Chapter Text

He was kind

2022, London

Christmas was not Crowley’s favourite day of the year. Not by a long shot.

For one, London weather that time of year is generally terrible: grey, cold and moist in all the wrong ways. Not to mention the dreadfully short daylight.

Nights were not any better: Crowley was no fan of Christmas lights. The bright plastic bulbs were a poor mockery of the stars they intended to imitate and made the night sky that much harder to see. Being around them too long gave him a headache.

And then there was the people. Too many rude shoppers running around trying to secure last minute gifts for supposed loved ones that they had previously forgotten about, securing “deals” that were anything but.¹ Two years of lockdowns had done nothing to improve people’s manners either, it seemed. Normally, Crowley would consider himself a fan of the general human chaos that was central London. Not so on the days leading up to Christmas, thank you very much.

And don’t get him started on the nativities… Even the ones that were not on consecrated ground made him feel like he was metaphorically on fire. He didn’t have anything against arts and craft but… it felt wrong, to put a family’s most intimate moment on display like that. To celebrate the birth of a precious little baby as if people didn’t know what was in store for him.

It’s different when it’s someone you knew.

The good news is, Crowley saw all this coming, and he was prepared. He had learned years ago that he was better off simply skipping the whole thing and hiding himself away until Boxing Day. It’s not like he had family to visit in any case.

So, he decided, he would hole himself up in his flat on the 20th and stay there until the 26th, well supplied with extraordinary amounts of alcohol, a DVD set of Golden Girls episodes, and the copious reruns of old Christmas classics and assorted room-coms the TV had to offer this time of year. If he ended up watching The Holiday for a 15th time, so be it. Might even get a nap in.

The first few days went swimmingly.

By the 24th, however, the quiet inside his own four walls had become very loud.

It is hard to remain cheerful while, the world over, people celebrate the birthday of your friend… but your friend is gone, and all you can see in your mind’s eye is his heartbroken face as he is condemned to a horrible fate for crimes he didn’t commit.

A friend whom you know was condemned to this fate from the beginning, by his own Mother.

By your own mother, of sorts, or at least the closest to one you’ve ever had. The only semblance of a family you may have had.

It was hard to rejoice and share the holiday spirit as carollers announced that the Lord is born, when you knew he was born damned to suffer for other’s sins.

Sins that you, in your own damnation, helped bring to the World.

It was hard… knowing she never spoke to him either, at least not until he died for Her Grand, Ineffable Plan.

And yet Jesus had loved Her. He didn’t know it was Her, Jesus called out to “Father”, but even not knowing Her, he loved Her, and the World, and even the people who nailed him to the cross.

And She never spoke to him.

Crowley had shown him the kingdoms of the Earth. Jesus knew Crowley was trying to tempt him, knew what he was, and yet Jesus had smiled at Crowley like a brother. They travelled, and they talked; Jesus was clever, generous and witty. He was gentle. He had the knowledge of elder wise men in spite of his young years, and yet he was humble. Kind. He wanted to hear Crowley’s thoughts, and listened with care, found his ideas worthy.

They had laughed together like brother and sister.

Crowley felt the flat walls closing in on him. He needed a stiff drink.

He paused his third re-watch of Bridget Jones’ Baby and reached for a bottle of Macallan he had opened that morning, but found it empty. He rummaged through the kitchen in search of another and came out empty-handed. He had burned through his supplies like a comet.

That would not do.

He briefly pondered going outside for supplies but decided to try napping instead. Sleep had other plans, evading him entirely.

He could just miracle himself another bottle…

…or maybe he could pay the Angel a visit?

Walk to the shop, get some air, see what Aziraphale was keeping busy with, maybe convince him to share a drink or two…?

They had been spending more time together since failed Armageddon, now that their respective sides had agreed to let them be for a while, so it surely couldn’t hurt to pop in.

He would be casual about it; pick up a bottle or two of something nice for the Angel on the way, call it a Christmas gift, say he had just so happened to be in the area and thought to drop it off… He’d say something clever, the angel would say something unintentionally hilarious, one thing leads to another, and they’d end up drinking through the night.

Yeah, that could work.

Before he knew it his keys were in his hand and his feet were taking him to the shop, making a stop at the nearest off-license to pick up two bottles of their most expensive vintage. He made a point to pay in full and get a receipt, least the Angel worry he might be drinking ill-procured wine. The shopkeeper secured the bottles snuggly in a sturdy gift bag and wished him a Merry Christmas, unreciprocated.

It was dark outside already. Warm light glowed from the book shop’s windows invitingly as Crowley approached. He rapped his knuckles twice, directly above the sign proudly declaring “VERY CLOSED”. With a last minute thought, he snapped his fingers and two large red bows tied themselves on the necks of the bottles he was carrying, right as a slightly frazzled Angel opened the door:

“I am terribly sorry but I’m afraid we are quite… Oh, Crowley! Sorry old boy, do come in.”

As realisation hit him, Aziraphale’s demeanour shifted from politely dismissive to a happy, relaxed air that Crowley found utterly contagious.

This had been a good idea.

“Hi Angel” crooned Crowley with a smirk as he stepped into the shop.

“What a surprise.” Aziraphale started as he closed the bookshop door again, then turned towards Crowley “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Crowley held out the bag with a sideways grin.

“Christmas present” he explained. “Slightly early” he added as a second thought.

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up as he delicately took the bag handles from him and rushed to inspect the contents.

“Oh Crowley! Why, you shouldn’t have… That is very nice.”

Aziraphale’s gaze was warm and soft. It made Crowley tingle.

“Ngk. Not nice.” He fought it out of habit, but there was no real bite to the words now that Hell was off his back. It felt nice, even. Not that Crowley was ready to admit that.

“Oh but, dear boy, I’m afraid I have nothing for you. I wasn’t expecting to see you until Boxing Day.”

“Whole point of the wine, really” Crowley thought to himself. No need for the Angel to know that, though.

“No need, Angel.”

Crowley meant it, but Aziraphale looked unconvinced.

“‘s no big deal, Angel, really. I was in the area already. Saw those and thought you might like ‘em, you know?”

“Oh… well… it’s very kind of you, in any case.” Aziraphale insisted. Crowley was quiet, seemingly focused on whatever he saw out the front windows of the shop, so he continued. “You were in the area? Off to anywhere nice? Maybe some Holiday Celebrations?” Aziraphale punctuated the last question with a wiggle, pronouncing the capital letters. Infuriating. Endearing.

“Eh, just a trip to the off-licence” Crowley joked. He returned his gaze to the angel with a lazy smile.

Aziraphale did not catch his meaning, it seemed. His brow creased momentarily, yet it was gone as soon as it had arrived.

“Oh! Well don’t let me keep you then. Might be closing soon.”

“No, I mean…” Crowley started. His brain strained to find the words to explain that no, he didn’t in fact have anywhere else to be, or at least not anywhere else he wanted to be… without saying those specific words.

He couldn’t find the right words. His gaze roamed the shop haphazardly as if searching for them on the walls. It was only then that he noticed the back of the bookshop. Aziraphale’s desk was covered in a cacophony of boxes in assorted colours and sizes. Some were open or knocked sideways, ribbons, tinsel and baubles poking out in disarray. Behind it, a large plastic Christmas tree sat bare and expectant.

Aziraphale was looking at him, patiently waiting for the rest of whatever Crowley had been about to say. Crowley’s jaw, however, had gone slack mid-sentence, and was now racing to catch up with a new set of thoughts. It was a difficult race.

“… keeping busy, Angel?” Was all he managed. Aziraphale looked confused at first but managed to connect the dots by following Crowley’s gaze towards his desk.

Had Crowley been looking, he might have noticed Aziraphale blushing in self-awareness.

“Ah, yes, I thought I’d try something new. The merchants’ association director stopped by and… strongly suggested that the shop could use some holiday cheer, so I said why not. Oh but I’m afraid I’ve delayed putting these up something dreadful and it turns out it’s a bit more involved than I anticipated. I expect it’s rather foolish to put them up now but, I promised, so…”

“Need a hand?”

Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide, and he stammered out some soundless syllables.

“Oh I – I mean that would be so very nice of you” Crowley made a face but didn’t interrupt. Aziraphale’s hands moved as he spoke but were weighed down by the wine bag he was still holding. The angel looked down at his present.

“Oh but you’ve already inconvenienced yourself on my account and I’m afraid I’m making you late for your shopping.” He sighed “I can’t even be sure I’ll finish this, to be honest. I haven’t even unpacked the nativity scene figures yet.”

Crowley winced and hoped against hope that it hadn’t been obviously visible. Based on Aziraphale’s worried look, he had little hope of that being the case.

“Right, er… I’ll be off then if you don’t want – er, if you’re busy. ‘Njoy the wine.”

Aziraphale looked at him for a second longer, then walked to open the door for him.

“Oh, I’m sure I will. Have a good night, dear. Mind how you go.”

The off license was closed when Crowley came back to it.

The bar next door, thankfully, was not.

Aziraphale felt like a twat.

That is not how he would have phrased it. Aziraphale’s vocabulary was too vast and too proper to default to such language. He might have described himself as “discombobulated”, or perhaps “out of sorts”.

“Like a twat” was, however, the most apt description.

He had the creeping sensation that he had severely put his foot in his mouth; so much so that he had managed to chase Crowley away, when he would have preferred the exact opposite.

He locked the door out of muscle memory and then stood in front of it, momentarily lost. It took him a moment to remember he was still holding the wine bag. Once he did, he hurried to the kitchenette in the back of the shop, grateful for something – anything – to do with his hands.

He felt like him and Crowley had simultaneously been in the same conversation, and in two entirely different ones. As if they had been speaking different languages through an interpreter who was half-asleep.

The fact is he had had half a mind that morning to invite Crowley over for the evening. They had celebrated the New Year together once before in 1945, after all, and shared a few Christmases with the Dowlings while in their employment, so it wouldn’t come off out of line, he didn’t think. Sometime in the 70s they had even picked up the habit of meeting at St. James for a walk on Boxing Day each year, a tradition they had kept up to this day.

He didn’t see why they couldn’t also celebrate Christmas now that neither Heaven nor Hell had a say in their actions.

Truth is, Aziraphale had always loved the idea of celebrating the holidays. His heart filled with warmth at the thought of families coming together to spend a few days simply enjoying each other, being thankful for the people by their side. Call him frivolous, but he found the whole affair with the trees and decorations quite charming.

In years past he had feared that Heaven might disapprove of him engaging in any aspects of Christmas that were not strictly religious. He could only imagine the kind of words Gabriel and Uriel might have to say were they to catch him wrapping a tree in garland or decorating gingerbread cookies. The feeling of being pushed against a wall by Uriel briefly flashed through Aziraphale’s mind, making him shiver.

Well, he was retired now. A hard earned, liminal status, and a fragile one at that, but he might as well enjoy it while he could. He may not have a family to celebrate with per se but he had Crowley. They had our side. Surely, he could tempt the demon into a spot of Christmas Cheer. ²

Aziraphale had, in spite of his fears, purchased a number of Christmas accoutrements over the years ³, up to an including a luxurious 8 ft artificial fir ⁴ that had marked Aziraphale’s first non-book related online purchase, back in 2005. He had told himself it was all part dutifully of maintaining his appearance as a regular shopkeeper, and a safe enough outlet for his yearning. He may not have been able to actually put the thing up, but he could give himself the luxury of shopping for his preferred decorations nonetheless, carefully choosing ornaments and baubles that resonated with him. If the archangels questioned it, he would insist it was the same as with his purchasing books. He was not going to sell books, but he did maintain the appearance of running an actual bookshop, and procuring a few items helped him keep the appearance up. If some such items happened to be Christmas baubles, so be it. He was was especially proud of his unique nativity scene, on occasion making trips to Munich and Barcelona to procure exactly the right figures, often custom made.

But this year could be different! He had started toying with the idea of actually decorating around December 1st, when most of his fellow Wickber St. traders had begun hanging up lights and ornaments. True, some shops had put up Christmas decorations as early as November, but Aziraphale was rather aware that this was considered gauche, so he opted to wait. He’d had the weekend on December 3rd in mind, but when that date came around, he thought it best to wait until the more traditional December 8th, and by then he had become rather busy, immersed as he was in a book restoration project and frequently dining with Crowley...

In retrospect, he had been scared. He knew, rationally, that Heaven knew too many damning things about him already for Christmas decorations to make any difference, but the habit of hiding his infatuations had become deeply ingrained in him and it was a difficult habit to break.

So, there he had been, the morning of December 24th, realising he had procrastinated putting up his beloved decorations until the last possible minute and that it was, quite frankly, now or never.

But the nearing deadline brought the Angel newfound determination, and Aziraphale had finished his tea that morning resolute that he would, in fact, deck the halls of his bookshop until they glowed with Christmas cheer. Once he was done, he would use that same determination to invite Crowley over, he hoped.

The thing is, Aziraphale was a natural collector, and funds had never been a limiting factor. Aziraphale had never, until today, seen his entire collection all at once.

It was beyond overwhelming.

Aziraphale spent the whole day simply accounting for what he had, or at least trying to: His desk was soon buried in a heap of baubles and ornaments spanning a wide range of colours, materials and styles, a wide array of Christmas lights, seven different hand-embroidered tree skirts and, inexplicably, sixteen unique figurines of donkeys.

He had only managed to set the tree on its stand and fluff out the branches by the time Crowley showed up, and he had been caught out in his embarrassment. He had been a fool to reject help when he sorely needed it, embarrassed to show Crowley his precious secret collection. The latter, he thought now, was even more foolish. He had nothing to be ashamed of, but more importantly this was Crowley they were talking about. The same Crowley who had never been anything but supportive of Aziraphale’s many passions. ⁵ Crowley may poke fun at him for the sake of mischief, but he had never mocked him, never belittled or taken his interests as anything but worthwhile.

But now Crowley was gone, and Aziraphale felt entirely out of sorts. During the conversation moments ago, Aziraphale had managed to convince himself that Crowley was busy and wouldn’t want to stay. In hindsight he realised that Crowley’s declared plans consisted entirely of running to the liquor shop, when Aziraphale had a whole shop stocked with all kinds of the finest liquor.

Aziraphale wanted to slap himself as the conversation replayed in his mind. Even after making peace with the fact that he had entirely misinterpreted Crowley’s words, he still felt like there was another message in there, a second code in a language he had to learn the hard way – no miracles, no Rossignols.

Crowley had seemed bothered by… something. If only Aziraphale could parse out what.

He opened one of the bottles to calm his nerves. It truly was a wonderful vintage, which only served to make him feel altogether worse for not inviting Crowley to stay for a glass.

But Aziraphale was a determined angel. He may have blown his chance tonight, but tomorrow would be another day, Christmas Day, and he would invite Crowley over, if only for a glass of the delightful Beychevelle. ⁶

Aziraphale did not, in fact, invite Crowley over the following morning.

He did not have to.

It had taken most of the night and the first wine bottle, together with copious amounts of tea and the occasional sip of sherry, but he had managed to wrestle his Christmas collection into what he hoped was a tasteful setup. The bookshop’s interior was now outlined by golden garlands and soft paper lanterns, all of which came together at the back, driving attention towards a fluffy, fully decorated tree that stood proudly against the back wall. The tree was covered in mostly gold and silver decorations, some simple baubles, some depicting the many delights of Her creation. The tree skirt was velvet black with stars embroidered in gold and silver, accentuating the tree without competing with it, and on the windowsill sat Aziraphale’s own, truly unique nativity scene.

He was rather proud, if angels were allowed such a thing. ⁷

The sun’s rays had just started to poke over the horizon, and Aziraphale celebrated his accomplishment with one more cup of Earl Grey as he admired the result. It was almost perfect, now he just needed…

The sharp sound of glass shattering outside his door caused Aziraphale to jump slightly before placing his cup down and walking over, mentally preparing to politely but firmly scold off the rabble-rousers. He was well aware of Soho’s late-night appeal, and he empathised with people who may have got carried away celebrating. He really did… but that didn’t mean he was ready to tolerate them wreaking havoc on his premises.

He set the door ajar, peeking out cautiously at first, until the source of the noise became evident.

“Crowley! What on Earth…?” Aziraphale trailed off, realising the demon before him was actually asleep.

Aziraphale had made a point to sober up periodically throughout the night, wanting to make sure he was at his sharpest for the whole decorating affair. Even so, he had to reassure himself that he was not in fact intoxicated as he took in the image before him.

Crowley was sprawled on the front steps, one hand barely holding onto an empty bottle of liquor, the other cradling something to his chest like a teddy bear. His glasses had fallen entirely off his face and now laid, resting, on his chest.

A third bottle had seemingly escaped his grasp and landed against the bookshop door, breaking into several pieces.

At least there were no hooligans on his street, he thought.

Aziraphale turned to miracle the mess of shattered glass gone when he was, again, interrupted by the rather implausible sound.

“Quack!”

A duck.

Crowley, asleep on his front steps, was cradling a duck to his chest. ⁸

Aziraphale huffed in disbelief but failed to suppress a chuckle. He crouched down, gently prying the bird from its makeshift demonic nest.

“Hello, you.” He greeted it. “How did you end up here?”

“Quack”

“Right. Well, shall we send you back home?”

The duck quacked again, softly.

“Well then, off you pop.” Aziraphale responded, setting the bird on the ground before him. As he went to snap his fingers, he added: “Merry Christmas”.

Now, on to the second lost duckling. ⁹

Aziraphale crouched down again and gently shook Crowley’s upper arm.

“Crowley? Crowley dear I’m afraid this is not the best spot for a nap.”

The demon began to stir.

“Ngg. Mornin’, ‘ngel” he croaked, his voice hoarse and mellow.

“Good morning, Crowley. Would you like to come in?” Aziraphale asked, offering a hand.

Crowley blinked at him slowly with dilated yellow eyes. His look of relaxed intoxication contrasted sharply with the contorted pose his corporation lay in. Crowley looked at Aziraphale’s hand, reaching out to grab it but making no other movements. His gaze slowly followed the line of his Aziraphale’s arm all the way up to the angel’s face. For a handful of heartbeats, the demon stared at him with a lazy, intoxicated grin. Aziraphale felt the skin of his face grow warm.

The moment Crowley’s brain caught up with reality was visible on his face: His eyebrows shot up towards his hairline, eyes blown wide, mortified. The hand that had been loosely grasping a bottle flailed around towards his glasses as he stumbled up, placing sudden weight on Aziraphale’s hand and almost bringing the Angel down with him. Aziraphale managed to stabilise both of them and pull the other upright, but not before the glasses clattered to the floor and a second bottle rattled on his steps, thankfully without shattering.

Crowley swallowed, noticing the shattered glass with the air of a child that’s been caught misbehaving, both hands stuck inside the cookie jar.

“N’gl… Sssssorry ‘bout that.”

Aziraphale found it hard to be mad. Crowley looked a mess, indeed, but he managed to do so in a most endearing fashion. It wasn’t often that Aziraphale got to see the more disheveled side of Crowley without being himself impaired by an alcoholic drink or two. ¹⁰ The word adorable came to mind, although Aziraphale knew better than to say so out loud.

“Ah, yes. Not to worry.” The angel snapped, making the broken glass disappear as he bent down to pick up the glasses and remaining bottle. “Shall we go in?”

Crowley nodded meekly, pretending to examine his cuticles as he half-stumbled into the shop, mumbling something akin to “thanks” followed by a string of hiccups.

Aziraphale walked towards a side table, cursorily examining the bottle he had picked up and grimacing as he read “cream flavoured vodka” on the label. A far cry from the smooth notes of a well-aged Talisker, he noted. He would have to ask about that.

He placed the sunglasses and bottle down as he turned towards Crowley, except Crowley was no longer behind him. He quickly scanned the room, only to find Crowley kneeling in front of the Christmas tree, seemingly enthralled by one of his ornaments.

He walked over.

“Crowley?”

The demon jumped slightly, as if he had forgotten he was not alone.

“These ‘re pretty” he said, pointing a long, elegant finger towards a crystal piece shaped like an icicle Aziraphale had acquired on his last trip to Italy. “The light’ssss all – it reff- refrra– ‘its, looks like sstarss”.

Aziraphale’s eyes wrinkled with joy. “They are, aren’t they? I picked that one up in Austria sometime in the early 50s at this charming little market. They had some exquisite strudel too.”

Crowley chuckled, swaying lightly from one side to the other and making Aziraphale wonder just how much of that vodka was still in him. “‘t works well wizth the lightsssss”, he added, craning his neck up to examine Airaphale’s paper lanterns. “‘I like thosssse. Sssss much nicer that the fairy lights’ s’ everywhere now.”.

“You think? I read fairly lights have become more popular than these since the Savoy ¹¹ but, ah, I’ve never been one to keep up with fashion”. ¹²

“BollocksS!.” Crowley yelled, almost falling on his back but catching himself. “Thesssse’r much better. Less harsh on the eyesss for one…” Crowley eyed him out of the corner of his eye “Not sure you need more fashion advissss fr’m the Vict’rians anyway” he crooned, grinning mischievously.

Aziraphale laughed, recognising the playful banter for what it was. They sat by the tree for the better portion of an hour, Crowley pointing out ornaments he liked, Aziraphale recounting stories about how each one came to be acquired. Aziraphale made tea for both of them, and while he did Crowley found on the tree shaped like an apple and a snake. By the time Aziraphale came back, Crowley had moved both newfound pieces onto the same branch and angled them to fit together.

“Look! ‘Ssss me!” He exclaimed with childlike excitement. It made Aziraphale giggle into his cup.

Crowley paused his examination of the tree to sip into his own teacup, but his eyes never left the fir. As he drank his brow creased thoughtfully.

“Didn’t know you had a Chrsssstmass tree ngel. Ne’er seen’t it” he added, shifting his attention to Aziraphale, who had sat by him on the ground again. “You’ve ‘d some of these for agesss”. He added as a second thought.

“Ah, yes, I have.” Aziraphale fidgeted. He felt exceedingly foolish admitting it out loud, but he reminded himself this was Crowley, possibly the only being in Creation who could legitimately understand why he might have kept his Christmas spread under wraps. Not to mention, this was the same Crowley whom he’d found napping on his front step, utterly wasted on cheap vodka, shy of an hour ago.

“S’kay, ‘ngel.” Crowley started.

“No, no, it’s fine, really. I started collecting these sometime in the 19th century for… well, frankly, because they’re pretty” Crowley smiled as Aziraphale over-enunciated the word.

Aziraphale’s gaze was glued to a point somewhere on the ground behind him.

“I wasn’t quite sure Heaven would take too kindly to this kind of display though, although in hindsight I doubt they would have cared” Crowley nodded with a slight grimace “but now… well, Gabriel’s opinion on it is rather a moot point now anyway, so I figured why not?”

By the time Aziraphale raised his gaze, Crowley was staring at him with a kind, sincere smile on his face. Aziraphale considered himself doubly foolish for having doubted the demon’s reaction to the explanation he just shared, but this time there was no shame attached to the realisation. Just a warm, cozy feeling, reminiscent of a warm cup of tea on a cold wintry night.

“Ssso you’ve been’ puttin’ these up since Adam, y’know, fixed ssstuff?” Crowley twirled a finger in the air as if to summarise the events.

“Well, uh, not quite. This is my first time, actually. ¹³ I guess you could say it took me a few years to really adjust.”

Crowley was still smiling sympathetic.

“Well, better late than never Angel. Lookssss good.”

“Thank you!”. Now that Aziraphale had someone to share his work with, he felt emboldened. “Oh, I think you’ll like this bit too.”

Before Crowley could protest he was being lifted up from his seat and pushed towards the windowsill. Part of his brain wanted to protest but the words died in his mouth.

Aziraphale had a nativity scene, in a sense, but it was unlike anything Crowley had seen before. They were nativity figurines, but they didn’t show the birth of Christ. Instead, Aziraphale had built a miniature of Eden, showing a happy Adam and Eve surrounded by all types of trees and animals – including an unusually high density of donkeys, he noted curiously.

He was there, of course, a shiny black snake curled around an apple tree.

But he was also there with Aziraphale, two winged figures perched on the window frame side by side, guarding the scene from above. He was grinning before he could notice.

“‘Ss Eden!” He exclaimed cheerful.

“It is! I’m glad it’s recognisable. Not the most traditional but it seemed more fitting to show the actual beginning…”

“‘ngel it’ssssss brilliant! How’d you get all these!”

“Oh, I met a wonderful group of artisans in Spain, near the Sagrada Familia. Lovely fellows. We had the loveliest time over churros and hot chocolate.”

“You’v’ done ‘xssscellent work here ‘ngel’” Crowley responded, walking back towards the tree to admire the ensemble from a different angle.

Aziraphale brimmed with pride.

“There’s more decorations too, other styles and colours… I’m afraid I’ve amassed a rather large collection.” He emphasised the word large; Crowley responded with a look that suggested he understood the magnitude of the situation.

He chuckled at himself before adding: “A few have been gifts too. This one here is from the Wickber St. Merchant’s Association, back in the 80s” he added, approaching Crowley by the tree and pointing a perfectly manicured nail towards a small wooden cross, painted gold with a metal image of Christ resting on it, and hanging on a short golden ribbon. “Not my favourite, but it matched the colour scheme…”

Crowley looked away, his hand patting his pocket for sunglasses that were no longer there.

“I ss-see. It’s… Yeah, it matchessss…”

Crowley went quiet for a moment, seemingly lost, then came back to himself.

“Rightsss… ‘ssupose I should ssssober up now”.

Aziraphale clocked the change in demeanour but could not readily identify its cause.

“Oh. Well, yes, if you’d like.” He said. Then, recalling the previous night, he added: “Do not hurry on my account, stay as long as you like.”

Crowley had snapped his fingers already, fixing his appearance as much as his state of inebriation. He began walking towards his sunglasses.

A sense of deja-vu washed over Aziraphale, now standing alone by the tree. He looked to the ornament and back towards Crowley, making up his mind.

In that moment Aziraphale, former Principality and Angel of the Eastern Gate, decided to be brave.

“Crowley?” he called out, gently but determined, as he walked towards the demon. Crowley stopped, halfway to his sunglasses, and turned around.

“Angel?”

“I was… ah, would you sit down with me? I had something I wanted to mention.”

Crowley raised a single eyebrow but sat on the sofa, arms spread across the back and armrest.

Aziraphale started towards his armchair, changing his mind at the last minute and sitting on the sofa instead, his knee barely brushing the demon’s leg.

“I was thinking yesterday after you left…” he started. Crowley was watching him attentively, eyebrow still raised. Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I was thinking I was rather rude last night, dear, and I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you needed to leave after you brought such a thoughtful present – oh, it as delicious by the way – yet I’m afraid I gave you the impression that you weren’t welcome. And that’s simply not true. You are. Welcome I mean. Here. Anytime.”

By the time his speech was over Aziraphale’s face felt very warm, but he pushed through with determination.

Crowley watched him unblinking for another second, then relaxed, daring a small smile. “It’s alright angel. No offence taken. Not big on etiquette, us demons… Thanks though.”

That had been easy, Aziraphale thought, and yet the nagging feeling that he was still missing something persisted.

“I’ll… leave you to it then.” Crowley went to get up again.

“NO!”

They stared at each other, Aziraphale as surprised by his outburst as Crowley was.

“Sorry, I mean, of course you’re free to go if you wish, but I’d rather you don’t.”

“Oh.”

A few moments of silence passed. Crowley lowered back down into his seat, expectant. Aziraphale searched hard for the words he actually wanted to say.

“Crowley” he looked at the demon with determination “would you… would you tell me why you actually came by yesterday? The gift was lovely, of course, don’t get me wrong, but I have this… feeling that there’s something I’m missing. Something important. Something that’s, well, upset you, I believe.”

Crowley swallowed loudly. He looked away from Aziraphale, focusing on the windows, and held silent for a long series of moments.

Aziraphale’s hands fisted in his lap, but he waited patiently. After a few minutes, he gathered the courage to lay a hand on Crowley’s knee. Crowley looked back at him, as if brought back from distant thoughts.

He sighed.

“Alright.”

Another quiet moment passed. They looked at each other; Aziraphale waited for Crowley to find his words.

“It’s… it’s different when you knew him”.

“…knew him?”

“Jesus. You know, the whole Christmas affair. It’s different… when you knew him.”

Aziraphale felt the jigsaws pieces align in his mind, images of a long-gone time coming back to him.

He remembered the warm air of the night when Chris was born, which he had overseen from a distance. He remembered the joy he felt when hearing through the Heavenly grapevine that God’s child was growing into a wise, extraordinary young man… and the sheer heartbreak of the crucifixion. Aziraphale had not met him personally, and still his heart had ached watching the senseless cruelty infringed on one whom, by all accounts, had been a kind and charitable soul.

He remembered a shadow standing next to him in Golgotha all those years ago, clad in mournful black, beautiful and terrible. He hadn’t known her as well back then as he knew him now, but even then, the sadness had been palpable. She had known him, and she had mourned him with all her heart. He still did.

Of course he still did.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley. He’d held his gaze when he first spoke but now was once more focused on the far window, hiding. The quiet stretched. Aziraphale wanted to say something, but he was not willing rush the words and say the wrong thing.

Instead, he read. He read the demon sitting before him like an open volume. The demon he’d known for six-thousand years and was still getting to know.

Crowley was spread over the couch in his casual fashion, but his fingers twitched almost imperceptibly. His eyes were still, unblinking, frowning at nothing. His breath was slow, deliberate, controlled. Not a single hair of the demon before him was relaxed, in spite of the appearance he might try to convey.

There was hurt there; a hurt Aziraphale had possibly never felt, not really. But one he was beginning to understand, as far as he could.

Aziraphale reached for Crowley’s hand and squeezed. He waited for Crowley to look at him and said the only thing he could.

“I’m sorry.”

Crowley swallowed drily. He looked repeatedly away and back at Aziraphale, as if testing whether he could hold the angel’s gaze. In the lantern’s soft glow Aziraphale noticed his eyes were brighter, glossier… wet.

He squeezed Crowley’s hand again.

“He was your friend.” Aziraphale said. It wasn’t a question.

“He was kind. He deserved better, angel”. The words were angry, but not at Aziraphale. A world of heartbreak lived in them.

Aziraphale moved closer and held Crowley’s hand with both his own. He could feel the warmth radiating off Crowley now, smell a faint hint of cologne.

Crowley looked away and sniffed, sinking slightly lower into the couch. His free hand tangled in his hair and came to rest by his face, ready to discreetly catch any tears.

They sat like that for a long time.

When Crowley spoke again, it was very quiet. Choked.

“I... I should have done something.”

Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide with shock and sadness. He squeezed the hand he continued to hold.

“Crowley…”

“It was my fault, angel. He died for their sins.”

The sentence rang in the air, hollow, and Aziraphale pondered. 200 years ago, he may have been willing to agree, much as it pained him to admit, but he’d learned too much since... and he had learned it from the heartbroken demon sitting before him. He was not about to let Crowley blame himself for this.

“Crowley…” he tried again, wanting to comfort but struggling to find the words.

Crowley turned further in the opposite direction, legs swinging over the arm rest, taking away his hand from Aziraphale’s and trying very hard not to show that he was wiping his face clean of tears.

It broke Aziraphale’s heart. The demon behind him was carrying the weight of the World, or Heaven’s… of ineffability, all on his thin shoulders. Crowley had done more for the World than any other entities Aziraphale knew, and he was kinder than anyone noticed. This was simply not right.

As it were, Aziraphale was not the kind of angel to give up in the face of injustice.

“Crowley” he said, firmer. “Would you turn around, dear?”

“Ngk.” The demon turned further away.

Crowley could be rather stubborn, that much Aziraphale knew. They had that in common too.

Aziraphale sat back slightly towards the opposite end of the couch and reached for Crowley’s shoulder, gently pulling him backwards. Crowley’s back was almost fully towards him now, so as Aziraphale guided him Crowley landed with his back on the couch, head on Aziraphale’s lap.

Crowley didn’t’ protest but kept his hand firmly over his eyes.

Aziraphale looked forwards rather than directly at him, not wanting to overwhelm. He carded his fingers through Crowley’s hair, hoping to soothe, and spoke slowly.

“Crowley, dear. It’s not your fault any more than it is mine. You couldn’t know, not like with Job. I didn’t know either… until it was too late. Perhaps I didn’t want to know, if I’m honest with you. If anything, it should be my fault more than yours, but… I don’t think he would want you to blame yourself. Jesus, that is. You’ve done more for the World than any of us had right to ask of you. You’ve looked after Humanity, like he did, made sure his sacrifice wasn’t in vain.”

Crowley shifted, laying sideways rather than on his back. His hand dropped from his face, and Aziraphale felt dampness when he took it. His other hand continued to trace circular patterns on Crowley’s scalp.

“He would want you to be kind on yourself, dear; to be happy… And so would I.”

They stayed that way, in silence. Aziraphale held Crowley’s hand, feeling tears fall on his pant leg. Crowley’s breath had turned erratic, the carefully controlled façade gone. Aziraphale continued to comb through his hair, steady, occasionally adding a squeeze of the hand.

Ever so slowly, Crowley’s breath evened out. Sobs became less and less frequent as minutes ticked by. Aziraphale scratched lightly at Crowley’s scalp, the fingers of his other hand now intertwined with Crowley’s.

Crowley’s breath slowed down so much that at a certain point Aziraphale wondered if he may have fallen asleep, but eventually a small voice said:

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure dear. It’s what I’m here for, no?”

After a few moments of consideration, Aziraphale added.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“…sure.”

“Why cream flavoured vodka? I don’t mean to judge, really, but it sounds dreadfull”

Crowley snorted and laughed. It was wet and chocked, but it was a genuine laugh. He rolled onto his back and looked at Aziraphale. The mood lifted, and Aziraphale’s heart felt warm seeing the clouds of hurt dissipate.

“It is, Angel. They ran out of everything else. Never let me try a Girl Scout shot again.”

Aziraphale grimaced and laughed with him.

“Should have tried some of the wine you got me instead, it’s truly delightful.”

Crowley’s face seemed stuck between a grin and a grimace.

“I’ll take your word for it, Angel. Glad it’s good but I think I’ve had my share of drink for the day.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale chuckled.

“Oh, that reminds me. I owe you a present.”

“You don’t angel, it was my choice to bring it. And… well not a fully selfless choice either, now y’know. Still a demon.”

Aziraphale tutted. “None of that. Now I did consider gifting you this excellent vintage of Rioja I’d been saving but, seeing as you’ve had a rough night, there’s a second option… If you’re amenable.”

Crowley looked at him quizzically.

“A second option?”

Aziraphale blushed and looked ahead.

“Well, I was thinking, I don’t know how long you were asleep on the steps before I found you but it looked rather uncomfortable and… I thought maybe you could use a back rub.”

There, he’d said it. Aziraphale rather enjoyed a well-executed massage and had learned a few tricks back in Rome. Why not put his skills to use? He was rather sure Crowley had never discovered that particular talent of his, so it seemed like a good idea when he first thought it.

Now, waiting for Crowley to make any sound at all, he was starting to wonder if it had all been a horrible idea. Aziraphale rather missed the times when physical touch was less culturally charged.

“There’s no need, of course, if you’d rather not – “

“Sure, Angel. Sounds good.”

Aziraphale looked down at Crowley, searching for any signs that he was simply saying what he thought Aziraphale wanted to hear, but he found none.

“Just… tell me what to do.” Crowley continued, determined. “Ne’er, uh, never had one”.

“Oh! Oh, that’s quite alright. Uh, that’s rather the good part, dear, you needn’t do anything. Just… take a seat over there will you.”

Aziraphale guided Crowley to sit on a well-cushioned stool, giving him ample room to manoeuvre while hopefully remaining comfortable. Crowley let himself be guided.

“Right. So, just letting you know. I’m going to, er, touch you.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Your back, I mean, generally, maybe a bit of the neck, shoulders and arms, the general back area. If anything feels wrong or too much or too light just tell me, and if you say stop we stop. Yes? Is there anything I should know?”

Crowley was quiet for a bit.

“I… don’t think so. Good ahead, angel, I’ll… let you know”.

“Thank you”.

Aziraphale clapped his hands, rubbing them together, and stood behind Crowley for a moment. He took a deep breath. He realised he was suddenly unreasonably nervous but put faith in his nerves receding once he started. It was just the lack of practice, surely. ¹⁴ He formulated a lose plan in his mind on how to approach this, but the thoughts seemed to dissipate as soon as they arrived. Better get on with it then,

With a final word of warning to Crowley, Aziraphale laid both hands lightly on his shoulders. He rested them there for a moment, feeling his nerves recede as if a spell had lifted. That was it, they were touching. He was touching Crowley, and all was ok.

Now he could focus on the task at hand.

Aziraphale gave a tentative squeeze, assessing the thickness of Crowley’s shirt under his fingers and looking out for any signs that he may be applying too much pressure – or not enough. When all seemed well, he travelled down Crowley’s shoulders and arms giving gentle squeezes, then back up to his shoulders in a single gliding stroke.

He felt Crowley shiver lightly.

“Everything ok?”

“Yes, Angel. I’m good. It’s good. I promise. That was… nice”.

Aziraphale watched Crowley’s shoulders begin to relax as he repeated the motion. After 4 iterations he began to rub circles with his thumbs on either side of Crowley’s spine, starting just below the nape of his neck and working his way down, then up again. Occasionally he’d find spots that felt stiffer and spend a little extra time with them, rubbing until the tension disappeared under his touch.

As Crowley relaxed, Aziraphale could feel more of his weight lean back into his touch, head tilted slightly backwards. Occasionally a small sound of joy would escape Crowley. Aziraphale was kind enough to pretend eh didn’t hear them, but he treasured every last one. They brought him joy.

After a few trips up and down Crowley’s back, Aziraphale began tracing long strokes with his thumbs, starting at the centre and rubbing outwards into his ribs and sides. He started at the point where Crowley’s neck met his skull, finding a particularly sore spot there that made Crowley hum in appreciation as he rubbed it.

Slowly and attentively Aziraphale chased away every last bit of tension he could find. There was so much there, at times it felt as if Crowley had been carrying the wright of the world.

Aziraphale realised that, maybe, he had.

But now Crowley was humming content, soft and relaxed and leaning into his him, and Aziraphale felt a warm sense of accomplishment, of protecting something precious. He lost himself in a rhythm, tracing patterns on Crowley’s soft black shirt and listening attentively to his steady breaths, feeling for any particularly tight areas.

He found two such areas on Crowley’s scapulas, roughly a hand-width apart. This was not an unusual spot for tension, and he had learned just the trick for it from a man called Marinus who used to treat some of the more successful gladiators back in 2nd century Rome. He turned his palms 90 degrees, fingers facing outward, and pressed the flesh of his palm flat against the scapula, trying to remember the precise motion, and –

Suddenly his face was buried in soft, downy black feathers.

“Shit, sorry angel, I’m-My bad, let me-“

Ah. Right. Aziraphale had practiced his massage skills before for a few unorthodox blessings (and one particularly successful temptation). He had never had opportunity to practice it on another angel, however. He couldn’t exactly Waltz into Heaven and ask if Uriel would like a back rub.

It was all a silly stereotype, really. The only thing keeping angels from massages was the fact that humans invented them. Truly it was no different from back in the days when angels would preen each other’s wings and… Oh!

“No need to apologise, dear, really. Was I a bit overzealous perhaps?”

“No, ah, I, sorry, I was dosing off and… relaxed a bit too much I guess.”

“Well, that’s good actually. In fact, since they’re out- I mean, if you’d like, I recall hearing demons are better at this than angels but… would you like me to, erhm… preen them. Don’t get me wrong, they look lovely, I just thought it might feel good, as it were.”

Crowley remembered very distantly the last time someone else had looked after his wings for him. It felt like Eons ago. He did remember it fondly, or at least he thought he did. He had been different then, and his memory of it had faded with time.

Crowley was no slouch when it came to looking after his wings, keeping them in tip-top condition, but there was a different quality to having someone else do it for you; not only could they see and reach in more convenient angles but there was a pleasant feeling of being looked after that came with it.

A feeling of being kept safe, of being loved and cherished in someone else’s care.

Crowley realised he craved that. The massage had left him loose and warm, and he wanted to sink into the feeling of simply letting go.

“Go ahead Angel, I trust your judgement.”

“Oh! Great, um, one second!”

Aziraphale sounded excited. Crowley smiled at the door, hearing the angel fuss about behind him.

“Alright, ready? Again, if anything feels off…”

“Don’t worry, angel, I’ll tell you.”

“Thank you”

Crowley felt gentle fingers begin to work through the small feathers at the base of his left wing. The touch was faint and tingly at first, so light it almost tickled, but he felt Aziraphale’s confidence grow as he ran his fingers through the feathers and combed them into place.

When Aziraphale reached the first lose feather he removed it so slowly and reverently that Crowley could swear he was holding his breath.

Aziraphale went through every small feather with gentle fingers, spreading a thin coat of oil as he worked. It smelled pleasantly of lavender.

Aziraphale tended to the same area on his right wing, treating it with as much loving care as he had the first. He worked on, making his way across the wings, slowly inching towards the longer feathers on the edge and switching from one to the other whenever he finished a section.

Crowley felt the edge of his awareness blur. He lost himself in the feeling of Aziraphale’s ministrations, forgetting the World for a few blissful moments and remembering for the first time in millennia what it was like to not have a single worry.

When he had finished combing through and oiling every feather, Aziraphale went over each section once more, fluffing them up and making sure he had not missed a spot. He was humming a melody softly ¹⁵, seemingly just as much at ease as Crowley felt.

“There” Aziraphale all but whispered when he was done.

Crowley was not ready to come back to the World. Demons are greedy, you see? He leaned back, letting his weight rest against the front of Aziraphale, warm and safe. Aziraphale caught him with mild surprise, and then simply held him. Crowley leaned his head back against Aziraphale’s chest, and the angel laid a soft, almost imperceptible kiss on the crown of his head.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called out eventually, softly, without stepping away.

“Hmm?”

“Walk around St James? Maybe we can grab some lunch after?”

“Sure, Angel. Sounds good.”

They didn’t move yet, neither was truly ready.

“Crowley?”

“Hmyeah?”

“Merry Christmas”

“Mmyeah, Merry Christmas angel.”

1. Crowley had once been rather proud of coming up with the idea to increase the price of items before putting them on sale, so that the final price is actually no better but the customer thinks they bagged a deal. He had come up with it sometime while visiting New York in the 50s, when Hell’s fascination over all his “accomplishments” during WWII had finally started wearing off ad he felt he needed to give them something new. He was quite disappointed to find out, a few years later, that some merchants had been pulling off the same stunt since at least the 1920s. His peers in Hell didn’t grasp the concept anyway. return to text

2. Aziraphale had chosen no to investigate the warm and fuzzy feeling that arose in his chest when thinking of Crowley as his family. return to text

3. More precisely, since 1848, after seeing a rather fetching illustration of the royal Christmas tree in the Illustrated London News . return to text

4. Aziraphale’s love for Christmas was strong, but not strong enough to make him place a large water container for a natural tree in the vicinity of his antique volumes. Besides, he had purchased the thing back when he thought he may never use it. Securing a natural pine just to let it rot in his attic would have been a shame. return to text

5. Even the magic tricks. Crowley would strongly prefer if Aziraphale retired the act, an opinion he was ready to voice loudly and clearly. Nevertheless, Aziraphale knew that, if push come to shove, wherever Fell the Marvellous performed, Crowley would find himself among the audience. return to text

6. Chateau Beychevelle St Julien, 2015 return to text

7. Aziraphale decided retired angels could be. return to text

8. The duck, which had started it’s morning with a lazy paddle around St. James’ Park, was utterly confused. Still, Crowley’s coat was warm, his grasp gentle, and he had proved a reliable source of frozen peas, so the duck had decided he was amenable to its current circumstances, at least for a while. return to text

9. Aziraphale had a very strong hunch that, should he ever refer to Crowley as “duckling” out loud, he may well find himself roughly pinned to a wall. In the privacy of his own thoughts, however, he was free to indulge. return to text

10. …try eight. return to text

11. The term “fairy lights”, Aziraphale remembered, had come into fashion after the Savoy theatre incorporated miniature lights into the costumes of faeries in Gilbert and Sullivan’s Iolanthe in 1881. Aziraphale had been sat on the third row there opening night. Crowley had not responded to his invitation to join. Soon enough all the wealthier ladies in London were requesting that their seamstresses build similar tricks into their dresses. return to text

12. Strictly speaking, this was a lie. Aziraphale was very keen on learning about new fashion trends and maintained a well curated wardrobe. He simply insisted on building a time lag of anywhere from 30 to 100 years into his outfit of choice. return to text

13. Crowley was either too kind or too drunk to notice the humour in this choice of words. return to text

14. It was not. return to text

15. Chopin’s Nocturne No 20 in C# minor. return to text