, once their medic was gone, they suddenly didn't have a need for one anymore.
"But it's been five months!" Bennett said in the voice of someone who's been tired of being played with and would just like to sit down and have some tea, perhaps some tea cake while he was at it. With rose water and nutmeg. Maybe a scone too, with a tartan tea cozy over the pot. "You're entirely stranded! You ought to be half-dead from malnutrition as it is, let alone casualties!"
"With all respect, sir," Forthright said bitingly, almost growling. "The men oughtn't be reminded. Bad for morale, see."
"Oh, right, right. Sorry," Bennett said, looking guilty. Forthright glanced at his insignia again. Staff Sergeant all right. What was he doing out here? "I am certain, er, that your medic has gone to his reward. Hm. Are the men ah, spiritually healthy?"
Forthright clenched his fists at the word 'reward', and took a breath.
"We have a chaplain," Forthright said, his chin jutting out a bit with protectiveness. They were all in this together, and no fat-faced aristo was going to tell them they were doing a poor job of surviving hell. Never mind that Appleton hadn't spoken for months. The last thing he'd said was, "keep your heads down, boys, and you'll make it out alive. I'm here."
"Really? Might I confer with him?" Bennett said, and once he saw Forthright's hesitation, he added, "Our Lord has blessed you with your health, so that you may tend to your souls as well. Let me talk to him. I can help."
"I don't know about Our Lord, sir, but our chaplain is Lieutenant Colonel Anthony Appleton. He's...he's had a nasty shock, just needs a bit to rest, is all," Forthright said, making excuses as he could.
They made their way towards the shed where Appleton sat, and as they approached the still figure he heard Bennett gasp behind him.
"Please, will you leave us?" Bennett asked, and Forthright nodded, then stood just far enough away so he could keep an eye on them. Bennett wasn't forcing Appleton to talk if Forthright could help it.
Bennett crouched down so that he was face to face with Appleton, and put a hand on his arm. Appleton gave a start, and Forthright saw his lips move. A name? He edged closer so he could hear their conversation. Appleton was gripping Bennett's arms so hard Forthright could see his fingers turn white. He strained his ears to hear their low voices. It was hard to hear Appleton. His voice was hoarse and he croaked after not speaking for so long.
"Get out of here! What are you doing here?" Appleton, who never raised his voice against a man, sounded angry.
"One might ask the same of you," Bennett said. "What are you doing, healing them?"
"Don't start. I don't know what I'm doing anymore," Appleton said, letting go of him and putting his head in his hands. "You're wasting your time here."
Both were quiet for a moment. The rain continued.
"This is not like you," Bennett finally said. He sounded worried.
"This isn't like anything either of us have seen," Appleton told him. "Not even in Jerusalem."
"Perhaps Ur," Bennett ventured.
"Worse," Appleton affirmed.
"And now you're a chaplain. That is a bit obvious, isn't it, dear boy?" Bennett asked.
"We're not known for subtlety, are we?" Appleton untangled his fingers from his dark hair. It stood up at all angles.
Bennett smoothed his hair out, then laid a hand over Appleton's head like a benediction. Now that Forthright looked closer, the two seemed to be of the same make, that same shape of face. They behaved with a tenderness of common feeling borne from years of familiarity. Were they brothers? Change the walk, change the hair, change the talk...Forthright rubbed at his eyes.
"One would think hope is best found in hospitals, but it is not much better there," Bennett confessed. They crouched in silence for a while, and Bennett fingered the bandage wrapped around Appleton's eyes. Forthright cringed, hoping they wouldn't take Appleton away for being blind. Come to think of it, he didn't even know how Appleton got posted here if he couldn't see.
"What is this? What happened to your eyes?"
"Er..." Appleton shirked from Bennett's touch. "I didn't want to see anymore."
"You didn't-" Bennett gave a start, but Appleton waved him away and began unwrapping the bandages.
"No, I'm fine," Appleton said, opening his eyes and revealing golden orbs that glowed in the gloom. They were unaccountably beautiful, but the sight of them sent a shiver of primal fear up Forthright's spine. No wonder he'd hidden them. They probably thought he was a demon baby when he was born. He probably never would have been able to enter the church if not for some miracle. Poor fellow.
"Thank heavens," Bennett said, giving a sigh of relief. His hand rose and caressed the side of Appleton's face. "I rather like this body, you know."
Appleton blinked away the rain that dripped now off his eyelashes. Surprisingly gentle, he took off Bennett's hat and threaded his dirty muddy fingers through pristine blond waves. They looked like sunlight streaming down on the fields at home, and Forthright thought that perhaps, just perhaps, there was a glow around Bennett's head. He even felt a little warmer, and the rain began to slacken.
"Starting to take that Principality business a bit too seriously, are we?" Appleton said slowly, but some warmth entered his thinned face.
Bennett shook his head and smiled.
"One does what one can," he said. He patted Appleton's shoulder. "You look an absolute fright, my dear. At least you will be able to get some sleep now. Come now, we can have some wine, perhaps even listen to your favourite Bach."
"What?" Appleton asked in confusion, as Bennett grasped his shoulder. He looked curiously vulnerable without the bandages.
"One would think you would be coming back with me to London. You do know that it's finished soon? Really, Crowley, I don't know what it is you are doing but-" Bennett began, but was knocked onto his back when Appleton leaped to his feet. The mud squelched against his uniform, brown ooze staining into the cloth.
"What are you ssssaying?" Appleton seethed, his voice dangerously quiet, his eyes aflame. His fists were tight against his sides, and Bennett's hat was crushed in one hand.
"My dear, why are you still here? These men are in as good, well, bad shape as you can manage. Our tallies will even out," Bennett said, and smiled. "I do say, it will be nice to-"
"I'm not leaving them!" Appleton hissed fiercely. "They don't deserve this. I'm not leaving them here!"
"Look here, Crowley, don't be-"
"Get out!" His finger shook but it resolutely pointed out towards No Man's Land. His voice was clear, and it rang out through the drying trenches. Curious heads poked out from beneath blankets and tarpaulin.
The sun had come out and it glinted off of Bennett's now-muddy hair. He cringed at the expression on Appleton's face, and stood slowly. His pristine uniform was now as dirty as Appleton's, and he no longer seemed to glow.
"If...if I shan't see you...Happy Christmas, I suppose," Bennett said sadly, and trudged west away from their segment. No one stopped him.
Forthright mustered up the courage to approach Appleton, who was very very still and had somehow found a pair of sunglasses to wear. His anger had brought out a flush to his cheeks. Bennett's hat remained tightly clenched in his fingers.
"Sir?" Forthright asked tentatively.
"We're getting out of here, Andrew," Lieutenant Colonel Appleton said quietly, calling Forthright by his Christian name. But then he smiled. He was still staring after Bennett.
* * *
That was before, when they had not spent so much time together averting the Apocalypse. Now, decades later, Crowley forsakes the debauchery of holiday parties and instead goes round to Aziraphale's bookshop. There is garland hung in a way that can be only described as 'festooned', there is mulled wine constantly simmering in the back, and there is, as always, a stereo that does not under any circumstances blare 'Fat-Bottomed Girls' or 'Jingle-Bell Rock'.
He barges past the door if only to see the roll of Aziraphale's eyes at Crowley's bravado and utter disregard for privacy.
"'lo," he says, setting down the packages in a big whump on the back table. He has long suspected that Aziraphale breaks the laws of physics in order to fit everything into what can only be ambiguously termed as 'the back.' The overstuffed chair is squeezed between a bookshelf and an elderly buffet, looking rather indignant to be hosting a badly embroidered pillow proclaiming, 'JOY 2 tHe wWarld.' (Footnote: It was a present from Pippin Galadriel Moonchild. After many mistakes, she had run out of the right colours. Part of 'wWarld' is spelled in neon lime and the 'joy' is hot pink, which rather ruins the Christmas theme. It is no worse than the politically correct Yule candle sent by the Devices, made of recycled candle bits and the remains of a hemp sandal. It faintly smells of something not quite legal.)
Somehow the back room of rare books also fits into this arrangement, but if Aziraphale makes no comment about the houseplants, Crowley is not going to wonder how the room is bigger on the inside than it ought to be.
Crowley takes his seat in the chair as Aziraphale busies himself with the packages, setting them out one by one on the table with the relish of a general assembling his armies.
"Why thank you!" Aziraphale declares to a duck terrine from Selfridge's, and Crowley shrugs to hide his embarrassment. He has long stopped questioning the idea of a demon and an angel-celebrating enjoying pissing away, all right, that demonic enough?-Christmas together.
"You know that's er, really for me. Made from the finest of St. James's waterfowl," Crowley remarks off-handedly, watching as Aziraphale peeks into the brown paper shopping bag again and looks up quizzically. "Ah." He reaches into his inner jacket pocket, pulls out what the angel was looking for, and bravely ignores the leap in his heart at the way Aziraphale's face lights up.
"I didn't know if you'd manage it this year!" Aziraphale declares, moving to snatch it from Crowley's fingers. Crowley presses it close to his chest to avoid Aziraphale's grabby hands.
"After last year's fiasco I had a rather harder time of getting these than usual," Crowley says reproachfully. "No more simply nipping down to ask Bach if he'd finished his new Boogie Variations. No getting Beethoven's Doo-Wop Concerto Opus six-thousand bunged at me from a distance while the imps went for a smoke break. I had to poke at Brahms for ages until he thought I'd done it properly. That reminds me, we've got Brahms and Sid Vicious' team-up on an orchestral version of 'Anarchy in the UK'. Track four."
Aziraphale's eyes glaze over for a second at the musical possibilities of dead composers' souls producing 'be-bop,' (Footnote: He figures if it's by a classical composer who has never heard of be-bop, it must be all right, or at least old enough to be dignified.) but he quickly recovers and reaches behind the bookshelf for his secret weapon. The demon's mouth falls open, but he quickly recovers and grunts, looking away with a cough he learned from Giacomo Casanova.
"Is that real?" Crowley asks nonchalantly, sitting down in Aziraphale's favourite chair, compact disc still clutched to his chest. His eyes follow the vessel and he almost doesn't sweat. It's a jar of holy water, something very difficult for a demon to acquire, let alone a second time.
"Of course it is," Aziraphale says, holding the gift to himself as one might an infant. "Now if I put this away, will you let me put the music on?"
"Fine," Crowley says, finally relenting. He holds the disc of Soul Music between his index and third finger, like a business card, and adds, "Careful, there's Mozart's C Minor Mass on track seventeen."
"Really? How did Wolfgang manage to get it recorded Down There?" Aziraphale asks in surprise.
"I gave the manuscript to a certain conductor who owed me a favour," Crowley murmurs slyly while he inspects his cuticles.
Aziraphale can only shake his head. He knows the musicians are not his, and suspects that Crowley is responsible for all the be-bop these days. The track is dutifully omitted from the stereo playlist, because an allergic demon is the last thing anyone wants on Christmas Eve. Aziraphale pours out some peppermint schnapps hot cocoa.
They talk.
There is more schnapps than cocoa, and when they run out of cocoa, the schnapps soon becomes large quantities of port at levels so toxic they are only ever found in the systems of preternatural beings and those well-seasoned (usually with sherry) to their grizzled struggle with alcoholism. Crowley looks over at a drunk-drowsy angel, and relishes in a greedy wallow in the snug heat of the room.
The music has stopped and the radio has switched on now. Gerald the radio announcer gleefully informs them of the Christmas Eve Nostalgia Tour, but Crowley melts into his seat and can't be bothered to glare. As Vera Lynn's voice sings about how there will always be an England, Aziraphale's hand slowly drifts up in the air, as if sniffing for danger, and haphazardly, ever so gently, brushes Crowley's hand.
"All right?" Crowley asks warily, wondering if this is like that time when Aziraphale accidentally (total bollocks as far as Crowley's concerned) smoked hashish instead of a cigarette and thought Crowley was Oscar Wilde.
"Crowley? M'sorry," Aziraphale says softly. The warm liquid feeling in Crowley's belly freezes, and he tenses. Aziraphale has never apologised for anything before. Not drunkenly, at least. Crowley suspects the angel is rather farther along than he is with the port. Greedy bugger. "Was selfish."
"Is this about a book?" Crowley asks, trying to sound sceptical.
"You...care, sometimes 太多," Aziraphale says, and grabs Crowley's hand as the demon tries to pull away. His eyelids are heavy, half-closed, but his grip is insistent. "I didn't mean que you weren't decent, you are, you descend...no, es que...no como stoats-"
"What are you on about, angel?" Crowley asks, because when a seriously drunk angel is being seriously serious, he begins to talk in tongues.
"我就是...missed you, an'I wanted to spend...uh, squirrels, like, spending Dickens with you..."
"Angel, what-" Crowley says, a little panicked, because Aziraphale is crawling over now, the floor is tipping towards him, and suddenly he has quite a few stone of angel looming over him. His shoulderblades are digging into the carpet but all he can see are Aziraphale's bright blue eyes, so clear and light they remind him, almost painfully, of Heaven. And Aziraphale is still talking, somehow, even as he stills and steadies himself above Crowley. Well, at least someone is making an effort.
"Mm'ry...Merry...Chrisssmas," Aziraphale breathes, eyes wide as he nears Crowley's face. Crowley's heart is not entirely convinced it isn't human, because it is slamming against his chest, struggling to get out and leap away from the pressure. Aziraphale's hands are loosely circling Crowley's wrists, his fingertips gently stroking the thin pale skin there, but neither makes any move. "Looking for you, in the mud, en Normandy..."
As Vera Lynn sings about Berkeley Square, Crowley suddenly gets it.
"During the war? World War Two?" he asks, and Aziraphale is nodding as he speaks again, the motion making their noses brush against each other. Crowley stares at the glint of light on Aziraphale's eyelashes, each individual strand soft and golden. Snakes are cold-blooded, but right now the flush in his cheeks endeavours to convince him otherwise.
"Im Krieg...Jus'wanted tea, 和一早 t'wake up an'...an'...see you. Mais oui, siempre tú. Didn'..I didn'mean...Didn't want to hurt you, didn't mean you didn't care about them, jus' just wanned you t'come home with me. Надеюсь тебе не придется во мне разочароваться. I am sorry," Aziraphale says, his head tilting down, his lips moving against the shell of Crowley's ear. His breaths are soft but uneven. "Please forgive me. どうぞ."
Crowley lies there, the warm weight of Aziraphale on top of him, and he allows himself a small smile as he snuggles into that awkward embrace. He had almost forgotten. They had not seen each other for decades afterwards, and neither cared to mention it. Has Aziraphale been carrying his guilt for that long?
"لا تقلق. אל דאגה."
With that whisper, Crowley threads his fingers through Aziraphale's hair, feeling the angel's breathing slow against his chest. The silken locks are soft and clean-smelling, and Crowley smiles into them as he breathes in Aziraphale's scent of virgin forests and clean heavens and Bible dust. He feels inexplicably safe.
"Will you...will you be here?" Aziraphale asks, almost frantically, and Crowley nods against his cheek. His eyes have warmed into a golden amber, glowing with something passing for contentment as he kisses Aziraphale, ever so softly. They fall asleep on the floor, wrapped around one another as Christmas comes to London Town.
Author's footnotes:
A hat tip to the multiple beta comment rounds from Daring Peach and You-Know-Who! You helped me get through a rough patch, so thank you very much!
- Appleton: From a place in which there was an orchard
- Bennett: Blessed
- Wilson: Willpower, protection
- Brahms was a perfectionist.
- The title is taken from the lines "Don't forget to wake me in the morning/And bring me 'round a nice hot cup of tea" from a World War Two song called "Kiss Me Good Night, Sergeant-Major" (lyrics).
- Translations: 太多 (too much), que (that), no como (not like), im Krieg (in war), 和一早 (and one morning/and in the morning), mais oui (but yes), siempre tú (always you), Надеюсь тебе не придется во мне разочароваться (I hope I have never disappointed you), どうぞ (please), لا تقلق .אל דאגה.(never mind/don't worry).
- I am a bit obsessed with the idea of Crowley's eyes glowing, as Mssrs. Gaiman and Pratchett wrote about the biospatial feedback with the Bentley causing Crowley's eyes to glow red.
Happy Holidays, oddsbobs, from your Secret Writer!
Recipient: oddsbobs
Author: prestissima
Elements recipient wanted in gift: Aziraphale and Crowley in some capacity (gen or not), humor, I like history and music (especially classical), misunderstandings, terms of the Arrangement, seeing a relationship from an outside perspective, the Them, Newt and Anathema
Author's Notes to Recipient: I saw your profile and noticed you like Band of Brothers, so that inspired the first scene. I tried to have all of your elements, but could only get in mentions of the last three. Have a very happy holiday!
Corporal Forthright's gaze promenaded among the shivering men in the trench before it rested on the chaplain, Lieutenant Colonel Appleton. Appleton was sitting quietly against a shed wall. There had never been so much as a sermon from the man, though Forthright sometimes heard him screaming in his sleep. He did it more often now, and somehow they all slept better, as if Appleton's cries frightened away the lesser nightmares. Besides, screams about budgerigars tended to make you laugh into your pillow, rather ruining the mood for a proper cry.
Appleton's hair was plastered to his neck from the cold rain. Water sluiced down his chin and dripped onto his clasped hands. He hadn't moved for ages. He had been muddied and snowed on and rained on, but he didn't complain. Forthright wished that he'd at least mumble madly about circus animals or something.
Another flash of lightning streaked across the forsaken skies of Normandy. Forthright scratched the seat of his sagging brown trousers and tried to think of the last time he had dry pants. Probably around the same time their radio gave its last feeble chirrup.
"C-c-corporal?" Walters asked beside him.
"What is it, Walters?" Forthright asked with a sigh. With Appleton talking to nobody save the ducks in his dreams, Forthright was the only officer left.
"Sir, there's someone new," Walters said his voice quiet with awe, and Forthright looked beyond the wall of rain to find what they had been missing for such a long time. Finally.
He strode forward and saluted. The other man did the same.
"Corporal Forthright, I presume?" he asked in the most upper-class accent Forthright had ever heard. He had no aides, as if he'd merely walked into the trench. A second glance at the newcomer made Forthright think he hadn't been in the war long. The man looked almost criminally plump, when officers and enlisted alike had wasted down to a frayed collection of bones and nerves.
"Yes sir," Forthright forced himself to grit out. He was not a jealous man, but it made him angry to see this arse waddle in with a glow like a Christmas ham.
"I'm Staff Sergeant Gabriel Bennett," the man said with a grim smile. "I understand you have been missing someone from the Medical Corps for a while."
"Yes sir. A shell took out Charles Wilson. That was five months ago," Forthright reported. He normally would have said 'God rest his soul,' but he did not think God had anything to do with the shell. It had smashed through the officers' bunks. Miraculously, they'd found Appleton in the rubble, white-faced and quiet. Wilson's body had been pinning him down, shielding him. That was the day he'd gone silent.
"Let me have a look at your wounded then. Those near death first," Bennett said with a tired sigh, and began to roll up his sleeves.
"Sir," Forthright said, his voice quiet and astonished at what his mouth was about to utter. He was not sure if he was mad, but if he was telling Bennett, then it must be true. "We haven't had any injuries since then, sir. None at all. And the ones from before all got better." Forthright didn't know if he could believe himself, but the fact was, once their medic was gone, they suddenly didn't have a need for one anymore.
"But it's been five months!" Bennett said in the voice of someone who's been tired of being played with and would just like to sit down and have some tea, perhaps some tea cake while he was at it. With rose water and nutmeg. Maybe a scone too, with a tartan tea cozy over the pot. "You're entirely stranded! You ought to be half-dead from malnutrition as it is, let alone casualties!"
"With all respect, sir," Forthright said bitingly, almost growling. "The men oughtn't be reminded. Bad for morale, see."
"Oh, right, right. Sorry," Bennett said, looking guilty. Forthright glanced at his insignia again. Staff Sergeant all right. What was he doing out here? "I am certain, er, that your medic has gone to his reward. Hm. Are the men ah, spiritually healthy?"
Forthright clenched his fists at the word 'reward', and took a breath.
"We have a chaplain," Forthright said, his chin jutting out a bit with protectiveness. They were all in this together, and no fat-faced aristo was going to tell them they were doing a poor job of surviving hell. Never mind that Appleton hadn't spoken for months. The last thing he'd said was, "keep your heads down, boys, and you'll make it out alive. I'm here."
"Really? Might I confer with him?" Bennett said, and once he saw Forthright's hesitation, he added, "Our Lord has blessed you with your health, so that you may tend to your souls as well. Let me talk to him. I can help."
"I don't know about Our Lord, sir, but our chaplain is Lieutenant Colonel Anthony Appleton. He's...he's had a nasty shock, just needs a bit to rest, is all," Forthright said, making excuses as he could.
They made their way towards the shed where Appleton sat, and as they approached the still figure he heard Bennett gasp behind him.
"Please, will you leave us?" Bennett asked, and Forthright nodded, then stood just far enough away so he could keep an eye on them. Bennett wasn't forcing Appleton to talk if Forthright could help it.
Bennett crouched down so that he was face to face with Appleton, and put a hand on his arm. Appleton gave a start, and Forthright saw his lips move. A name? He edged closer so he could hear their conversation. Appleton was gripping Bennett's arms so hard Forthright could see his fingers turn white. He strained his ears to hear their low voices. It was hard to hear Appleton. His voice was hoarse and he croaked after not speaking for so long.
"Get out of here! What are you doing here?" Appleton, who never raised his voice against a man, sounded angry.
"One might ask the same of you," Bennett said. "What are you doing, healing them?"
"Don't start. I don't know what I'm doing anymore," Appleton said, letting go of him and putting his head in his hands. "You're wasting your time here."
Both were quiet for a moment. The rain continued.
"This is not like you," Bennett finally said. He sounded worried.
"This isn't like anything either of us have seen," Appleton told him. "Not even in Jerusalem."
"Perhaps Ur," Bennett ventured.
"Worse," Appleton affirmed.
"And now you're a chaplain. That is a bit obvious, isn't it, dear boy?" Bennett asked.
"We're not known for subtlety, are we?" Appleton untangled his fingers from his dark hair. It stood up at all angles.
Bennett smoothed his hair out, then laid a hand over Appleton's head like a benediction. Now that Forthright looked closer, the two seemed to be of the same make, that same shape of face. They behaved with a tenderness of common feeling borne from years of familiarity. Were they brothers? Change the walk, change the hair, change the talk...Forthright rubbed at his eyes.
"One would think hope is best found in hospitals, but it is not much better there," Bennett confessed. They crouched in silence for a while, and Bennett fingered the bandage wrapped around Appleton's eyes. Forthright cringed, hoping they wouldn't take Appleton away for being blind. Come to think of it, he didn't even know how Appleton got posted here if he couldn't see.
"What is this? What happened to your eyes?"
"Er..." Appleton shirked from Bennett's touch. "I didn't want to see anymore."
"You didn't-" Bennett gave a start, but Appleton waved him away and began unwrapping the bandages.
"No, I'm fine," Appleton said, opening his eyes and revealing golden orbs that glowed in the gloom. They were unaccountably beautiful, but the sight of them sent a shiver of primal fear up Forthright's spine. No wonder he'd hidden them. They probably thought he was a demon baby when he was born. He probably never would have been able to enter the church if not for some miracle. Poor fellow.
"Thank heavens," Bennett said, giving a sigh of relief. His hand rose and caressed the side of Appleton's face. "I rather like this body, you know."
Appleton blinked away the rain that dripped now off his eyelashes. Surprisingly gentle, he took off Bennett's hat and threaded his dirty muddy fingers through pristine blond waves. They looked like sunlight streaming down on the fields at home, and Forthright thought that perhaps, just perhaps, there was a glow around Bennett's head. He even felt a little warmer, and the rain began to slacken.
"Starting to take that Principality business a bit too seriously, are we?" Appleton said slowly, but some warmth entered his thinned face.
Bennett shook his head and smiled.
"One does what one can," he said. He patted Appleton's shoulder. "You look an absolute fright, my dear. At least you will be able to get some sleep now. Come now, we can have some wine, perhaps even listen to your favourite Bach."
"What?" Appleton asked in confusion, as Bennett grasped his shoulder. He looked curiously vulnerable without the bandages.
"One would think you would be coming back with me to London. You do know that it's finished soon? Really, Crowley, I don't know what it is you are doing but-" Bennett began, but was knocked onto his back when Appleton leaped to his feet. The mud squelched against his uniform, brown ooze staining into the cloth.
"What are you ssssaying?" Appleton seethed, his voice dangerously quiet, his eyes aflame. His fists were tight against his sides, and Bennett's hat was crushed in one hand.
"My dear, why are you still here? These men are in as good, well, bad shape as you can manage. Our tallies will even out," Bennett said, and smiled. "I do say, it will be nice to-"
"I'm not leaving them!" Appleton hissed fiercely. "They don't deserve this. I'm not leaving them here!"
"Look here, Crowley, don't be-"
"Get out!" His finger shook but it resolutely pointed out towards No Man's Land. His voice was clear, and it rang out through the drying trenches. Curious heads poked out from beneath blankets and tarpaulin.
The sun had come out and it glinted off of Bennett's now-muddy hair. He cringed at the expression on Appleton's face, and stood slowly. His pristine uniform was now as dirty as Appleton's, and he no longer seemed to glow.
"If...if I shan't see you...Happy Christmas, I suppose," Bennett said sadly, and trudged west away from their segment. No one stopped him.
Forthright mustered up the courage to approach Appleton, who was very very still and had somehow found a pair of sunglasses to wear. His anger had brought out a flush to his cheeks. Bennett's hat remained tightly clenched in his fingers.
"Sir?" Forthright asked tentatively.
"We're getting out of here, Andrew," Lieutenant Colonel Appleton said quietly, calling Forthright by his Christian name. But then he smiled. He was still staring after Bennett.
* * *
That was before, when they had not spent so much time together averting the Apocalypse. Now, decades later, Crowley forsakes the debauchery of holiday parties and instead goes round to Aziraphale's bookshop. There is garland hung in a way that can be only described as 'festooned', there is mulled wine constantly simmering in the back, and there is, as always, a stereo that does not under any circumstances blare 'Fat-Bottomed Girls' or 'Jingle-Bell Rock'.
He barges past the door if only to see the roll of Aziraphale's eyes at Crowley's bravado and utter disregard for privacy.
"'lo," he says, setting down the packages in a big whump on the back table. He has long suspected that Aziraphale breaks the laws of physics in order to fit everything into what can only be ambiguously termed as 'the back.' The overstuffed chair is squeezed between a bookshelf and an elderly buffet, looking rather indignant to be hosting a badly embroidered pillow proclaiming, 'JOY 2 tHe wWarld.' (Footnote: It was a present from Pippin Galadriel Moonchild. After many mistakes, she had run out of the right colours. Part of 'wWarld' is spelled in neon lime and the 'joy' is hot pink, which rather ruins the Christmas theme. It is no worse than the politically correct Yule candle sent by the Devices, made of recycled candle bits and the remains of a hemp sandal. It faintly smells of something not quite legal.)
Somehow the back room of rare books also fits into this arrangement, but if Aziraphale makes no comment about the houseplants, Crowley is not going to wonder how the room is bigger on the inside than it ought to be.
Crowley takes his seat in the chair as Aziraphale busies himself with the packages, setting them out one by one on the table with the relish of a general assembling his armies.
"Why thank you!" Aziraphale declares to a duck terrine from Selfridge's, and Crowley shrugs to hide his embarrassment. He has long stopped questioning the idea of a demon and an angel-celebrating enjoying pissing away, all right, that demonic enough?-Christmas together.
"You know that's er, really for me. Made from the finest of St. James's waterfowl," Crowley remarks off-handedly, watching as Aziraphale peeks into the brown paper shopping bag again and looks up quizzically. "Ah." He reaches into his inner jacket pocket, pulls out what the angel was looking for, and bravely ignores the leap in his heart at the way Aziraphale's face lights up.
"I didn't know if you'd manage it this year!" Aziraphale declares, moving to snatch it from Crowley's fingers. Crowley presses it close to his chest to avoid Aziraphale's grabby hands.
"After last year's fiasco I had a rather harder time of getting these than usual," Crowley says reproachfully. "No more simply nipping down to ask Bach if he'd finished his new Boogie Variations. No getting Beethoven's Doo-Wop Concerto Opus six-thousand bunged at me from a distance while the imps went for a smoke break. I had to poke at Brahms for ages until he thought I'd done it properly. That reminds me, we've got Brahms and Sid Vicious' team-up on an orchestral version of 'Anarchy in the UK'. Track four."
Aziraphale's eyes glaze over for a second at the musical possibilities of dead composers' souls producing 'be-bop,' (Footnote: He figures if it's by a classical composer who has never heard of be-bop, it must be all right, or at least old enough to be dignified.) but he quickly recovers and reaches behind the bookshelf for his secret weapon. The demon's mouth falls open, but he quickly recovers and grunts, looking away with a cough he learned from Giacomo Casanova.
"Is that real?" Crowley asks nonchalantly, sitting down in Aziraphale's favourite chair, compact disc still clutched to his chest. His eyes follow the vessel and he almost doesn't sweat. It's a jar of holy water, something very difficult for a demon to acquire, let alone a second time.
"Of course it is," Aziraphale says, holding the gift to himself as one might an infant. "Now if I put this away, will you let me put the music on?"
"Fine," Crowley says, finally relenting. He holds the disc of Soul Music between his index and third finger, like a business card, and adds, "Careful, there's Mozart's C Minor Mass on track seventeen."
"Really? How did Wolfgang manage to get it recorded Down There?" Aziraphale asks in surprise.
"I gave the manuscript to a certain conductor who owed me a favour," Crowley murmurs slyly while he inspects his cuticles.
Aziraphale can only shake his head. He knows the musicians are not his, and suspects that Crowley is responsible for all the be-bop these days. The track is dutifully omitted from the stereo playlist, because an allergic demon is the last thing anyone wants on Christmas Eve. Aziraphale pours out some peppermint schnapps hot cocoa.
They talk.
There is more schnapps than cocoa, and when they run out of cocoa, the schnapps soon becomes large quantities of port at levels so toxic they are only ever found in the systems of preternatural beings and those well-seasoned (usually with sherry) to their grizzled struggle with alcoholism. Crowley looks over at a drunk-drowsy angel, and relishes in a greedy wallow in the snug heat of the room.
The music has stopped and the radio has switched on now. Gerald the radio announcer gleefully informs them of the Christmas Eve Nostalgia Tour, but Crowley melts into his seat and can't be bothered to glare. As Vera Lynn's voice sings about how there will always be an England, Aziraphale's hand slowly drifts up in the air, as if sniffing for danger, and haphazardly, ever so gently, brushes Crowley's hand.
"All right?" Crowley asks warily, wondering if this is like that time when Aziraphale accidentally (total bollocks as far as Crowley's concerned) smoked hashish instead of a cigarette and thought Crowley was Oscar Wilde.
"Crowley? M'sorry," Aziraphale says softly. The warm liquid feeling in Crowley's belly freezes, and he tenses. Aziraphale has never apologised for anything before. Not drunkenly, at least. Crowley suspects the angel is rather farther along than he is with the port. Greedy bugger. "Was selfish."
"Is this about a book?" Crowley asks, trying to sound sceptical.
"You...care, sometimes 太多," Aziraphale says, and grabs Crowley's hand as the demon tries to pull away. His eyelids are heavy, half-closed, but his grip is insistent. "I didn't mean que you weren't decent, you are, you descend...no, es que...no como stoats-"
"What are you on about, angel?" Crowley asks, because when a seriously drunk angel is being seriously serious, he begins to talk in tongues.
"我就是...missed you, an'I wanted to spend...uh, squirrels, like, spending Dickens with you..."
"Angel, what-" Crowley says, a little panicked, because Aziraphale is crawling over now, the floor is tipping towards him, and suddenly he has quite a few stone of angel looming over him. His shoulderblades are digging into the carpet but all he can see are Aziraphale's bright blue eyes, so clear and light they remind him, almost painfully, of Heaven. And Aziraphale is still talking, somehow, even as he stills and steadies himself above Crowley. Well, at least someone is making an effort.
"Mm'ry...Merry...Chrisssmas," Aziraphale breathes, eyes wide as he nears Crowley's face. Crowley's heart is not entirely convinced it isn't human, because it is slamming against his chest, struggling to get out and leap away from the pressure. Aziraphale's hands are loosely circling Crowley's wrists, his fingertips gently stroking the thin pale skin there, but neither makes any move. "Looking for you, in the mud, en Normandy..."
As Vera Lynn sings about Berkeley Square, Crowley suddenly gets it.
"During the war? World War Two?" he asks, and Aziraphale is nodding as he speaks again, the motion making their noses brush against each other. Crowley stares at the glint of light on Aziraphale's eyelashes, each individual strand soft and golden. Snakes are cold-blooded, but right now the flush in his cheeks endeavours to convince him otherwise.
"Im Krieg...Jus'wanted tea, 和一早 t'wake up an'...an'...see you. Mais oui, siempre tú. Didn'..I didn'mean...Didn't want to hurt you, didn't mean you didn't care about them, jus' just wanned you t'come home with me. Надеюсь тебе не придется во мне разочароваться. I am sorry," Aziraphale says, his head tilting down, his lips moving against the shell of Crowley's ear. His breaths are soft but uneven. "Please forgive me. どうぞ."
Crowley lies there, the warm weight of Aziraphale on top of him, and he allows himself a small smile as he snuggles into that awkward embrace. He had almost forgotten. They had not seen each other for decades afterwards, and neither cared to mention it. Has Aziraphale been carrying his guilt for that long?
"لا تقلق. אל דאגה."
With that whisper, Crowley threads his fingers through Aziraphale's hair, feeling the angel's breathing slow against his chest. The silken locks are soft and clean-smelling, and Crowley smiles into them as he breathes in Aziraphale's scent of virgin forests and clean heavens and Bible dust. He feels inexplicably safe.
"Will you...will you be here?" Aziraphale asks, almost frantically, and Crowley nods against his cheek. His eyes have warmed into a golden amber, glowing with something passing for contentment as he kisses Aziraphale, ever so softly. They fall asleep on the floor, wrapped around one another as Christmas comes to London Town.
Author's footnotes:
A hat tip to the multiple beta comment rounds from Daring Peach and You-Know-Who! You helped me get through a rough patch, so thank you very much!
- Appleton: From a place in which there was an orchard
- Bennett: Blessed
- Wilson: Willpower, protection
- Brahms was a perfectionist.
- The title is taken from the lines "Don't forget to wake me in the morning/And bring me 'round a nice hot cup of tea" from a World War Two song called "Kiss Me Good Night, Sergeant-Major" (lyrics).
- Translations: 太多 (too much), que (that), no como (not like), im Krieg (in war), 和一早 (and one morning/and in the morning), mais oui (but yes), siempre tú (always you), Надеюсь тебе не придется во мне разочароваться (I hope I have never disappointed you), どうぞ (please), لا تقلق .אל דאגה.(never mind/don't worry).
- I am a bit obsessed with the idea of Crowley's eyes glowing, as Mssrs. Gaiman and Pratchett wrote about the biospatial feedback with the Bentley causing Crowley's eyes to glow red.
Happy Holidays, oddsbobs, from your Secret Writer!