Work Text:
1-2-3 CHRISTMAS
FIRST CHRISTMAS
25th December
0 a.C.
(13 min. 50 sec.)
Bethleem
The last lights of sunset streaked the sky of the desert with orange. Meanwhile, the dark cloak of night had begun to descend on the horizon, dampening the heat of the day that had just passed. The inhabitants, tired after work, slowly retreated to their homes, the farmers abandoned their ploughs and untied their oxen, the braziers in the village began to light up along with the stars. Among the streets of Bethlehem, a young couple, escorted by a donkey, were desperately trying to find a place to sleep. They had asked everywhere, to anyone, just to find accommodation. They had no money with them, but they hoped that, seeing the young lady’s big belly, someone would give them a room to rest. Just a night or two; after all, the baby was about to be born. Taking advantage of the fresh air of the impending night, the shepherds began to set off to graze with their flocks. Their group, seeing the couple of foreigners wandering through the streets, stopped. A couple of shepherd children gave them some indications: inns where they could ask for hospitality, friends' houses, they couldn't do anything else. Having thus greeted the strangers with the donkey, who continued their search for a home, the shepherds resumed their walk towards the pastures just outside Bethlehem. The evening had now arrived, bringing with it a pleasant fresh wind that made the shepherds' tasks less tiring. As soon as they reached the grazing area, the sheep were left free to trot while they went away bleating to look for tufts of grass among the rocks, under the watchful gaze of their owners. The shepherds, leaning on their long sticks, nibbled on unleavened bread around the fire, while they talked about each other's days. Only them, the silence of the desert, the bleating of the flocks, the song of the wind. This was how it had been the night before, all the previous nights, and this was how all the following nights would go.
If it hadn't been for…
“Be not afraid!”, a voice roared in the night. A blinding light hit the men, who jumped and shouted in surprise. A sudden wind put out the fire, the sheep ran to hide, while the shepherds jumped, holding their sticks forward as if they were swords, trying to cover their eyes with their free hand. As if looking out of an oval window, the silhouette of what looked like a man in a white tunic was seen appearing among the rays of light. The mysterious being descended onto a high rock and the rays seemed to triple as soon as he landed.
“Who are you?”, shouted the oldest of the shepherds.
“I am an angel of the Lord!”, said the booming voice.
“And what could God want from poor shepherds?”, asked the man.
The angel took a step forward, still surrounded by mystical light, and opened his wings. “Behold, I announce to you a…AH!”.
With another step forward, the angel tripped over the hem of his own white robe, losing his balance, and tumbling down the rock. The light suddenly went out, plunging the desert back into darkness. The sheep, intimidated, returned to take shelter behind their masters' legs. The old man who had spoken before struck his stick on the ground and approached the stone from which the messenger had fallen. From a bush just behind the small cliff emerged an angel with white hair and bright blue eyes, his tunic full of dust and his wing feathers ruffled. He shook off the last pebbles from the folds of his dress and smoothed out his curls.
“Oh, good evening, I'm sorry about your bonfire”, he said, smiling. With a snap of his fingers, the fire was back burning. The shepherds looked at each other in amazement.
”Forgive the triumphal entry; you know, it's the angelic procedure… Anyway, where was I?”.
”Do you have a message for us, my lord?”, asked a younger shepherd.
“Oh yes! Certainly! The message! And don't call me lord, just Aziraphale. Behold, I announce to you a great joy, which will be for all the people!”. Aziraphale spread his white wings and a more contained light surrounded him, making him appear like the flame of an oil lamp. “Today, in the city of David, precisely in thirty-two minutes and sixteen seconds, a Savior will come to light for you, who is Christ the Lord!”. Not being able to understand the meaning of that antics, the shepherds looked at each other in astonishment. Aziraphale, expecting another reaction, waited patiently with arms wide open and an exhausted smile.
”You should clap at this point”, he whispered.
”And what should we do with this Saviour, angel?”. Startled by the question, Aziraphale turned off the light around him, and began to frantically feel around his tunic, looking for something underneath it. He took out a small scrap of parchment and read it quickly.
”Mm! That's where it ended up. Here he says that you should, well, pay him a visit". "A visit? Is that all?”, asked the shepherd again.
”Yes! It is also written here that this is confidential information, very secret, and that a certain, hm, Herod, must not find out where this child is".
“And how are we going to find him?”. Aziraphale stopped again, reading the note more closely: “Er, that's a great question…”.“Don't you have an answer on that piece of parchment of yours?”, asked the senior pastor. “No, technically I just wrote down what I had to say here. I get nervous when speaking to strangers, I was afraid of forgetting something".
”And is there something you forgot to tell us?”.
“Um, of course!”, exclaimed Aziraphale, starting to speak again in a solemn voice, “This is a sign for you all: you will find a child wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. Now go!”.
“The Savior is just a child?”.
“Yes”.
“And we should go around all the stables of Bethlehem looking for a child?”.
“In a nutshell…".
“Can't you show us the way?”.
Aziraphale closed his wings and put a hand to his chin. In fact, they hadn't told him where to look for the Big Chief's son either.
“Well, maybe…”.
An electric shock made the hairs on his neck suddenly stand on end, his feathers shaking with a tremor. He turned, the distant lights of Bethlehem brightening the night. A bad feeling, a scent of trouble. A pair of yellow eyes flashed in his mind, followed by the image of a young woman, a donkey and a man entering a stable. They were in danger.
“Oh, dear. Oh goodness! I must go!".
Wasting no time, Aziraphale snapped his fingers and vanished. The shepherds looked at each other, even more confused.
“Great, he didn't tell us where to look for the child”, one of them said.
“But he left us a lead!”, said the elder.
They all crowded next to the old man: with his stick he pointed to the sandal prints that shone brightly on the arid earth.
Aziraphale materialised out of breath, made his wings disappear and walked quickly towards a light a little further ahead; he came from a small porch with a thatched roof, connected to what looked like a stable. “It has to be that one, although from what I see I don't think they need my help”. A piercing scream made Aziraphale jump. A scream from what had every appearance of being a female voice. The angel started running, lifting his tunic with one hand to avoid further tumbles. Arriving near the entrance to the stable, he approached the closed door while he caught his breath and put his ear to it. He heard a soft shouting, in addition to the woman's screams, a deep voice. He opened the door a few centimetres and saw a young man walking up and down the passenger compartment; he nervously muttered a string of prayers as the shouting continued. Aziraphale felt his blood freeze more and more in his veins, his heart suddenly too fast. He burst into the room, swinging the door open so hard that it risked unhinging. “Fear not, I am here on behalf of the Lord your God”, Aziraphale said to sound conciliatory. The man who was praying turned to look at him. He couldn't have been more than thirty years old; he had strong shoulders and was wearing a simple tunic. He had gnarled hands, full of calluses, and he held them both tightly around the one that the woman on the ground held out to him. More than a woman, Aziraphale noted, she was a girl. She was half-reclining on the ground, her dress raised above her knees, the back raised against a manger. Her long dark hair was stuck to her forehead with sweat, her young face distorted by the fatigue. A sort of small straw mattress had been built under her and, as soon as the poor girl began to scream again, she gripped tufts of it so tightly that her knuckles went white. The angel connected the dots in his mind and smiled: “Greetings to you, Mary, blessed among women. Greetings to you Joseph, her husband”.
”If you truly are an angel of God, please, I beg you, help her”, the man plead, clasping his companion's shoulders. Aziraphale was taken aback by the question. He had only witnessed one birth in his life, just one, and there was no air of ribs or miraculous sleep there. “I'm afraid that…”, began Aziraphale. “What are you doing here?” someone growled suddenly.
That voice… A third person dressed in black, with a heavy shawl covering his head like a hood, appeared in the still open door. Aziraphale proudly raised his chin, turned, and stood between the guest and the couple on the ground: “I won't let you hurt her, Crowley”.
The door closed, the dark hood fell, revealing a tangle of red locks and two serpentine eyes lit with anger.
“Hurt her?”, hissed Crowley, “This is how your Chief’s son is to be born? By killing this poor human?”.
“Be angry with yourself, you are the one who tempted Eve and now all women are paying the price”.
“Another brilliant idea to exterminate all humans, congratulations! The flood seemed like a spectacular idea to me but here it's serious", said the demon contemptuously, pointing to the girl.
Crowley quickly bent down next to Joseph: “Don't worry”, he said, “I just want to help her. Move away”.
Joseph followed the order and moved. Crowley ran a hand over Mary's belly and the girl screamed even louder.
“What are you doing?!”, Aziraphale barked. “I'm trying to save her life!”, replied Crowley as he rolled up the sleeves of his tunic. A small waterfall of water rained on the straw. Aziraphale, shocked, turned to Crowley and paled. “Angel, stop looking at me with that idiotic face and give me a hand, I need a clean cloth… angel, can you hear me?”.
Aziraphale, all trembling, pointed to Mary's open legs and the wet straw; then, after a series of senseless lip movements, he managed to shout: “YOU BROKE HER!”.
“If anything, I broke her water, but that's okay”.
“IT WAS NOT SCHEDULED TO LEAK WATER!”.
”It's called childbirth, angel. Please someone strike me down, have you never…? And what are you doing here, sleeping? Push Mary!”, said Crowley to the girl, putting his hands on her raised knees.
“But Eve…”.
“Eve was an isolated case, angel, I'll explain how to make babies another time. Clean cloth. Now!". The angel looked around in panic, shaking his hands as if they were burned. He saw Joseph, now standing next to the wall.
“The scarf!”, Aziraphale shouted hysterically, throwing himself at the poor carpenter who, caught off guard, didn't have time to hold onto the piece of raw fabric which was blown away from under his nose.
“You could have miraculously done it”, Crowley murmured as soon as his colleague slapped the cloth in his hands, careful not to be heard; Aziraphale immediately recoiled when he saw that all around the girl's legs the hay was soaked in blood.
“Can't you help her in some other way?”, asked the blond.
“We can't intervene more than this, you know”, the other replied while he put pressure on the girl's belly. Any miraculous intervention that night, on that woman, on that child, would have changed the course of the entire story, not to mention the devastating effect a demonic miracle would have had! Mary continued to push hard, shouting, calling for her groom to assist her; despite his presence, Joseph could do little to alleviate his wife's anguish.
“It's almost done, just one last effort! Angel! Be ready to take it!”, said Crowley.
“Can't you take it?”, asked Aziraphale as he approached, hesitantly holding the scarf.
“A single drop of this blood could kill me; a whole baby would make me disintegrate instantly”.
"But…".
“Do as I say!”, wept Crowley with a fiery look that allowed no replies.
Aziraphale crouched on the ground, the demon moved to the left of the woman, offering her his arm to hold in her final moments of agony.
"Push!”, Crowley and Joseph shouted in unison. Another scream joined Mary's fading cry. Exhausted, the girl pulled herself onto her back, released the red-haired man's arm and burst into tears of joy: in the white-haired angel's arms there was a baby. Her baby. Aziraphale rubbed the little creature's body with his scarf, wrapping it like a bundle and handing it to the parents, eager to see the newborn.
“Here he is, a handsome little boy”, said Aziraphale, holding back a tear of joy at the adorable sight.
“He’s beautiful!”, Joseph said emotionally as he kissed Mary, careful not to crush the child. Crowley shifted, careful not to touch the newborn. “Did they give you any instructions for the name?”, asked Aziraphale.
“Jesus”, Mary replied in a faint voice, “His name is Jesus”.
As if to confirm this, the little bundle let out a whimper. Mary turned gratefully to Crowley, still sitting on the ground. She moved a red lock from his forehead and placed a caress on the cheek of the snake who, in disbelief, let her do it. That gesture radiated such sincere gratitude that the demon felt his heart burst. Without saying a word, Mary demanded the bundle from her husband's hands and started to bring it closer to the redhead. Before he could protest or pull away, a strangled sound escaped Crowley's throat. Aziraphale held his breath.
A little finger of the newborn had grabbed onto a finger of the fallen angel's hand, squeezing it.
"Take him", insisted Aziraphale.
Crowley grabbed the little one with his free hand, while with the other he still held that little finger that would one day do such great things. He cradled him, smiling at every cry of the child in his arms, making faces to make him laugh and even sticking out his forked tongue, well hidden by his parents but under Aziraphale's moved gaze.
“You are destined to be great; you know that right?”, Crowley murmured as he placed a tuft of hair that the little one had brought to his mouth behind his shoulder, “You will do even greater things than your Father”.
Someone knocked on the door, interrupting the picture. Joseph stood up, revealing a large group of shepherds waiting impatiently behind the door, eager, according to them, to see the Savior.
“Oh, someone here already has admirers”, Crowley chuckled, tickling the child before handing it back to his mother. Jesus' laughter warmed him like a living flame. “There are too many of us here now”, Aziraphale murmured as he saw the shepherds enter, “Better go”. He started to pull Crowley's sleeve, but turning around he saw him absorbed, his eyes still focused on that child. As soon as the demon noticed that Aziraphale was calling to him, he pulled up his hood. He locked eyes with Jesus one last time, his dark eyes wide as he watched him go.
Crowley smiled, a bitter tear rolling down his eyelashes. “Don't forget me”, he whispered.
In a flash, the angel and the demon disappeared.
THE TOURNAMENT
25th December
1113 a. C.
Camelot
“For the crown of England, let the tournament begin!”.
A roar of applause rose from the crowd. They had awaited that herald's announcement in religious silence, while the first lights of dawn were still far away, the fog was rising from the damp earth. All the best knights in the region had flocked to take part in the challenge which would see the winner crowned king. They had arrived early in the morning the previous day, each with their entourage of squires and family banners, setting up tents on the plain not far from the citadel; in short, how a second city had arisen in that clearing: such a large and lively camp had not been seen since the war. Helped by the inhabitants of the area, the knights had outlined and fenced off the field for the horse jousting, the field for the sword skills test and bleachers had even been erected for the public, which promised to be very numerous. Regardless of the cold and the clouds, the knights then spent the night outside the tents, toasting and singing around the braziers: after all, it was Christmas Eve. And now, on that Christmas morning, under a sky that promised snow, he finally began the challenge. Everyone went to saddle their horses, put on their armour, sharpen their swords with a lot of commotion, while meanwhile the sun arose lazily outside. Neighs and clashes of metal attracted the people of the village who ran to take a place in the stands, some wrapped in rough wool blankets, some in a cloak.
The eighth hour struck, and the swords crossed. Everyone cheered. Or rather, almost everyone.
For the angel Aziraphale nothing that morning seemed to go well! He had been awakened by the crowing of a rooster. Seriously, who brings a rooster to a tournament?! Once he got off his cot, he hurriedly lit a fire in the tent, numb as he was, and then proceeded to put on his armour himself. He didn't have a squire with him to help him, and Gabriel's letter of warning about frivolous miracles was certainly not helpful. The moment he had put on his chainmail, the metal rings already freezing against his skin, the tent had blown open with a gust of wind, leaving him in his underwear in full view of the entire camp. Once the tent was closed, amid the muffled giggles that came from outside, the angel had struggled with straps, metal plates, pectoral and leggings that just didn't want to stay in their place. At yet another failed attempt to fix himself, Aziraphale threw everything to the ground. “I give up!”, he shouted, dropping down to sit on the small bed.
Why always to him?
“You must guard the area, Aziraphale”, Gabriel had told him, “Make sure everything goes smoothly and that the rightful king takes the throne. The future king will come to the tournament, do not let anything happen to him”.
“How will I recognize him?”, Aziraphale had asked.
“There is a sword in the courtyard of the village church, only the true heir to the throne can move it from the rock where it is trapped”.
Aziraphale bit his lip: wouldn't it have been easier to just have him guard the sword? Why would the heir come to the tournament? He would certainly have made a warning to the Prophetic Dreams Office: everything would have been simpler if they had signed that paperwork in time.
“Do you need a hand, sir?”, asked a voice from the entrance of the tent. Aziraphale turned and saw a little boy in the doorway. He couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen years old, thin and frail, with golden hair and lively eyes.
“Everyone is ready for the tournament already! You must wear your armour”, said the boy.
“Actually, I don't think I'll participate”, Aziraphale sighed.
Suddenly, the little guest's mouth opened wide: “But I know you! You are the White Knight! Please, you must participate! If you won, the throne would be in excellent hands, believe me!”.
“I'm not cut out to be a king”, Aziraphale replied, getting up to collect the pieces of armour, but the boy was quicker.
“Please”, he said, “Let me help you”.
The angel shook his head slightly and smiled, opening his arms to make the boy's work easier.
“What's your name, little one?”.
“Arthur, but everyone calls me Wart. I am here with my brother Sir Kay, son of Sir Hector. Guidon with blue oak, we are in the last row of tents”, the boy replied promptly while he tightened the straps very quickly.
“Have you helped your brother get dressed yet?”, asked Aziraphale.
“Stepbrother, actually. Sir Hector took me with him when I was just born, I have no memories of my real parents. And anyway yes, he is already ready, as are you!”. “Have you finished yet?”, the angel was surprised as Arthur's slender fingers arranged the white cloak on his shoulders. A smile spread across the boy's thin face: “Perfect! Now you only need one… oh no!”.
"What happens?".
"The sword!".
“Here it is, it's here”.
“No, not yours! Kay's Sword! He must have left it at the tavern along the way".
“Take mine”.
“Sir, I can't. Kay has his own, it was made especially for him, it is custom balanced. I'm in a bit of a pickle".
Aziraphale was about to snap his fingers when his superior's words came back to him: no miracles.
“Kay is going to kill me! I need to find one,” Arthur spluttered, “It was a pleasure to meet you!".
With that, the boy darted out of the tent.
Aziraphale wandered among the tents, weighed down by his armour and with his sword at his side.
For the first time in several hundred years, he was bored. Oh yes, he was really b
ored. What enjoyment could there ever be in watching two puppets on horseback trying to unseat each other with sticks, or two other puppets duelling for hours. "You there! White cloak!”, said the voice of a man sitting a little further away, “Yes, I'm talking to you! Come sit next to the fire. There's roast meat and plenty to drink!". Aziraphale, anticipating the meat that he saw turning on the spit, approached the little clique from which he had been called and took a seat around a small table.
“Thanks for the invitation”, he said while being offered a pork chop and a glass of wine.
"Forget about it! Nobody can be alone on Christmas day. And then, you have to warm up body and soul before the tournament! Am I right, friends?”.
Everyone raised their glasses and Aziraphale did the same. The wine had become slightly hot because the barrel was not far from the fire, but being red it was still pleasant.
“The wine is from my vineyards”, said a plump knight who already seemed tipsy.
“And the pork comes from my lands!”, replied another knight as he put more meat to roast.
“Take some more! Take more!”, the two repeated in chorus and the glasses returned full. Aziraphale, on the third cup, realized too late that his head seemed light as a cloud and had started to giggle. Drinking on an empty stomach this early in the morning had its own side effects.
“Do you already know who you will challenge?”, asked a squire sitting with them.
"To challenge? I don't challenge anyone!”, laughed Aziraphale.
“But you are the White Knight! You must challenge someone today!”.
“If the White Knight doesn't want to choose then we'll let fate decide his opponent!”, a burly soldier intervened.
“What do you mean?”, asked Aziraphale, struggling to focus on whoever had spoken.
“A bet”, they all said with knowing nods. “I don't understand”, stammered the angel.
“We will form couples. We are eleven at the table, so we will use two dice. Everyone will choose a number; we will shuffle the dice and draw them twice. Whoever is drawn will have the honour of fighting in a duel!”.
"Eleven?! What a bad number”, said another man, “I know who to call!”.
“And what does the bet have to do with it?”.
“Money is put on the favourites, that's clear! If your chosen champion wins then you don't lose your money and you also gain your opponent's funds", concluded the soldier as he took an empty glass to mix the dice.
“It's a good pocket!”, someone shouted, “I won three gold coins in one tournament!”.
"Everyone ready? Shall we begin?”, asked the guard as he placed the dice in the ceramic cup.
"There he is! The twelfth player!”.
The table paled as black armour advanced to sit next to them, facing Aziraphale.
He had his helmet firmly on his head, his black cloak rustling on the ground and covering his shoulders like a pair of raven's wings.
The Black Knight.
"We are ready. Choose a number. You first, Sir", said the soldier as he handed the squire a piece of parchment and a piece of charcoal to write the names of the couples.
“Six”, said the Black Knight from beneath his helmet.
“What about you?”, the dealer said to Aziraphale.
“Three”, the angel replied proudly.
While everyone else made their choices, Aziraphale leaned forward to speak.
“What are you doing here Crowley?”.
“Where there's alcohol, I'm there! And judging by the odour I smell, angel, someone here has already abused it. What a shame, it's barely ten in the morning!”.
“I could say the same thing about you. How the hell did you do it?".
“It's a tournament, what did you expect, a froufrou tights?”.
“I doubt you came here just to drink disguised as a teapot”.
“You're still too lucid angel, have another drink”.
“Are you here to…”.
“The heir to the throne, yes”.
“Is there your diabolical hand behind that sword?”.
“Obviously yes. He doesn't have to find it and he doesn't have to extract it. Hell wants the war to continue”.
“Do you have any idea of the innocent blood that is being shed to come to power?”.
“My superiors don't care and if they give me orders I carry them out”.
“You're drunk Crowley”. “For at least ten consecutive years but thanks for noticing”.
"Silence now! Let the first pair be drawn!”, said the soldier as he shuffled the dice. As soon as the glass was raised, everyone cheered.
"Three! The White Knight begins! Let's see who the lucky challenger will be".
The group fell silent, attentive to every crunch of the dice against the upturned cup spinning on the table.
As the dice was revealed, an excited buzz broke the silence. "Six!".
The angel and the demon looked at each other in horror: it wasn't part of the plan.
The other fighters were drawn out. This time it was Crowley who leaned forward.
“Are you crazy?!”, he hissed, lifting his visor to reveal his yellow eyes.
“I didn't do anything!”, Aziraphale retorted.
“We both have swords, and they will tell us to use them to fight while drunk, do you realize what that means?”.
“We will dethrone each other”.
“I'll sweat like a pig in the oven but yes, that will happen too if we're not careful”.
“We'll just have to pretend, right?”.
“Look at them angel, they are all expert fighters, they will realize something is wrong”.
“Then one of us must win”, said Aziraphale, glaring at the demon.
The soldier raised his fist in the air while his squire ran to give the herald the piece of parchment: “The pairs are formed! The first to leave will be the White Knight and the Black Knight. Bets are open now".
A great clang of coins and slurred names filled the group as they followed Aziraphale and Crowley as they headed towards the camp. The two were offered a final glass of good luck while they waited for the knights in the arena to finish fighting. They both looked slightly nauseated at the red drink, aware that they were already quite tipsy.
“We don't have to do this”, Aziraphale said as he struggled to finish his glass, “Not in these conditions".
“As you said, one of us must win”, Crowley replied sourly as he raised his helmet and downed the wine in one gulp. As soon as the fight was over, the herald cleared his throat and gave the signal for the trumpets to sound while he read the paper with the names of the competitors. Aziraphale and Crowley left their cloaks with their other drinking companions and staggered towards the entrance to the enclosure.
“The next challengers are the White Knight…”.
A loud roar of applause erupted from the stands.
“…and the Black Knight!”. An even louder roar drowned out the previous one.
Crowley's helmet turned towards Aziraphale; the angel could have bet every single link of his chain mail that underneath the metal the demon was giving him one of those typical satisfied looks at him. They entered the enclosure and advanced to the centre, where a pair of fully caparisoned steeds awaited them. “Let the challenge begin!”, said the herald, puffing out his lungs.
“Move! I want the black one!”, Crowley said, pushing Aziraphale to the side as he prepared to put his foot in the stirrup. Aziraphale mounted the remaining horse, a grey run-down horse which looked sleepy. Crowley gave a tug on the reins of his mount, a sprinting stallion that neighed like a madman, and went to position himself at the far left of the field; the angel slowly trotted to the opposite side, fighting the nausea that was starting to rise. They were both given a wooden spear and a round shield.
“At the trumpet blast, gallop”, said the attendant who had given Aziraphale the weapons.
When the signal was given, Crowley spurred the horse, which reared and threw him to the ground amid general laughter. Aziraphale had also tried to spur his steed, but the poor beast was so sleepy that he hadn't even heard the reins snap and he just sat there, still. Crowley's horse darted in front of Aziraphale, who took the opportunity to mount him, aiming for Crowley who was still shaking the dirt off himself, without his spear and shield anymore. The Black Knight, seeing his opponent approaching at full speed, began to run, cursing. The horse was too fast and Aziraphale too inexperienced to control it; therefore, he found himself galloping alongside the demon rather than on top. Crowley grabbed onto the horse's tail, digging his heels into the ground in a clumsy attempt to stop him. He ended up being dragged around like a puppet.
“Are you offering me a ride, angel?”.
“I was trying to step on you”.
“Come down so we can deal with each other on equal terms!”.
“I don't even think about it”.
“Oh, really?”, Crowley laughed, snapping his fingers rapidly, “Someone here is starting to get nauseous”.
Suddenly all that meandering was seriously making Aziraphale's stomach twist, or perhaps it was a small demonic intervention that helped with the descent, or perhaps with the ascent, that sick feeling. The angel pulled on the reins and braked, sending Crowley's face into the horse's backside.
“You son of a- “, the demon growled, moving forward and drawing his sword.
Metal clashed with metal: they had the same idea. They moved duelling to the centre of the field, accompanied by the crowd who had abandoned their laughter to find more heartfelt cheering. Crowley landed slash after slash, parried, and counterattacked again; a flat blow of his sword hit the angel's head squarely, and he heard a tolling almost like bells. Aziraphale took off his helmet in a daze, backing away to the fence he had entered through. He suddenly reached over and stole a mug of beer from a nearby groom and downed it in one gulp. Crowley made a flask of wine appear in his hands.
“It's not fair!”, growled Aziraphale, throwing himself at the demon. They faced each other face to head.
“Short of miracles, angel?”, whispered Crowley.
“You are a…”, Aziraphale said as he walked away and charged back, swinging his weapon, “…serpent”.
For every word he swung his sword with more and more violence: “Vile, mean, scoundrel, jester, drunkard!”.
“Drunkard?”, Crowley snickered as he drank from the flask.
“Drunk!”, Aziraphale shouted, lunging.
“Angel, I'm a little further to the right”.
Aziraphale was starting to see double. They continued to fight, one glass of beer after another, one flask of wine after another, less and less able to hit the target. The spectators, seeing those two alcoholics who continued act like in a mortal fight, laughing, and insulting each other in unlikely ways, began to get bored. Until… “You're a sucker!”, slurred Crowley as he held onto the sword.
“And you're a seamstress!”, replied Aziraphale, confused by sobs.
“I'll show you the seamstress!”.
They didn't even notice that the stands had emptied, the sun had been completely covered with clouds and the snow had started to fall.
Meanwhile, far from the arena and the rivers of alcohol that flowed in the veins of the angel and the demon, a very thin boy, an orphan, had just pulled the sword from the stone.
ICE, STICKS AND ROCKS
25th December
1813 a.C.
London
Crowley still wondered why he had let himself be persuaded to do this antic.
Demons don't skate. Demons must use ice as one of their instruments of destruction, with it they can spread terror, create disorder, hurt people: freezing the steps of houses to make people slip, for example, was truly diabolical.
Not to mention the countless times Crowley had made icicles stick to the tongues of onlookers who licked the small ice stalactites hanging from the gutters that were too low. But no. That Christmas morning, no tongue would have stuck, and no one would have lost their balance on the steps of their house. Aziraphale had prayed in all languages to Crowley to come skate with him.
A harsh winter was already on the cards for the upper floors, but a small miracle had, so to speak, helped the process: in a single night, three days before Christmas, several meters of fresh snow had filled the roofs of London. The children had run into the street to play, building snowmen, throwing snowballs at each other with military precision, filling the air with laughter. But the thing that interested the angel was another. He had personally gone to check on the evening of Christmas Eve and was left speechless: the Thames was frozen.
At the sight of that sight Aziraphale had rushed to Crowley's house and begged him to come skating with him the next morning. He had insisted with all the means at his disposal, even taking care to have brand new skates appear for his colleague. In the most desperate moment, when the demon was about to throw him out of the house, Aziraphale stood still with his arms folded, showing his best pleading puppy eyes. One look and Crowley had succumbed.
“Let it be just for a little while, angel, it's cold”, Crowley grumbled, shifting from foot to foot as Aziraphale took his first steps onto the ice.
“Dear, put on your skates”, replied the angel smiling, “And then, if you're cold, you can have my scarf. It's tartan!".
Crowley buttoned his coat tightly, fixed his hair, which at that time he wore in a pigtail tied with a black nose ribbon, and laced up his skates. Opening his arms to keep his balance, he put one foot on the ice.
“Come towards me”, Aziraphale said as he approached.
“Fuck. Very easy”, Crowley commented sarcastically as he tried not to fall once, he put his other foot on the frozen river. His knees were turned inward, his legs shaking like they were made of pudding. He adjusted his sunglasses on his nose and looked at the angel in front of him fearfully.
“Give yourself a push, like this!”, Aziraphale said, making a small circle. He was so elegant, graceful, white as a swan, and Crowley felt like an ugly duckling. The demon took a deep breath and gave a tiny, imperceptible push.
“I moved!”, he said alarmed.
“That's good! Come on, more grit!”.
Perhaps Crowley was too enthusiastic. He pushed very hard with just one foot, ending up spinning around at great speed, under the amused gaze of Aziraphale. He fell to the floor like a stone, hitting his butt. He couldn't make such a terrible impression in front of his friend, and something told him that the sun high in the sky would attract other people who would see him reduced to this condition. He had to get up, but as soon as he tried to get up, he promptly fell, first on his face and then again on his backside. Repeatedly, without moving an inch. Until he saw Aziraphale's hands in front of him, open, free from the gloves.
“Let me help you dear”, the angel said softly. The demon reluctantly accepted the hands that were offered to him and, with difficulty, got up, holding them tightly. “Don't let me fall”, Crowley murmured, looking at his awkward feet and his knees that were crossing again.
“I won't”, Aziraphale replied, releasing his grip for a moment and lifting the redhead's chin with a caress, “Let's go slowly, push first with one foot and then with the other. Look at me and don't worry, I won't make you crash".
Extremely slowly, the serpent began to move its feet, first slowly, then with more and more rhythm, with Aziraphale leading it in small circles and turns.
“Look at you, you're doing great!”, Aziraphale smiled, brightening more than the sun.
"Yes! I'm skating! I'm skating!”, exclaimed Crowley, releasing his fingers from those of his companion.
“Look at me!”, he shouted as he picked up speed and opened his arms wide like a clumsy black pigeon, “No one can stop me here anymore!”.
“Crowley!”.
"What? OUCH".
Crowley fell to the ground with a dive, belly against the ice, while his sunglasses flew a little further away. Aziraphale hurried to retrieve them and then return to the demon who in the meantime was on his knees, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Are you okay?”, asked the worried angel.
“Something hit me”, replied the demon angrily, waving a smooth, black stone, shaped like a small disc; he left the stone on the ground, quickly putting his dark glasses back on.
Aziraphale looked over the injured man's shoulder and smiled: “I tried to warn you. We have visitors".
After walking away, he turned elsewhere: "Don't worry, my friend was just scared, he's fine!".
“Who are you talking to someone sake!”, growled Crowley, standing up.
He turned furiously only to find himself in front of a child all freckled, bundled up from head to toe to protect himself from the cold, holding a curved rod at the end in his hand. His chubby cheeks were red from the cold, but it was the sight of that man dressed in black that made him visibly tremble. Crowley turned the stone that had hit him between his fingers and saw that the child was looking at the stone with shyness.
“I believe this is yours”, said the demon as he handed the child his disk back.
“Thank you”, said the trembling boy.
“Callum! Come back here!”, shouted other children in the distance who were evidently waiting for their friend to resume their activities.
“What are you playing at?”, asked Crowley, looking at the gang in the distance.
“Shinty, but the snow has covered the entire field so let's try to do it on ice”.
“Little Scots, huh?”, Crowley giggled, “Try not to get hurt”.
Aziraphale, without being noticed, miraculously placed a mace in his hands and hid it behind his back.
“You know, my friend here is an excellent player!”, the angel intervened just as the child was about to skate away.
“Wha- “.
“Really?”, the little guy asked hopefully, immediately backtracking.
“Nonsense,” said the snake, “I don't even have one…”.
“…a club that you forgot at home but which I recovered myself”, Aziraphale smiled candidly, taking the stick from behind his back. Crowley glared at the angel as he took the contraption. At the height of happiness, the child took Crowley's free hand and dragged him towards his friends, risking making him fall on his stomach again. Aziraphale trotted after them, anticipating a good game. The tallest of the kids stepped forward: “But this is an old man! He doesn't even know how to stand on skates, let alone play”.
“Let's let him try!”, intervened a little girl with blonde braids. Everyone backed her up, leaving only the tall boy against Crowley.
"Okay grandpa, whoever between us scores a point first will be captain and will choose his team".
“Nah, I've always hated teams”, Crowley croaked, bending over slightly to look the boy in the eyes. He lowered his glasses slightly: "All against all".
The two contenders lined up between the doors, marked by four crumpled scarves and placed as much as possible at the same distance between them.
“GO!”, Callum shouted as the clubs clashed to grab the puck and carry it towards the goal.
“Go Crowley!”, Aziraphale shouted, applauding when the demon's feline sprint resulted in a splendid shot.
“Okay grandpa, we'll follow your rules. All against all”, the boy said piqued as he settled back in the middle of the pitch.
“I'll go easy on you”, Crowley said cockily as he watched the children enter the field.
As soon as the game began, the little girl with the pigtails slammed Crowley to the ground with a blow to his knees.
“Are you okay, dear?”, the angel asked worriedly. Standing up, his face full of ice crushed by the blades of his skates, the snake let his red hair loose on his shoulders, tying the ribbon to the club: “Do you want war, lice? And let it be war! LEAD ON”.
The match was on, incandescent. The kids had now come to form a sort of alliance with each other, chasing Crowley when he took possession of the disk and hindering him when he tried to steal it. The demon tried in every way not to harm his opponents, ending up on the ground several times just to brake in time and not hit them, but those little pests didn't have the slightest foresight. They pulled his jacket, hit him on the legs and feet, tripped him with clubs, pushed and, this had happened on a penalty in the second half, bit. He had become one of the pack. Aziraphale stood, moving every now and then so as not to suffer too much from the cold, and enjoyed the show. He hadn't seen Crowley this happy in ages, let alone at Christmas. And now there he was, playing a new sport among some unknown children, laughing like a madman and running at breakneck speed. Happy again. The sun ran its course across the sky, and when the first warm lights of the afternoon lengthened the shadows of the trees on the banks of the Thames, it was time to say goodbye.
“You're good at playing, for an old man”, said the ringleader, shaking the demon's hand. Callum jumped affectionately to Crowley's knees, encircling them in a hug. Crowley lifted him from under his armpits, holding him in his arms: “You played very well, Callum”.
Aziraphale felt his heart expand so much he felt it almost burst in his chest. Angel and demon untied their skates, put them on their shoulders and walked towards home, leaving behind the cheerful laughter of their playmates.
“How sweet, little Callum”, said Aziraphale on the street.
“Yeah, lovely”, Crowley replied thoughtfully.
“You picked him up”.
“I know where you're going with this”.
“Well, it was one thing…”.
"Do not say that".
"…Really…".
"Do not even think about it".
"…adorable".
“Aziraphale I will blow you into atoms if you say that again”.
“Come on, admit you're a softie”. “Not even at gunpoint. This is my door, angel".
It was now almost completely dark; a light sleet had begun to fall from the leaden sky. The two stopped, Crowley turned the mace over in his hands and gave it to the angel again.
“Your ribbon,” Aziraphale worked to untie it, but Crowley's fingers reached it, blocking it; it was the demon who untied him.
Gently, the snake took the angel's wrist, raised the sleeve of the coat, and tied the ribbon. He placed a shy kiss there, then raised his head and looked into Aziraphale's eyes.
"Oh, Crowley”.
“It's not much of a Christmas present”.
Aziraphale's fingers closed on the ribbon, caressing the fabric; she brought it to her nose, inhaling deeply.
“It smells like your hair, my dear”, Aziraphale whispered raptly. And who would have thought that such a small ribbon would become such a pleasant Christmas gift. So much appreciated, that Aziraphale decided that he would wear it every day, a little touch of black on his very light clothes. He always held it tight, sewn inside his waistcoat.
At the height of the heart.