Chapter Text
Ligur was dead, to begin with.
Well, perhaps ‘dead’ is a little too soft a word considering the circumstances. ‘Dead’ implies an ‘after’, and that is not what had happened to Ligur.
Ligur was wholly eradicated from the face of existence, to follow up. There was no doubt whatsoever on that particular front. The examination of his liquified remains was done first by Crowley, then Aziraphale, and Crowley once more out of morbid curiosity. Aziraphale cleaned up the remnants himself, and when Aziraphale put his mind to it and actually bothered to clean something there was no evidence left that the mess had been there at all. But if we must use human colloquialisms to describe the matter at hand, Ligur was as dead as a very dead thing. The deadest of things.
Aziraphale knew that Ligur was that dead and yet, despite his nature, couldn’t quite find a place in his heart to be all that sorry about it. Yes, it was a little tragic and terrifying to comprehend absolute oblivion, but Ligur had been about to do something ghastly to Crowley and the would-be victim had merely acted in self defence. If you wanted to get technical about it, since Aziraphale had been the one to give Crowley the gift over a century in the making that caused Ligur’s end, Crowley was carrying out holy retribution with Aziraphale’s blessing. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone but his own deepest consciousness, but Aziraphale was more than a little pleased by the thought. Ligur’s end was something they had done together, another little tick mark in the ‘Crowley and Aziraphale Actually Were Useful During The Apocalypse Thank You Very Much’ column.
The thing about Aziraphale was that he was a bastard. He had always suspected as much, but once Crowley voiced the thought aloud he let it roll across him and settle comfortably in the middle of his chest, warming him through. A bastard worth liking had a certain ring to it, especially when spoken to him by a certain demon. Crowley had a way of saying things to Aziraphale that seemed terrible on the surface, but in actual fact were things he truly wanted to hear and he revelled in them every time. The angel knew he could be a little scatterbrained, for lack of a better word, which was why he hadn’t really taken offence at Crowley calling him both stupid and clever in the same breath. He knew he could be interpreted as such, but it wasn’t quite right— it was just that there were so many things worthy of being concentrated on that sometimes he forgot to follow one thread of thought to the centre of the labyrinth and darted about getting distracted along the way instead.
A lot of opportunities had been lost to Aziraphale this way over time.
He could be thoughtless at times, and more than a little selfish, and possibly enjoyed his alone time with only his books to keep him company a tad too much. Solitary as an oyster was something Aziraphale was supposed to be as an angel stationed on Earth, not offering to share them with his adversary. Crowley seemed to see all of those things and still chose to be his friend regardless of the angel’s prior token and unmeant protests on the subject, which Aziraphale thought was nothing short of miraculous. Despite the edicts of Heaven and Hell, Crowley was not Aziraphale’s worst enemy by a very long shot. That honour went to the angel himself, though that was a notion he was loathe to admit even in his most secret thoughts.
After the world failed to end, Aziraphale found himself rewarded with Crowley’s company in unprecedented measures. He was whisked off to several new show openings around the world, brought books he mentioned in passing several decades ago as gifts, treated to the tasting menu at incredibly exclusive restaurants that even his celestial powers couldn’t have garnered them a booking at until at least the next century (he had tried several times). At the end of each delightful new day, he would invite Crowley in for a drink, or eight, and then ceremoniously wish him a good night sometime before dawn as he returned to his desk to begin reading or repairing whatever new tome had found its way into his possession that week. In these moments, Crowley always looked as though he were going to say something. A witty barb at Aziraphale’s book-loving expense, perhaps, or a joke about knowing when to take a hint. In the old days, in the Before, that was exactly what would happen. Crowley would tease, Aziraphale would (politely) insist, and Crowley would go with the promise of a future rendezvous. This had not happened for months now. In this new world Crowley always paused, always primed to say something, then let it die on his forked tongue with an uncharacteristic soft smile. He would gather his things and pat the back of Aziraphale’s chair, another new addition to the routine, and silently wander out into the night. The angel found that he had to physically restrain himself at the desk in order to not get up and go to the window, to watch as the Bentley tore its way through the dark Soho streets (which was no mean feat, even at three in the morning).
There was nobody else with whom Azirapale would want to spend the rest of his life, no closer pair of friends than he and the demon, and he was inordinately pleased by the new freedom afforded to them by their defeat of their prior employers. In these quiet morning hours, though, when the last grumble of the Bentley’s engine had completely faded even from Aziraphale’s excellent hearing, he found himself feeling as though he wasn’t quite living as much as he should be. This, of course, was preposterous, he would immediately counter. Just this week he had been to see two excellent musicals, been treated to a private jaunt around the Natural History Museum’s ice rink, and been presented with Tchaikovsky’s original sheet music for the very first draft of The Nutcracker (a precursor, he was certain & then quickly proven right, to actual tickets to the ballet). He had deliberately lived in the slow lane for so long and attempted to keep Crowley in it too, nervously tapping the speedometer when it looked to be approaching what any other being would call a reasonable pace, and now he was letting the demon take him into what he thought of as the fast lane without complaint. Crowley took the lead so naturally, poured himself into entertaining them both so eagerly, that Aziraphale felt safe to sit back in the passenger seat and enjoy the journey.
Of course, Aziraphale cannot drive. I only mention this now because it is pertinent to note that Aziraphale cannot drive, and Aziraphale often does not pay too much attention when Crowley does as he is busy concentrating with all of his might to remain in one piece for the duration of the journey. So when I say that Aziraphale cannot drive, what I mean to say is Aziraphale does not realise that on very big roads that stretch out beyond the horizon there is, usually, a middle lane. The middle lane is neither here nor there, a transient place meant to either allow to you accelerate confidently into the fast lane or remove yourself from the flow of traffic and resign yourself to the slow— it is a means to an end, not somewhere to live. But Aziraphale did not know that at the present moment, and was well-practiced in both not driving and ignoring the uncomfortable truths of his existence.
It was a merry and bright evening. December had seen an unusual amount of snow, which Crowley and Aziraphale both quietly acknowledged was most likely to do with a certain Tadfield resident’s residual power casting one last spell over the land. Aziraphale was pleased as there was a sense of rightness to a white Christmas, as it brought a particular kind of childlike joy to many hearts over the season and made for a very memorable time of year. Crowley was pleased because it fuelled the conspiracy theorists who loved to say things like ‘Bloody freezing out there! Global warming my arse!’ which, in turn, made the retail staff being held hostage by their ignorance at the tills inch up that fake smile to a truly demonic degree. They’d been battling it out, although not seriously, for a few hours over who could truly claim the weather as a victory. It was still early enough after they’d both managed to survive their very literal severance packets that they hadn’t gotten out of the habit of voicing these things in terms of ‘our lot’ and ‘your lot’, though they smiled a lot more about it during these recent bouts. They were both doing so now, side by side on the sofa, knees bumping as their debate ramped up.
"What’s that got to do with anything?"
"You have to admit, you don’t fare well in cold temperatures. It’s like your internal clockwork needs a good winding and you start to go all stuttery and sluggish."
Crowley didn’t reply, waiting for Aziraphale to get to his point.
"A lot of the demons I’ve known whilst in your acquaintance seem to be—" he waved a hand, attempting to grasp at the threads of his mind, "cold blooded. Or at least creatures that survive better in warmer climes. So I don’t see that it could be so out of the question that it was designed with that in mind. It certainly didn’t snow in the Garden. It came a lot later, once the true nature of Hell had fully been realised."
"Are you seriously trying to tell me that you’re arguing snow is some sort of, of, heavenly biological weapon on the basis that Hell is supposedly hot?!"
Aziraphale blew out a soft laugh at that, and it steamed a little in the air. It really was cold with all the snow piling up outside, even here within the safe walls of the bookshop. Crowley hadn’t said anything about it, but he had left his coat on as they had made their way into the back room several hours ago. Aziraphale was warmed by the Grace of God that made up his very essence, he didn’t tend to bother with things like central heating. He thought briefly about offering to build a fire for Crowley, the idea oddly pleasing to him despite not needing the warmth himself, but wasn’t quite comfortable with an open flame around his books anymore. The night was ticking on, and Aziraphale decided it had been perfectly pleasant & he was ready for it to end before something spoiled it— like Crowley dying of frostbite on his upholstery.
"Perhaps you should be going."
He hadn’t quite meant to say it as bluntly as that. What he’d meant was Crowley, you’re clearly freezing. I know you have all sorts of heated blankets and functional radiators and whatnot in your flat so why don’t you get home and actually have a nice time instead of sitting here listening to me blather on about the weather. I am worried about you, your teeth are chattering.
He had not said that though, because that was not how these things went.
"Going? Why?"
That was definitely not how these things went. Aziraphale needled, gently requested; Crowley acquiesced. Crowley was a creature of questions, but there were certain things he didn’t, and this was one of them. The routine. Aziraphale looked at him impassively, trying to get them back on familiar ground. It wouldn’t do to admit he was worried, Crowley brushed off anything approaching concern for his person with unnatural fervour.
"It’s getting very late and the snow seems to be picking up. I wouldn’t want you driving home in all that."
Crowley appeared to be looking directly at him, but Aziraphale knew the eyes behind the glass were focussed on a spot slightly behind his head and to the right. He could always tell.
"I thought—" he began, "I mean, I had just— it’s" Aziraphale wanted to wait patiently, though Crowley had once sputtered on like this for almost fifteen minutes, and it was only getting colder.
"My dear boy, I don’t want to be rude, but I think the chill running through the shop has addled your brain. All the more reason for you to get yourself home immediately."
It was, apparently, the entirely wrong thing to say.
"So you do know how fucking cold it is in here. And, what, you just decided not to do anything about it? Even today, of all days! Thought it would get me out the door that much quicker, eh?"
"Well, I didn’t think—"
"Oh! Aziraphale didn’t think!" Crowley launched himself off the sofa, pacing the floor and looking anywhere but at Aziraphale. "A first in history, one for the record books!"
"Crowley, what on earth has gotten into you?"
"Do you know what day it is?"
Aziraphale wrinkled his nose, "Of course I do, I’m not an idiot. It’s Tuesday."
"Tuesday."
Crowley looked at him, a strange urgency taking over his features. Aziraphale waved a hand, indicating that he could go on. The demon threw his hands across his face and howled into them.
"Well, there’s no need for that."
"It’s Christmas Eve, Aziraphale."
The angel balked. Surely not so soon? Though, now that he thought about it, without all the orders from Heaven that made this time of year such a flurry of activity, he hadn’t actually stopped to consider the nearness of the day. He’d been too busy off having fun with Crowley to pay attention to things like the passage of time. Truth be told, Aziraphale had been looking forward to his first Christmas Day with nothing to do, nobody to see, alone with a cup of cocoa and a book. Peace at last— though why the fact that it was Christmas Eve today would make Crowley so angry with him he had no idea.
"I— I see."
He didn’t.
"You don’t," Crowley sighed, rubbing his cheek as though he’d been slapped and all the wind seemed to rush out of him. The conversation was getting away from Aziraphale incredibly quickly, and he wasn’t sure he’d even had hold of it in the first place.
"Look, Crowley, I’m sorry about the temperature. You know I run warm, I don’t think about these things unless you tell me—" at that, Crowley let out a short bark of a laugh, but Aziraphale pressed on, "so I apologise, but I really believe you should be getting home, regardless of what day it might be. I’m not sure why you’re so upset about it being Christmas Eve, but I’ve had such a lovely day and I don’t want to ruin it now by quarrelling. I think maybe we’ve both had too much to drink."
Aziraphale had never been more sober in his life than in the instant he finally looked at Crowley’s unguarded expression, sunglasses long gone.
"Aziraphale, I ask nothing of you. I want—" he paused, clearing his throat. It took some time for him to speak once more. "Let me stay, just this once? I‘d hoped— I’d planned stuff. For us. For tomorrow."
"Plans? For Christmas Day? Without consulting me?"
"Not consulting you on plans didn’t seem like a crime this morning."
"Well that’s different, Crowley, that was surprise tickets to the ballet! How could I refuse that? This is— I have my own way of keeping Christmas, you know."
Crowley frowned, looking wrong-footed by this.
"Yeah, but— you don’t have to do that this year. It’s not the same anymore, remember?"
"Exactly, dear boy. I had planned to spend the whole day gloriously alone, not a soul to bother me, just my books." Aziraphale smiled a little, running his hand down the spine of a particularly worn Dickens he’d won in a wager with Hans Christian Andersen (who was more than a little perturbed by the loss and spent a week campaigning outside the bookshop for its return, which Aziraphale wholeheartedly ignored).
"Ah, well," Crowley put his hands in his pockets and turned away, adopting the appearance of nonchalance that Aziraphale hadn’t been fooled by for many years now, "I just thought Christmas might be the time to—that I could—that we could... but no. You don’t want to be bothered. I see that now. You win, angel. Think I’ll spend Christmas getting in a long overdue nap, if that’s the case."
Aziraphale kept quiet as he digested this, not wanting to examine the tendrils of panic that crept up his spine at the thought of Crowley going to sleep after what seemed to be a fairly major argument, the spectre of one hundred years without him hovering over Aziraphale’s head— though he still couldn’t identify the true source of Crowley’s misery, why all this had gone so wrong so quickly. This simply couldn’t be just about Christmas, the demon had never seemed to care for it that much before. The drunken revelry of the turning of the year, though, was much safer territory for them both and a surefire way to salvage the mood of the evening. Aziraphale attempted a smile.
"Will you be awake before the New Year, would you imagine?"
"Dunno," Crowley was tucking his coat tighter around himself, readying for the outside world. "As you said. Clockwork’s all fucked up. It’s been a long, cold winter, and I am very tired."
"Crowley—" Aziraphale went to rise, but stopped himself. Crowley had replaced his sunglasses and located his scarf. This was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? For Crowley to leave, to go back to his flat and resume the comfortable routine of their lives as they had lived them until this evening. Perhaps the demon would be in a snit about whatever faux pas Aziraphale had unthinkingly committed for a little while, but the New Year was a time for making amends. Aziraphale believed it would all work out, because he had to.
Crowley walked to him, seeming impossibly small in this moment despite how he loomed over Aziraphale’s sitting form. This was the part of the evening where Crowley had taken to tapping the back of Aziraphale’s chair as he prepared to go. Tonight, however, he softly placed a hand on the side of Aziraphale’s face. Despite everything, the touch was incredibly warm as Crowley’s thumb trailed a comet of heat across Aziraphale’s cheekbone.
"Have a Merry Christmas, angel."
"Wait—"
The brush of skin to skin seemed to both last forever and vanish so instantly Aziraphale wasn’t certain whether or not he had imagined it, though why he’d imagine such a thing he couldn’t possibly say. Crowley had reached the doorway, and was not looking back.
"And a Happy New Year."
The door shut, and Aziraphale felt rooted to the spot by dread. What did that mean? Surely Crowley could just tell him that when he saw him on the day. Surely he didn’t really intend to sleep through to January?
The snowstorm outside rose in violent crescendo so much so that Aziraphale couldn’t hear the familiar sound of the Bentley departing over the roaring of the wind. It rattled the shutters of the shop and Aziraphale finally was spurred into action to get up and lock the door now that Crowley had gone. Some things grounded you in this life, and couldn’t be replaced by mere miracles. The first bite of hot buttered toast, the warmth of a touch from a loved one, the security of locking one’s own front door by hand. No more unexpected visitors, no unwanted guests, no way for stray thoughts and regrets to sneak through. Peace at last, Aziraphale thought, and wondered why it didn’t feel as satisfying or true as it should have done.
"Oh, bugger it."
He returned to the sofa, choosing to sit in the cold spot where Crowley had been without examining his motives too closely, and miracled himself up a steaming mug of cocoa. He wouldn’t allow himself to dwell on the events of the evening— not now that he finally had the Christmas he’d always dreamed of at his fingertips. The familiar weight of the Dickens collection in his hand, he let out a little sigh and began to read the words he knew so well and found such comfort in. A story of redemption; of a soul saved; many lives changed for the better through the power of love and caring. Aziraphale settled in, and would permit nothing to spoil the tableau of his perfect Christmas.
This, of course, is when Ligur showed up.
Aziraphale had often heard it said (by Crowley) that Ligur was a ghoul, and he had believed it— but he did not believe in this apparition before him.
Ligur looked like a terrible special effect from a BBC Three adaptation. He glowed faintly blue, wibbling around the edges, and seemed to have a touch of static about his corporation. He wore no chains, but instead rattled vaguely, like loose change in the bottom of a bag you’ve not picked up in months. He regarded Aziraphale with barely contained boredom, which did a lot to dull the chilling effect his visage was most likely meant to have.
"What is this?" Aziraphale asked, peering around, "Crowley, are you still here? Is this your doing? Playing some sort of prank?"
"Crawly’s gone, little angel. You gave him the old heave-ho good an’ proper. Merciless, you are."
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. It certainly sounded like Ligur, though he had only had the misfortune to meet the demon once or twice in his lifetime. He quickly sobered himself up entirely, convinced that would do the trick, and was most annoyed to discover it hadn’t. Now he found himself tragically sober and still seeing things, which did not bode well at all. The supposed spirit crackled as he walked towards a bookshelf, tapping a finger at the spines at random.
"Would you please stop touching my things? If you must be here, then come and sit down while I sort out what to make of you."
Ligur snorted, but made his way over to the armchair and slumped into it. It seemed to be a mockery of the usual sprawl Crowley adopted, but lacked all of the finesse and aesthetics. His crotch was much too on display, and he scratched at it absently as Aziraphale attempted to avert his eyes.
"You don’t believe I’m real, do you."
"I do not. I’ve been on this planet for six millennia and never have I encountered anything that would make me believe in ghosts."
"Pffff. Shows what you know," the apparition laughed, pointing a finger at him. "Typical of you though, innit. Somethin’ obviously right in front of your face and you can’t even let yourself see it. Classic."
Aziraphale felt the beginnings of a headache coming on. He was not going to be lectured by what he was almost certain was the result of a bad batch of marmalade gin, and he certainly wasn’t going to go around believing in ghosts all of a sudden.
"Tell me, then, if you’re so clever— how is it possible that a demon destroyed by holy water is sitting in my back room and seems unable to stop intimately scratching himself."
The hand that had been so thoroughly offending him ceased its ministrations, and Ligur sniffed, "Not like I’ve got anythin’ down there. I’m no pervert, not like you an’ Crawly. Goin’ around with bits that you ain’t even usin’ properly."
"I am not having this conversation."
"That’s another Aziraphale classic, avoidin’ difficult conversations.'
Screaming into a pillow was not something Aziraphale had done in the entire time he had been alive, and he wasn’t about to start now, but he could certainly see the appeal. He reached for his mug of cocoa and found it utterly cold, the skin solidified to a horrible sludge. Ligur chuckled and it was all suddenly too much. His lovely day with Crowley ruined, his reading interrupted, his cocoa sullied. He rose from his seat and stood imposingly before the demonic entity, who had the smarts to at least look a little afraid.
"Alright, let’s say I’m willing to bend the laws of reality for a moment and agree that you are here. What do you want from me? You seem to be claiming to know things about me, but we hardly spoke when you were alive. Besides all that I would have thought if you’d wanted to haunt anyone, it would be Crowley. None of this makes any sense, so you have less than sixty seconds to give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just attempt to smite you, or exorcise you, or whatever you, from my sight immediately."
"You think I want to be here? I don’t have no choice in any of this. One minute I’m dead, after going through excruciatin’ pain the likes of which I wish I could make the snake feel for even a second, and the next I’m here hoverin’ about, watchin’ you be a complete idiot. Only you couldn’t see me then, dunno why it’s taken till now for me to be able to talk to you, but I reckon someone’s messin’ with you and I’m all for that. So now here I am, with all this shit about you in my head, only I know I can’t tell you it all. Just the important bits. Need to know basis."
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow that spoke volumes. Smite-adjacent volumes. Ligur cleared his throat.
"Look, do you want me to tell you what’s goin’ on or not?"
"In a timely manner, if you please. I have reading to do."
Ligur rose, then. He rose and kept rising until he was hovering in the air above Aziraphale. His eyes became entirely opaque and when he spoke the room darkened and the furniture trembled. Aziraphale had seen a stage magician do this once back in the day and had been much more impressed with that than he was now, but he listened regardless.
"Principality Aziraphale! I am here to-night to warn you, you are stuck in a middle lane entirely of your own makin’! Yet you have the power to take charge of the car, and there is chance and hope for you yet, even if you are one half of the daftest pair of buggers that’s ever lived!"
Something was tugging at Aziraphale’s mind, something familiar he was certain he should be able to see the full shape and form of, but he was still half convinced this was a trick on Crowley’s part—especially now all this car talk was involved—and the demon would saunter out from behind a shelf and go ‘ta daaaa’ and Aziraphale could clap politely and all the strangeness of the evening would be forgotten. He wandered over to the nearest shelf in order to check behind it, just in case. Ligur continued, undaunted.
"You will be haunted by three other blokes!"
"Actually I believe the line is ‘you will be haunted by three spirits’," Aziraphale automatically piped up, before his eyes widened and he finally looked back at the book he’d left perched on the arm of the sofa. "Oh, no. No. Absolutely not. I refuse. It can’t be."
"It is."
"I think I’d rather not," he grimaced, picking up the book and flicked to the very conversation they were having. "This is completely ridiculous. A Christmas Carol? Really? Whoever is playing this game, this must stop now."
Ligur, apparently having finished delivering his full ghostly message, sank back down to the armchair and resumed scratching, looking very pleased with himself.
"You not gonna ask me if you can ‘take ‘em all at once’?" He smirked, and a complex and lewd hand gesture followed. Aziraphale refused to blush.
"That proves that this is stuff and nonsense. There isn't a force on this earth that would make me believe for even one moment you have read anything, never mind Dickens."
Ligur’s smirk didn’t abate.
"Course I haven’t, but ain’t you ever heard of The Great Gonzo?"