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Aziraphale loved winter. It must be typical of bookshop keepers, if you think about it: in winter one has a perfect excuse to spend most of their time with a mug of hot cocoa and a nice book - the two things Aziraphale knew properly how to appreciate. Not that he never indulged in summer, or spring, or autumn, though.
The true reason why Aziraphale loved winter was that it had always been the festive time. He almost never celebrated with humans, but he enjoyed seeing them so joyous and hopeful, which they were, even if traditions and customs varied from culture to culture; from century to century.
Over the millennia, Aziraphale had seen Yule and Yalda, Koliada and Saturnalia, and dozens of other winter festivals. For him those were always busy days: he simply could not ignore the spirit and always found himself involved in spontaneous miracle-working. The beautiful part was that humans truly believed that wintertime was the time of miracles, and somehow, it helped Aziraphale find his work even more rewarding.
In the middle of the nineteenth century, humans started to understand how real miracles worked, and, with a little punch from Charles Dickens, they began to perform them for each other. It quickly made Christmas Aziraphale's favourite holiday.
*
In winter, Aziraphale often thought of Crowley. Probably, he told himself, it happened because in the earlier days the celebrations had mostly been associated with the Sun, and Crowley had an abiding passion for astronomy. Besides, the angel noticed that people tended to stay closer to their nearest and dearest during the festive season, and well, for Aziraphale it would be Crowley.
Aziraphale, undeniably, preferred the simpler, first explanation.
By some unfortunate coincidence, their occasional meetings never happened during winter celebrations, so all Aziraphale could do was send a little miracle in the demon's general direction, wishing him 'a merry Christmas and a happy New Year' (or their historical and cultural analogues). He'd never tell Crowley about it.
Well, there had been, in fact, that occasion in Rome, a bit more than two thousand years ago, when the demon found Aziraphale and casually presented him with a manuscript of Virgil. Their dinner could even count as a celebration together, but that was it. By the year 1978 Aziraphale had developed rather an obsessive idea of celebrating Christmas with Crowley.
The problem was that the demon was nowhere to be found (Aziraphale could actually feel his presence in the vicinity of Mayfair, which meant Crowley was most likely hibernating in his flat, but it didn't solve the problem at all. What could he tell him? 'Hello, Crowley, let's celebrate Christmas together, I know we only did it once, and it was not called Christmas back then, but why don't we do it again?' That sort of thing?)
So, when on the 24th of December Aziraphale hears of a power cut affecting transport and several shopping centres in London, he literally beams with happiness. He may not feel any demonic activity behind it, but Crowley, that fiend, is cunning and clever, and always keeps Aziraphale on his toes, so the angel knows it is all his tricks. As any decent angel, Aziraphale quickly put on his winter hat and rushed outside to catch a cab to Mayfair. He smiled widely until he reached Crowley's door, and it took him several moments to put on a serious scolding expression. When it had been done, he knocked on the door.
The door flung open after a minute or so, revealing the sleepy demon in his pyjamas and sunglasses, which was, of course, a strange combination, but Aziraphale was not there to question anyone’s style choices.
'Erm, angel. Hi,' Crowley said awkwardly, looking slightly perplexed. Aziraphale smiled widely again, but quickly banished the grin in favour of The Look.
'Hello. May I?' he gestured at the door between them.
'Sure,' the demon said, moving slightly. 'I don't want to sound rude, but what brings you here?' He locked the door and walked to the stylish living room, gesturing at the sofa.
Aziraphale seated himself and watched Crowley sternly (at least, he tried very hard). ‘You know perfectly well why I’m here, you old serpent,’ Aziraphale squinted at the demon. He was probably overdoing it because Crowley looked almost hurt.
‘Hey! I don’t just come to your place calling you ‘angel’, or…’ Aziraphale raised his eyebrow. ‘Well, I do, but I don’t mean-’ Crowley tried again. ‘It’s not the point. Didn’t get your reasoning,’ he said finally.
Aziraphale took a breath in and tried to remember everything Bill Shakespeare had taught him about acting back in the day. ‘Power cut, Crowley. Just before Christmas. The streets are mayhem, and so are the shopping centres! Doesn’t it sound like something you would do?’ Aziraphale praised himself for such a nice soliloquy. Shakespeare would be proud.
Crowley, however, did not seem that impressed. ‘What am I to you, some low-tier Grinch? I’ve been sleeping for a couple of days now, so no, Sherlock, you’ve got the wrong guy!’ he said sharply. Aziraphale’s jaw opened slightly as he was looking for words.
‘Crowley, I know how imaginative you can be when it comes to mischief.’ Technically, he was not lying, so this flattery could not be seen as manipulation. It was more of a soothing technique. It worked (Crowley didn’t interrupt), so Aziraphale continued, ‘I cannot simply let it go, so I’m going to keep an eye on you!’
‘Angel, I’m telling you, it was not me!’ There must have been something in Aziraphale’s eyes that made Crowley stop pushing it (the angel hoped it was determination and not desperate pleading). Crowley contemplated him for a moment or two and snapped his fingers with a sigh, changing his pyjamas to some more appropriate clothing. ‘As you wish, Aziraphale. Keep an eye on me. Wine?’
This is how they celebrated their first Christmas together, and whether they realised it or not, it was going to become their unspoken tradition.
*
A week later Crowley entered the bookshop. It was the early morning of the last day of 1978. There were snowflakes in his hair, which was beautiful, and ASDA bags in his hands, which was promising.
‘What?’ he said to Aziraphale’s quizzical look. ‘Was I supposed to put up with more of your petty offences? Humans will screw something up, and you’ll start blaming me!’ He waited for Aziraphale to protest.
‘No, no, you’re right!’ the angel nodded enthusiastically. ‘Better safe than sorry!’
***
The next year they bumped into one another accidentally (or that's what they tried to make each other believe). They ended up watching fireworks with a bottle of champagne. Another decade began.
***
After four more well-planned winter coincidences, Aziraphale realised that he was running out of ideas. He only hoped that Crowley's creativity would not let them both down (it never had). And well, the good part was that by now it was clear to Aziraphale that Crowley did not mind their new tradition - it was a relief.
On the 23rd of December Aziraphale found a letter waiting for him in the post box. He hurried to the bookshop and carefully cut it open. To his bewilderment, Aziraphale saw a map and a plane ticket. There was also a tiny note in familiar handwriting.
'Got sent to Eastern Europe. Assigned to increase demonic activity in the area. Come and thwart me.
P.S. Burn the note.
C.'
Aziraphale resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the nice touch of drama. As a good friend and companion, he did as Crowley had asked, and several hours later the angel was boarding the plane.
That time they spent almost two weeks together, enjoying mulled wine, local cuisine and lots and lots of snow.
If Crowley had spent three months with guidebooks, trying to pick a perfect location for their little holiday, he was not going to tell Aziraphale about it.
If Aziraphale suspected that the demon's assignment from Hell had never existed, he was not going to tell Crowley.
***
Somehow, that fortnight convinced Aziraphale that it was only natural for them to spend holidays together, and if they wanted to celebrate properly, like everyone else - well, some of humans' rituals were nice and sweet, and worth learning. So, two or three years later Aziraphale gave in to the abiding desire to try out another very human thing.
He was passing by a local Christmas market, clutching to his hot cup of cinnamon cocoa when a brightly decorated stall caught his eye. The saleslady waved at him and, noticing his amusement, commented with a smile, ‘Well, it’s going to be the year of the snake; it’s a Chinese belief.’
It explained why the stall was piled with various things decorated with snake ornaments. There were paintings, knit hats and scarves, stained glass lanterns and lots of various bric-a-brac. Aziraphale liked it all immediately.
‘Right,’ Aziraphale smiled back. ‘Thank you, I almost forgot. Did you make it all yourself?’ he asked, noticing the sparkle in her eyes.
‘I did! Happen to like snakes, always found them graceful,’ she explained.
‘So do I,’ the angel hummed thoughtfully.
Year of the Snake. Well, according to Aziraphale’s expert opinion, there was only one snake in the world that deserved the definite article. And a nice present.
It was more of a new year thing, so the angel waited (im)patiently until the 31st of December. In retrospect, it was a good decision. At least, he hadn’t ruined their Christmas Eve with his nervousness. Now he was trying to stop the internal dialogue – the voice inside his head (the intonations reminded him of Gabriel) kept telling him that the whole idea was silly and that gift giving was for humans, not for ethereal beings, and that Crowley would not like it at all. Aziraphale shook his head violently and deserved a surprised look from Crowley, who had been chattering for some time about that new film he’d seen.
‘What? Angel, I’m not claiming it accurate, I’m just saying it’s fun!’
‘Oh, sorry, Crowley,’ Aziraphale looked at him apologetically. ‘I was not quite following the story of juicy beetles-’
‘Beetlejuice,’ Crowley corrected half-heartedly. ‘What’s wrong, angel?’
‘No, nothing’s wrong, everything’s right!’ Aziraphale babbled. Crowley was not convinced.
‘Come on!’
‘It’s fine, Crowley, really-’
‘I’m waiting, angel.’
‘Crowley, there’s nothing to-’
‘ ‘ve got all night, you know.’ They both knew how irritating Crowley could sometimes be. The demon himself took fierce pride in the ability. He grinned expectantly.
‘Good Lord,’ Aziraphale sighed, and then relaxed a bit. It would be fine. They’d been friends for 6000 years (Aziraphale told the voice to shut up before it could say anything about the status of their relationship at any given moment of the aforementioned time period); he was capable of not making a scene out of nothing.
‘Alright, Crowley. I’ve got a present for you,’ Aziraphale smiled softly. Crowley, on the contrary, lost his nonchalance for a while.
‘Oh,’ he said simply. ‘It’s … unexpected… ehm… Thank you?’
‘Crowley, dear, you’re supposed to receive it first,’ Aziraphale prompted. ‘I hope you’ll like it,’ he added, and gave the demon a neatly wrapped package. Crowley took it, then took his shades off and glanced at the angel – then at the package – at the angel again…
‘Thank you, angel,’ he said again. ‘It’s very nice of you.’
Aziraphale fidgeted in his armchair. ‘You may open it, if you like.’
‘Right,’ Crowley undid the ribbon carefully. Inside there were a soft knit hat and a pair of mittens with intricate snakes crocheted around wrists. Crowley’s expression was painfully moved, and Aziraphale caught his breath. ‘If you care about someone for 6000 years, and then a tiniest gesture of affection gives them the shock of their life, you probably do something wrong,’ thought Aziraphale to himself.
‘Remember this Chinese legend?’ the angel started. ‘I know the story itself does nothing for you, but there was a nice lady who told me it was going to be the year of -’
‘Of the Snake!’ Crowley finished, putting everything on and giving Aziraphale a broad smile. ‘I appreciate it, angel.’
‘Happy New Year, dear.’
In the very end of 1988, they adopted yet another human tradition.
***
‘Cannot believe you’ve grown it yourself,’ Aziraphale sighed with unhidden admiration. ‘It is astonishingly beautiful!’
Both the demon and the young spruce in a jet-black pot swelled with pride. The bookshop was filled with the fragrance of snow and pine (for once, in its coniferous meaning).
‘Anthonishingly beautiful. Grown by Anthony J. Crowley,’ the demon said in a vain attempt to hide from Aziraphale how pleased he was. ‘I could run a shop.’
Aziraphale laughed, and Crowley could not understand why: it was not his best pun, after all. He decided not to think about it.
‘Anyway, angel, I thought we could go and pick some decorations together,’ he ventured instead. Aziraphale beamed, and Crowley thought that Christmas lights would probably be excessive.
‘But of course! Such a beautiful tree deserves the best decorations!’ Aziraphale radiated love, and even if the spruce could not quite understand the meaning of his words, it suddenly felt like producing a cone (which it did).
Crowley rolled his eyes, ‘Don’t praise it too much, Aziraphale. You’ll spoil it.’
They did everything in the human way (they didn’t queue, of course, but who would if they could avoid it?) and came back to the bookshop with baubles, tinsel and star-shaped Christmas lights. The surprisingly large pockets of Crowley’s coat were bulging with sparklers and firecrackers, filling the demon with anticipation and making Aziraphale watch him slightly apprehensively.
Had the bookshop been open that afternoon, several potential customers would have witnessed an angel and a demon decorating the Christmas tree together. The bookshop, however, was closed, and Aziraphale became the only person to see Crowley attaching strings of LED-stars to the windowpane. There was something inexplicably right about the scene.
***
Mr. and Mrs. Dowling are not bad parents. They may not be perfect, but they are not bad either. And well... They try. Sometimes it just doesn't work.
As much as Mrs. Dowling hates to do it, she has to ask Nanny Ashtoreth, the kindest woman, to spend winter holiday with five-year-old Warlock.
'I wouldn't do it, Miss Ashtoreth, you know we always celebrate together,' she says with guilt in her voice, 'and I understand you must have your own plans,' she adds uncertainly, and then it hits her. If she's been interpreting the signs correctly...
'I was also going to ask Brother Francis to stay...' The two women looked in the window to see Warlock and the gardener making a snowman near the conservatory. 'They seem to be having a lot of fun together.'
A barely-noticeable smile tugged at the corner of Nanny’s lips. Crowley is usually the one doing the tempting, but when humans try to tempt him… That’s not exactly new, but still amusing.
Nanny put her hand on Harriet’s shoulder, ‘Do not worry, Mrs. Dowling,’ she said in her sweetest voice, ‘of course, I’ll look after Warlock. And I presume, Brother Francis will also be happy to help, he’s ever so obliging.’
Mrs. Dowling smiled with relief, ‘Thank you so much, Nanny Ashtoreth! I’ll talk to Brother Francis straight away!’
She left the room and could not help feeling amused. She was right, after all, but what a strange couple they would make! They seemed to be each other’s absolute opposites! Harriet chuckled to herself. She has not mastered the art of parentage yet, but she has always been a freaking good matchmaker!
*
‘You must be missing your parents awfully, young master Warlock,’ Brother Francis says softly, looking at the boy with kind and understanding eyes. Warlock doesn’t have enough time to answer, as the next moment Nanny joins them in the car with a bang of the door.
‘Come off it, Francis, Warlock doesn’t miss anyone! We’re going to have LOADS OF FUN!’ She laughs as a madman and grins at Warlock, and it makes him feel better. The boy laughs too, as he somehow knows that the promise is true. The next moment, Nanny pushes the gas pedal and Warlock exhales in excitement because they go fast, the good, fun kind of fast; the forbidden kind of fast, and that’s what Nanny always does, and that’s why she’s so fun to be around. Brother Francis holds his seatbelt for dear life, and he looks absolutely scandalised.
‘Crowley!’ he shouts, and Warlock doesn’t quite understand what it means, but it cannot be a bad word because Brother Francis never swears, so he doesn’t even try to memorise it. He can’t see Nanny’s eyebrow shooting up. ‘Antonia!’ Brother Francis corrects himself. Nanny laughs again, and so does Warlock because it is simply contagious. ‘Ash!’ poor Francis tries again, ‘We’ve got a child in the car, slow down!’
‘The child in the car, my dear Francis, is exactly why I’m doing it!’ Nanny answers reasonably, but slows the car anyway. ‘We’re almost there, boys!’
There are other children on the ice rink, but it is not overcrowded. Warlock skates well for his age, so he quickly speeds away to a group of children, who seem to be having fun. Aziraphale and Crowley make a circle around the rink.
‘Haven’t done it for ages,’ Aziraphale sighs nostalgically. ‘Feel a bit out of practice,’ he admits.
‘It’s like riding a bicycle,’ Crowley answers with a shrug. ‘Once you’ve learnt it, you can’t forget it.’
‘That’s what humans say, Crowley. I doubt any of them has ever tested the theory with almost a century-long break,’ Aziraphale scowls.
‘Come on, angel,’ Crowley smiles and offers him his hand. Aziraphale notices that Crowley’s wearing the snake mittens, and the awareness results in a peculiar feeling in his ribcage. ‘The boy will lose all his respect to Brother Francis if you don’t show him you can skate properly. And then he’ll bring the Armageddon,’ Crowley adds with a more serious expression when he sees Aziraphale’s hesitation. ‘Do it, for the sake of the planet.’
‘Well, what a wording…’ Aziraphale answers, and takes Crowley’s hand, letting Nanny drag Brother Francis swiftly to the centre of the ice rink.
Things you do to save the world.
*
Two weeks with a five-year-old is a long-enough time to get engaged in all sorts of winter activities. They made gingerbread houses and played snowballs together, they went to amusement parks and watched street performers, and once they even ended up visiting the theatre.
‘He’s five, Aziraphale!’ Warlock heard Nanny growling. That might have been a swearword, but the boy wasn’t sure he got it correctly.
‘Come on, Ash, dear, it’s Shakespeare, a funny one. You both will love it!’
Warlock fell asleep before the interval, but it didn’t take him long to forgive Brother Francis for the boring play – the gardener bribed him with delicious cocoa and making snow angels afterwards.
By the day Warlock’s parents came back, the three of them had even watched innumerable children films and cartoons about the winter season, and if Warlock had noticed a manly tear running down Nanny’s cheek when they were watching something particularly moving, well. He was clever enough not to sneak on her.
***
It was Aziraphale’s two-thousand-and-nineteenth Christmas (well, it was everyone’s two-thousand-and-nineteenth Christmas, but it’s not the point); his forty-first Christmas with Crowley; his first Christmas after the Apocalypse didn’t happen and his first Christmas as an unemployed angel.
Which made a lot of difference, if he were honest with himself.
Which he now was.
In 2019 Aziraphale thought that it might be time they introduced another tradition to their celebrations. His hands were shaking slightly when he was hanging mistletoe to the door of his bookshop. When it was done, he sat on the porch and waited for Crowley, who was going to come in 4 minutes and 24 seconds.
After the four-minute-long eternity, Aziraphale saw the Bentley and the surprised demon getting out of it.
‘Hello, Aziraphale!’ he said, his voice amused. ‘What are you doing outside in the co-… Oh.’
He spotted the mistletoe. Aziraphale stood up.
‘This thing is supposed to scare demons away, you know?’ Crowley asked carefully.
‘And we both know it doesn’t,’ Aziraphale answered shortly. ‘Well, at least, it doesn’t scare you away,’ he added after a pause.
‘No,’ Crowley agreed. ‘I suppose, it doesn’t.’
They looked each other in the eye. Aziraphale could feel the air getting solid around them. He swallowed.
‘Male fertility,’ Crowley declared with a grin.
Aziraphale looked at him with wide eyes, ‘Excuse me?’
‘The Celts associated mistletoe with-’
‘Oh dear, they did, didn’t they? It’s not exactly what I mean, Crowley.’
‘No?’ the demon asked, making a step closer. ‘Peace and friendship? Norse mythology?’
‘That’s closer, but still…’
‘Saturnalia! Peace, love and understanding?’
The stubborn demon was going to have his fun. Aziraphale sighed.
‘At least, you’ve got the love part this time.’
‘I… What?’
Crowley took as much pride in his imagination as in his ability to be irritating, but he could never even imagine that the latter would get Aziraphale to kiss him under the mistletoe. He would think about it later, though. He was too busy now. If was his forty-first Christmas with Aziraphale, after all, and well... It was his first Christmas with Aziraphale.