Archive of Our Own

Aziraphale always assumed that office parties were invented by Hell. It was a massive oversight that Heaven continued having them. He thought so, at least. It was one of those nights where he didn't have much to do besides think and mutter irritably whenever he stabbed his fingers with a needle. The darkness outside was thick like fog. Their garden pond already had a layer of ice, and the windows rattled whenever the wind threw itself at them. Inside, the fire was golden.

He was thinking about dinner tomorrow, the old coat he was mending, and whether it'd be worth leaving the warmth of his blanket to go get a thimble. But mostly, he thought about Christmas coming up.

He'd tried to throw Jesus a proper party in Heaven. He'd brought them a feast: gingerbread, turkey, pies, and bread still warm from the bakery he'd bought them at. Nobody touched a crumb. Wine, though. He and Jesus had convinced them to try wine. Several angels got drunk for the first time. Then they discovered what corporations did when they were displeased. Sandalphon sang My Favourite Things on a karaoke machine. Aziraphale didn't remember hiring one.

It'd been a hit.

And fun, he supposed, or a version of it. Certainly, the most fun he'd had as an archangel. But it hadn't felt like a proper Christmas. It felt like an office party.

That same night — or day, he was never sure what time it was up there — he went to watch the world spin in place. They'd be celebrating down there, too. Humans. It'd be their last Christmas before everything changed. Could they feel it? That shift; an imperceptible ever-present bubble popping, leaving Earth's atmosphere a centimetre thinner, just thin enough to let it in. The End. If not of the Earth, then of something. When he looked up, searching for some trace of Her, he found it.

"I'm glad you're home, Aziraphale," She said. There was a laugh in Her voice because apparently, God had a sense of humour about this sort of thing. "My lost sheep."

"Oh. Yes. So am I, rather. Er."

He'd still had faith, back then.

He looked up from his sewing to watch Crowley and try to forget about it all. He was sprawled out to his left on the same couch he used to sleep on sometimes in the bookshop. He had a blanket over him. He was absorbed in the screen, watching an episode of Doctor Who. He sensed Aziraphale looking. He caught his gaze. His eyes were starkly yellow against the blue light that flickered over his sharp features.

"You alright?" His voice was thick and gentle with sleep.

"I'm just thinking," he said. "We ought to throw him a party."

Crowley blinked. "The Doctor?"

"Jesus Christ."

"There's no need to get like that."

"No, of Galilee."

"Oh."

"He's never had a Christmas party on Earth, you know. Seems a shame. It's his birthday, but nobody ever invites the poor fellow."

"That's not the point of them." Crowley pulled the blanket in closer to his face. It rustled quietly as he shimmied to get comfortable. "We're giving gifts to Christ via each other because he's in all of us. Or whatever it is."

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. "Don't quote scripture to me, serpent."

"Why not? I'm in it."

He raised his eyebrows further, then smiled. "It'll be fun."

"We've only just settled."

"It's the least we can do for him after he called off the Second Coming. Oh, please?" He tilted his head to the side like a puppy begging at the table. "It's our first Christmas here. We ought to make it a good one."

"No," he'd said, that night.

And the next day, "It's not really about him anymore, is it? It's all commercialised. Warms the old demonic heart, really."

And a week after that, whilst Aziraphale was writing the guest list, "We can't have this place crawling with people, there's no space. Oh, can you invite Mrs Sandwich? She's a riot. She's not free? Blast."

And a week after that, at the Christmas Market, "See what I mean about commercialised? It's only a village. Don't know where this lot came from. Let me hold your bags."

Aziraphale was sure that he was only complaining recreationally at this point. "Are you sure? Well, thank you."

The street had been closed off to accommodate the market. Both sides were crowded with stalls and people talking or bargaining. Most were set up on tables and under colourful shades, but some were just rugs on the ground covered with goods. They sold just about everything: glittering jewellery, clothes, perfumes, fresh fruits and vegetables, stuffed toys huddled against the cold and intricate quilts hanging from bits of washing line.

There were food trucks, too, and tables crowded with pastries, cakes and biscuits. The street smelt of candied apples, ginger, and chimney smoke. The warm smells clashed up against the cold. The end of Aziraphale's nose was icy. He tipped his chin into his grey scarf.

"Do you think he'd like some frankincense for old time's sake?" he asked, leading Crowley over to a stall. Its displays were crowded with sweet-smelling oils.

"And gold and myrrh?"

"Of course."

"Those are the wise men's gifts. You're not either." Crowley grinned at him. Aziraphale gave him a withering look. "Oh, go on. You gotta admit you left yourself open for that one."

"I did not."

"You did. You were standing there like, I'm open! I'm open! Pass the basketball, I'm heading for the slam dunk."

"I can assure you I wouldn't say that." He picked up a vial and smiled at the woman lounging in a chair behind the table. She was rugged up in some blankets. "Is it pure frankincense?"

"Pure as the driven snow," she said, eyes twinkling as she watched them.

"Do you think he'd still like it? Or should I get him something more modern? Thank you, dear." He nodded to the stallkeeper and put the vial back before wandering off again.

"How modern?"

"I don't know. A gramophone, perhaps."

"Advancing past the stone age, I see." He watched his breath fog as he spoke, then scowled. "'S'bloody freezing. Can we go in?"

"We need gifts for all of them."

He sighed. Another cloud slipped from between his lips. "Who've we got left?"

"Well, there's Nina, she's always been troublesome to shop for. Then Beelzebub and Gabriel —"

"Hold on, you're inviting who?"

"I thought I told you."

"If you did you said it pretty damn quietly. What do you want them for?"

"It seems the polite thing to do."

"Let's be impolite."

"I've already invited them."

"All the way from Alpha Centauri, though? Quite a trek. And imagine the traffic! All those satellites and whatsits up there these days."

"They've already accepted."

Crowley groaned and tipped his head back. "It's gonna be like having the shitty in-laws over."

"We don't have in-laws. Neither of us have parents."

"Is God not our Heavenly Mother?" he asked, drily.

"You know what I meant." Crowley made a face at him. Aziraphale made one back, pulling his scarf closer like a displeased hen ruffling her feathers. "Come on. I'm going to get some Christmas cards." ^[1]

"Indoors?" Crowley swayed closer to him until their shoulders bumped together. Their hands brushed, then linked, like polar magnets coming together.

"Oh, dear. Your hands really are cold," he said. "Yes, indoors."

"About time." Crowley squeezed his hand.

They'd bought a Gothic Revival cottage a few months ago. They moved in just in time to hunker down for winter. It was built from planks painted white with lattice work around the edges of the steep, elegant curves of the roof. It had a bay window at the front in a room they'd converted into a library, and a greenhouse at the back. The front door was yellow.

It was, Aziraphale thought, the perfect canvas for some truly beautiful displays. He'd spent a few days in a row up a ladder, decorating. Crowley always held the base, talking, laughing and judging his decorative choices. He strung colourful lights over the roof and windows and put up elegant statues of reindeer in the garden. Then he decorated the interior. He lined the carved cornices with strings of blinking lights. He and Crowley put the tree up together, giggling as they got tangled up in tinsel and lights. He topped the tree with a ceramic angel, wrapped in a robe like one he'd worn a long time ago.

On Christmas day he eagerly gave Maggie, Nina and Muriel the full tour before they came inside to help with the party. Muriel had ridden in the backseat of their car. They'd adapted to the human ways of things: riding in cars, drinking tea, and laughing 'til they couldn't breathe, then realising that they breathed at all.

Aziraphale had spent quite a few Christmases with Maggie, though she couldn't remember the earlier ones. A while ago he'd had to sever the connection in her brain between him and her memories of him as a child; she still had them, she'd just forgotten that she'd had them with Aziraphale. He was the sole guardian of them. But what was done couldn't be undone, and he'd given up on trying to restore things like that.

"Oh, it's beautiful," said Muriel.

They wiggled their feet out of their shoes as they looked past the stone-floored hallway and into the rest of the cottage. They practically bounced inside, ignoring Maggie and Nina as they made small talk with Aziraphale. They admired every light and every ornament. Aziraphale watched them fondly. When he glanced at Crowley, he caught him smiling.

Eden ^[2] arrived next, back from walking her dog. It was a whippet with bug eyes and a constant air of anxiety otherwise found only in rabbits. It was still clinging to her legs when she arrived.

She brought her grandchildren with her, too. They'd been living with her since before he and Crowley moved in. The first was a boy, Peter, aged twelve or so. The second was his sister, who was eleven. Her hands were hidden by the sleeves of her black hoodie and her skirt swished around her ankles.

"I brought you some mince pies," said Eden, holding out a brown box tied with string. "Mind if Bertie comes in? He'll behave."

"Yes, of course."

Bertie came inside when he was let off his leash, immediately going up to Crowley to lick his hands. He scratched behind his ears.

"I got you a gift, too," the girl said, walking right up to Aziraphale.

"Oh, thank you. If you put it under the tree —"

She shook her head to quiet him and held it out with both hands. Cupped in her hands was a bird. A dead one. It'd been dead for a while. Its feathers were stuck together with blood and bits of it were starting to rot. "I found it in the garden."

"Oh. Er."

"I thought you'd like it because you like birds."

"Well. It's."

"Abby, love, we can't keep doing this," said Eden, hurrying over to her. "Go put that outside."

Aziraphale breathed out in relief at not having to touch it. At least the last one had been fresh.

"Great kid," said Crowley, still patting Bertie's side.

Aziraphale sighed and went to put the pies in the fridge. He peered out of the dining room window when he finished, watching as a car pulled up. The plates read 2NDCMG. He'd half expected Jesus to arrive by donkey, but it was a very normal grey car. When he got out he opened another door and a man stepped out, bundled up in a cable knit sweater and coat. Aziraphale blinked. He went to the door and opened it when Jesus knocked.

"JC!" called Crowley. He waved from his spot on the floor, where Peter was showing him the rocks he kept in his pockets.

"Hey, man." He smiled, his eyes crinkling with genuine warmth.

"Hello. And who's this?"

"Chris," said the man.

"Lovely to meet you. Do come in."

Chris went to mingle, whilst Jesus followed Aziraphale into the kitchen. The walls had been painted yellow, all sunshine in the winter. There was one shelf dedicated to cookbooks. The rest of the surfaces were crowded with utensils, plates and, currently, food. His current project was gingerbread. He'd been decorating them with Nina and Crowley.

"Friend of yours?" Aziraphale asked, busying himself near the stove.

"Boyfriend."

"Oh! I'm so pleased for you." He clasped his hands. "A human, I presume?"

"Last time I checked."

"No, of course. A Christian?" An offhand remark, because of course he was. He was dating Christ.

"Atheist."

"Oh. I see. Tea?" Aziraphale lifted the kettle off the top of the stove, catching it just as the whistle started its shrill call. It simmered down as he poured.

"Thank you."

He handed Jesus a cup, then started making Crowley's just how he liked it. "Doesn't it bother you?"

"What does?"

"He hasn't a clue who you are," he said. "He doesn't even believe in you. Not in a spiritual sense, at least."

"Not really." He leaned back against the kitchen counter. "I like it about him."

"How so?"

Jesus shrugged. "I'm just his friend. He doesn't think I'm too mighty for a proper conversation."

"I suppose." Aziraphale started to arrange the cups he'd made on a tray. Then he leaned against the counter, watching Jesus as he sipped his own tea.

"Met a lot of people like that. It all got a bit much, in the end." He picked at the edges of the scar on his palm.

"I can imagine," he muttered.

"I don't think it should've. That's the trouble with having human parents." He stopped himself and then looked up. His long, dark hair rippled over his shoulders.

Aziraphale ran a thumb over the wings on his mug, not quite meeting his eyes. A thought made itself known, one he'd had lingering in the back of his mind since he first saw the cross.

"It always seemed a little cruel to me," he admitted. "The whole, er, situation."

Something flickered over Jesus's face, a flash of lightning and then it was gone. "He did it out of love."

"Of course," he said.

Because that, somehow, wasn't the question. No, it was love. It was the most human thing She'd done; She kissed the nose of the lamb to calm it whilst Her other gripped the blade. She wept when the blood spilt. She loved him. She loved everyone. It was the first thing he'd ever felt.

His question — still not given breath — was this: was love enough?

But it seemed the wrong sort of time to ask it, and the wrong sort of place. Maybe it'd never be the right time. He'd go on asking it in his reflection in the lake, in mirrors and in silver plates. The sun could burn out before he had an answer. That was the thing with being immortal. There was no urgency to it. He'd mull over moral quandaries for thousands of years if he had to.

"Vaulted ceilings," said Jesus, still looking up, because there was nothing else to say.

"Hm? Ah. Yes."

"You should get them looked at. The beams are starting to rot," he said and wandered off with his tea.

"Right."

He smiled at no one in particular, then gathered up the tray. He went under the archway that connected the dining room to the kitchen and placed the tray on the table. It wobbled. He pushed the matchbox under its bad leg further in. He stuck his head around a second arch. It looked into the living room.

"Tea's made," he called. "I left it on the table."

He was about to go back to the kitchen, but another knock came at the door. Gabriel was behind it, grinning widely. Behind him was Beelzebub, leaning down to look at Abby's gift. Flies were buzzing around it.

"Ah, Gabriel."

Crowley audibly groaned behind them.

"Aziraphale! Good to see you."

"Hello," said Beelzebub, flatly.

"Er, Abby, could you put the bird in the grass? There's a dear. Come in, come in." He ushered them all inside.

"What's cooking?" asked Gabriel, following Aziraphale back to the kitchen.

"Gingerbread. I'm about to make another batch."

"I'll help."

"Oh, no, no. Don't trouble yourself. Please."

"No trouble at all! What's this?" Gabriel put his hands on his hips and peered at the fridge.

"How did you never — no, never mind. That's a fridge. If you put food in it it stays cold."

"Brilliant! What'll they think of next?"

Some sort of device to herd people out of his kitchen was at the top of Aziraphale's list. He didn't say that. Instead, he said, "Could you get the dough out of the fridge? No, that's butter. Not that either. I'll get it myself."

He pushed past him and found the slab of dough he'd put in to chill. He brought it over to the counter and started to roll it out. Gabriel loomed over his shoulder. Aziraphale paused. Gabriel leaned back. He started rolling again. Gabriel leaned closer. Aziraphale breathed out, evenly.

"Gabriel, couldn't you — oh, Jesus! You know him, don't you? Why don't you talk to him?"

Jesus was lingering in the dining room, talking with Chris and nursing a cup of tea. He looked over at Gabriel, blinking. "Oh. Hullo."

"Jesus!" Gabriel turned to him and walked off. "It's me. Gabriel."

"Good to see you." Jesus' features pinched as he tried to recall where he knew him from. "You knew my mother, didn't you?"

"Sure did. Lovely woman. Bit slow on the uptake, but nobody's perfect."

"Don't say that about his mother," scolded Chris.

"I'm only saying. I had to repeat the whole speech to her three times. Didn't even have a glass of water on me."

"The whole — no, that's not the point. The point is it's rude."

"Well. Sorry. "

"I don't like rude people," he added.

"And I don't like your sweater," said Gabriel, casually.

"Look —" began Jesus.

"I mean, really, argyle?"

"Now listen," started Chris, raising his voice.

"Will you all stop bickering?" asked Aziraphale, storming in with his rolling pin still in hand. He wielded it like a sword. "I can hardly hear myself think."

Before anyone could reply a man with owlish eyes behind his glasses stepped into the dining room. He stopped short.

"Er," he said. "Um. Eden let me in. Sorry."

"Noah." The only member of Aziraphale's book club who'd been able to come. ^[3] Aziraphale lowered the rolling pin. "Hello."

"Is this a bad time?"

"No, no. Why don't we all go to the living room?" he asked, cheerily. "There's presents. And a television."

The doorbell rang again as he was herding them into the living room. He dusted his hands off on his apron and approached the door. Tracy was behind it, beaming at him, whilst Shadwell loomed behind her like a hired bodyguard. Or an ageing dog left out in the snow.

He'd spent a couple Christmas lunches with Shadwell because he hated picturing him alone in his flat on Christmas. None of the other agents ever came over to see him. It was only right to share some ham sandwiches with him before going home to celebrate with Crowley.

They were never very pleasant sandwiches. But still.

He hadn't had a Christmas with him for years. He had to at least show him around the new place, so he let them in and told them the presents were about to be opened.

They gathered around, with Maggie perched right under the Christmas tree, beaming. Nina was with her, admiring the lights. Maggie was wearing a red and green sweater patterned with little lambs grazing on knitted grass. The sun peeked out from the clouds and came through the window. It caught the dust motes and brushed against the baubles before embracing Maggie. It made it all glitter. When Maggie looked at him his breath hitched. It was like nothing changed. If he closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of pine and gingerbread, he could almost believe she was a kid again.

He'd always let her put the tree topper on. When she was small he'd had to pick her up by the waist and hold her up. It made her laugh so hard that he kept doing it even when she was old enough to use a stepladder. He picked her up for the last time when she was ten. She'd been too big for most humans to lift but young enough to want to fly, however briefly. The next year she hadn't wanted him to. He'd blinked and she'd grown up.

"Are these incandescents?" asked Nina, her voice cutting through Aziraphale's haze of nostalgia.

"Hm? Oh, they are. Somebody," he said, pausing to narrow his eyes at Crowley, "keeps urging me to replace them with LEDs, but I think that the colours are —"

"So much nicer on the eyes!" Nina finished for him, delighted. "That's what I've been saying! It wouldn't be so bad if they were only putting up a few strands, but when Mr Brown of Brown's World of Unicorn Puke gets going — ugh."

"Don't get him started," said Crowley, nudging his gift to Nina over to her.

She thanked him, and Aziraphale started handing out his own gifts, starting with Crowley, and then Gabriel. Gabriel beamed when he saw the jacket he'd given him. Aziraphale practically melted with relief.

Jesus received a lot of gold jewellery and a few candles. Chris got some new fishing tackle. The pile of gifts dwindled. Peter and Abby went to play with their new toys, chasing each other through the halls. Madame Tracy went off to mind them and make sure they didn't break anything. The last box was large and it had golden wrapping. Aziraphale handed it to Jesus. Out of it came an antique globe, carved out of exquisite mahogany. Jesus grinned.

"Beautiful." He gave it a spin. Chris rested his chin on his shoulder and watched it with him. When it stopped, Jesus's hand landed just by Bethlehem. "My hometown." He tipped his head towards Chris.

"It's at least two hundred years old," said Aziraphale, "so you'll have to be a bit gentle with it."

"I will be." He held the globe in his hands, spinning it idly.

"Oh, look!" Maggie straightened up. "It's snowing."

Aziraphale followed her gaze. Out of the window, there was the garden, yellowing in the cold. The sun had been swallowed up by white, soft clouds. They rippled like seafoam. The lightest breeze sent the flakes spinning wildly off course before they drifted back down.

Aziraphale clasped his hands together. "It's lovely."

The peace lasted all of thirty seconds.

Bertie barked, chased into the room by the children. Abby shrieked, running in with Peter hot on her heels. He was firing a BB gun at her.

"Leave that poor dog alone," Eden commanded. She stood to try and stop them.

If Peter heard he showed no sign of it. Bertie paused to look behind him with what could only be described as dread. His eyes, if it were possible, grew even larger.

As the kids caught up he made a run for it. He leapt for the tree. His side slammed into it. He tried to hide behind it. It wobbled on its base. The guests scattered, either to try and catch the tree or to get away from it. It was too far gone. It toppled like it'd been chopped down again. It fell with an almighty CRACK. The branches slammed into the rug and the couch. They splintered.

There was a chorus of gasps and are you okays. Then the crackle of something burning. The tip of the tree had fallen right next to the fireplace. There were more shrieks and a strangled noise from Crowley. Aziraphale ran over to it. Jesus shoved past him with a glass of water. He tipped it over. Shadwell threw his over it, too.

"Ye bleeding great horsefly bullocks!" he cried. "Ashes to ashes."

Nina stole a glass of water from Noah. She threw that over it too. It settled down to embers then fizzled out. The ashes smoked. It left behind a scorch mark on the wooden floor, but it was otherwise unscathed.

Except for the topper. It'd shattered on impact, then caught fire first. It lay in pieces on the hearth. Aziraphale approached it and knelt down. He scooped it into his hands. It was mangled. Like a dog had grabbed it and shaken it until it fell apart. The robes had turned black. The feathers had chipped off its wings. His ribs closed in around his organs, sharp and tight. For a moment he forgot to breathe.

"I had this for fifty years," he muttered, though he was fairly sure that wasn't why he wanted to cry.

"Oh, love," said Tracy, leaning over to look at it. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be, they're my kids. I want a word with you, by the way," said Eden, shooing them away from the tree to go scold them.

"I'll fix it, angel," said Crowley, looking over Aziraphale's shoulder.

"It's hardly worth fixing."

"Nonsense. Bit of glue. Few minor miracles."

"No, no, it's alright." He took the pieces he was holding over to a shelf and pulled an empty box off of it. He placed it in there, like a coffin.

Crowley was already handling the tree when he turned around. Aziraphale slunk back off to the kitchen to finish dinner. He heard the others fussing around whilst he cooked. By the time he was done, the utensils looked at him with an aura of respect and, perhaps, fear.

When dinner came, it took Aziraphale, Jesus, Crowley and Nina to carry it all out. They brought out a hefty leg of ham, honey sweet and smokey. A golden turkey was resting in a bed of herbs and garden flowers like it was only sleeping. Then came a parade of sides: salads, herb potatoes and roasted chestnuts. The centre of the table was crowned with a large, round plate. On top was a circle of Japanese milk bread rolls, all baked together until they formed a golden rose. Their crusts glistened under the light, and the insides were cloud-soft. All the steam made it hard to see the guests on the other side of the table. It cleared into a soft, spiced haze as Jesus poured out the mulled wine.

"Supping in a den of sin," muttered Shadwell.

"I think you'll find the angels outnumber the demons, actually. Turkey?" Aziraphale looked over at him, still wielding the knife he was carving with.

"Aye, lad."

Jesus sat. He pried one of the rolls off and passed it to Abby. She thanked him quietly and started tearing into it. Muriel tore off a bread roll, then offered half to Gabriel. He took it tentatively. Sniffed it. Looked like he was worried it'd explode. Then, finally, he nibbled at it. Beelzebub eyed him before they reached for the potatoes. Bertie went from chair to chair. He stared as they passed plates back and forth, ears perked towards every little clink and rattle.

They had angels and devils on horseback as savouries, and then the air popped with Christmas crackers. Chris angled his arm just so and took the entire cracker with him, leaving Jesus with a pitiful scrap of paper.

"Why do my lovers always betray me?" he muttered, bitterly.

"Get over yourself," said Chris. He grinned and placed the paper crown on his head like a king at his coronation.

Crowley cheated the pull with Gabriel too, who gave him a good-natured slap on the back when he took the cracker. Aziraphale left the table to bring the desserts out: mince pies, gingerbread biscuits, spiced shortbread, more mulled wine and eggnog.

"And chocolate cake," he added, setting a plate with a slice down in front of Jesus, "for the birthday boy."

"Oh, thank you."

"Happy birthday," said Noah. He reached for a biscuit and nibbled on it for a moment. His eyebrows pulled together in thought. "Do you think your parents named you Jesus because you were born on Christmas?"

Jesus hesitated. "I suppose."

"It's certainly a unique name. I don't mean to offend, but don't you think that God might feel a little... Testy about it?"

A flicker of a smile came over Jesus's face. "I don't think He minds."

"He's supposed to be all-merciful," said Maggie. "He wouldn't be too bothered about a name."

"You'd be surprised," muttered Beelzebub. "She's a bit of a drama queen."

"Knows how to have fun, though," said Gabriel. "Had a few bets with Satan."

"Fun? Was the Flood fun for you?" asked Crowley.

"Isn't that just a story?" asked Nina. Crowley raised his eyebrows at her. She went quiet.

"He's not irrationally angry, mind," noted Shadwell. He was nursing a mug of mulled wine. "Always been for a righteous purpose."

"They've been irrational plenty of times," said Eden. "I'd argue They're not worth worshipping."

Noah shifted uncomfortably. "Don't you think that's a hair too far?"

"I'm only saying."

"He has love and a plan for us all," said Noah, evenly.

"Oh, I don't know." Crowley reached over to the table to grab a mince pie. He picked at its pastry whilst he spoke. "I think God's just playing The Sims."

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. "Pardon?"

"Well, with dolls. They're like a child, I mean."

"She's the oldest being in the universe."

"And we're not much younger, you and I. But don't you still feel it sometimes? Like a kid lost in the supermarket."

"I used to feel like that all the time," said Maggie.

"I highly doubt the universe is just an elaborate dollhouse, Crowley," said Gabriel.

"I'm not saying it is. It's not chess, I mean. It's more complicated than that. They're omniscient, right? They're watching it all happen. Knocking dominoes over just to see how it goes. And the whole six thousand years thing was 'cause Their dad said They had to come downstairs to eat soon. Or something." He wrinkled his nose. "That metaphor got away from me. Anyway. I don't know if there is a point, is the point. But anyway, they don't realise what a right arse They're being because They only see eternity."

"No point?" asked Noah. "But isn't that sad?"

Crowley sipped from his wine to give him a second to think. "No," he said. "It's free will. Choose your own adventure."

"What do you think, Mr Fell?" asked Maggie, eyes lighting up with what Aziraphale could only assume was the memory of him pulling a halo out of the cavity where his brain should've been.

He hesitated. "Best not to speculate too much," he mumbled because if he started now they'd be there all day. "It's not for us to know."

"Probably not," said Crowley, but Aziraphale knew it'd never stop him from asking.

"All of this is assuming He exists at all," noted Chris, who'd managed to keep quiet until then. His speech was a little slurred, and he was pouring himself another glass of wine.

"It's hard not to believe when you've seen what I had," said Tracy, giving Aziraphale a significant look.

"Well, maybe for you, but to me it just doesn't make any sense. I mean, consider the dinosaurs —"

"They were a joke," said Gabriel.

"Pardon?"

"A joke. It all came pre-aged, save for a few projects."

"So the Earth's six thousand years old, then?"

"Thereabouts."

"And evolution?"

"Another of the Almighty's little jokes. She thought the fish with legs were funny."

"They were, a bit," added Beelzebub.

Chris blinked at him for a moment. "Are you having me on?"

"No. But I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"Are you calling me stupid?"

"I'm just saying."

"You're beginning to get on my nerves."

"And you're getting on mine," said Beelzebub. "Shut up, will you? Few years ago and I would've had your tongue cut out."

"Is that a threat?"

"Did you miss the 'few years ago' bit?"

"It sounded like a threat."

"Do you want it to be?" asked Gabriel, cheerily.

"Calm down," said Aziraphale, straightening up. "There's no reason to go to blows over this. Why don't we, er, talk about something else?"

"I hear it's going to snow again tomorrow," said Jesus, stiffly.

Neither of them were listening. Chris stood. Gabriel did, too. Gabriel was taller by a few inches.

"I could take you," said Chris. "You think you're so tough?"

"I do." Gabriel cracked his knuckles. "Do you?"

"I bloody well do," he said, and dove for it.

He was a blur. He sped across the dining room. Everyone gasped. Crowley barked a laugh. He slammed into Gabriel. It was like an axe into a tree. There was a crack and then a thud. Gabriel went down. The two rolled around on the floor, a writhing mass of limbs. Knees knocked into chests and fists thunked against fabric.

"Send that damned American bastard packin', laddie!"

"Get him, Gabe!" called Beelzebub.

"Can you all stop picking sides?" demanded Aziraphale.

Gabriel shoved Chris off and scrambled to his feet. He got up too. He aimed a punch. Missed. Stumbled. Gabriel drew back an arm.

Jesus leapt out of his chair. He slammed into the table as he did. It wobbled. The matchbox under its leg slid out. The whole thing turned over. It fell with all the elegance of someone who'd just rolled their ankle. Plates and cutlery clattered and broke in an almighty chorus of crashes like rain on a tin roof. Everyone stood. They stumbled out of the way, bumping into each other.

Jesus leapt over the carnage. Plates and glasses crunched under his feet. He ran to Chris and pulled him away from Gabriel by his arms. "You can't fist-fight an angel of the Lord!"

"I can fist-fight this guy!"

"Well, don't." Aziraphale joined them and held Gabriel back.

They glared daggers at each other. They were panting. Then huffing. Then, finally, breathing evenly. Aziraphale let go of Gabriel when his shoulders stopped heaving.

"Oh my," said Noah, weakly.

"My plates," squeaked Aziraphale. Then he went very quiet.

His plates. And his food. Now their fillings spilt out onto the floorboards.

"I'll sweep them up," said Crowley, hurrying over to him. "Few miracles. Be fine."

"I, uh, I got carried away," said Chris.

"Gabriel," said Crowley, turning on him. "You—"

"I'm sorry! I got carried away too."

And then there was more bickering over whose fault it was, who should fix the plates and whether they should call the whole thing off and go home. Aziraphale started to understand what a kettle felt like just before it boiled over. He barely heard most of it, save for —

"None of this would've happened if he hadn't brought up God," said Nina, gesturing to Noah. "Did nobody tell you about politics and religion at the table, mate? Recipe for disaster."

"Er," said Noah, out of his depth. "Believe me, I didn't intend for a second of this. But everything happens for a reason —"

"Oh, I'm quite sure it does," said Aziraphale, cheerily. "Though I'd very much like to hear Her reason as to why I can't have a single day of peace."

"Aziraphale," began Crowley, gently.

"Alright. Do you really want to know what I think of God?" He looked at Maggie, whose eyes were wide. "I think of six thousand years of — of Job and of Jesus. Of the blasted tree getting set on fire. Of Her being a silent, judgemental, cruel, wrathful, petty, jealous, plague-making, flood-sending, lightning-slinging, show-off, bastard! All for what? A war She might not have even won if She'd ever gotten around to it. Never mind if all of humanity dies for a coin flip. But everything will be alright in the end, won't it? And that makes it all fine, of course. And love, yes! All for love. Does that make it better?"

The words scratched his throat, and he had to stop once they were out. He swallowed. The room was silent, though Crowley was grinning in that you what? sort of way. He avoided his gaze.

"No," he said when nobody replied. "I think that makes it worse."

"Angel —"

"I need some air."

Aziraphale marched out of the dining room to the back door. He stopped to grab his coat from the rack near the door. He pulled it on and stepped outside. It was dark out. The clouds had cleared somewhat and some stars peaked out. The sun was gone, but the last of its light brushed against the base of the clouds, a streak of red against the black. The air was a heavy, physical thing, grabbing him with icy hands. He walked right through it.

He tracked deep trails through the snow. It crunched under his feet. He walked to the end of the garden. He looked over the fence. One of his neighbours had their curtains drawn. He could see into their living room. Their Christmas tree was in the middle, lit up in red, green, gold and blue. They were celebrating, too, then.

It occurred to him that he was only one blinking heart in a tangled mess of them. For every house with their lights on, there were people inside experiencing equal parts merriment, carolling and a dog eating so much turkey that it threw up on grandma's best carpet.

He breathed in. Let it out. The door creaked open behind him. Bertie came running out, whining. He looked up at him. Did a circle around his legs. Then he looked up again and studied his face like he was afraid he'd drop dead if he wagged his tail too hard. Aziraphale leaned down to pat his head.

"Did you want to be alone?" asked Crowley. He glanced back at him. He was leaning against the doorway.

"No," he admitted.

Crowley nodded and made his own trail of footsteps as he came over to him. "You alright?"

"I don't know." He straightened up. "I'm sorry. I know we promised we wouldn't storm off anymore."

"It's different. You needed air."

"I just wanted a proper Christmas," he huffed. "Just one."

"I don't think it is a proper Christmas without a disaster or two," said Crowley.

He tilted his hand towards him slightly. Not a demand, just an invitation. Aziraphale took it.

"You're gonna get frostbite on your paws," said Jesus, opening the door again. Bertie startled, then ran over to him and inside again. Jesus lingered outside. He came over to them. "How're things?"

"Ah. Hello. I'm sorry. I hope you weren't off-put by what I said."

"No. Sometimes I — well. Sorry about the table. And Chris."

"You'd think he'd have heard of turning the other cheek," said Crowley, drily.

The ghost of a smile came over Jesus. "Probably should've." He put his hands in his pockets against the cold. He looked up again, watching the stars instead of the ceiling. "Nevermind. It's been fun, seeing you both again."

"Been a while," said Crowley.

"And thanks for showing me around. It's a nice cottage. The kind of place I would've liked if things were, you know, different."

"You have time," said Aziraphale. He followed Jesus' gaze. Just above a cloud, there was a star that was a bit brighter than the rest. It may have been a planet. "You could still find somewhere like it. Settle down, maybe."

"It feels too late. Like the first time around was the real one. I'm just a ghost now."

"Even ghosts have homes," noted Crowley. "Haunt one. Or. Well. What I mean is, you'll carve yourself out a life somewhere. You just have to get out there. Go travel a bit. Buy a van."

"Or haunt one?"

"Nah. Not enough doors to slam."

"You've got a second chance," added Aziraphale.

"I think I'm just three second chances in a trench coat at this point," said Jesus, laughing. He narrowed his eyes at the sky. The bright star got brighter. "No. I hope you're right. Thanks."

"We are. You'll see."

Aziraphale breathed out against the tightness in his ribs. He'd have to go clean up inside soon. There'd be a lot to do. Nevermind. He supposed he could just miracle it. But his legs were heavy, and the bones of Crowley's slender hands fit so perfectly next to the soft curves of his own. He just wanted to stand around for a while, soaking in the scattered handful of stars. The bright one really must have been a planet. It cast a silver glow over the tips of the clouds like it was the moon. It dipped into the fog that coiled over the hills and farmland beyond the cottage.

It blinked.

Aziraphale blinked back.

When it returned to the sky, he realised it was an eye. His mind almost leapt out of his body whilst his stomach buried itself into a pit. He squeezed his hand tighter. Crowley gasped like a dog about to cry.

"My God," whispered Aziraphale.

Her light washed over the garden. The people who'd been inside started to come outside to see. Others stayed in, peering through the windows with wide eyes. Even some of the neighbours pushed their curtains or doors open.

But She wasn't focused on them. She was focused on Jesus.

"There you are," She said. "I've been looking for you. I told you to come home today."

"I know, Father. I'm sorry."

"Where have you been?"

Jesus swallowed. His jaw worked before he finally found an answer. "Around."

"Surely you've had enough of around. It's Christmas."

"About that."

"What?"

"I like it down here."

"And?"

"Don't make me spell it out."

"I'm making you." Her voice was booming now if it ever wasn't.

Jesus sighed. "I'm staying, Father. I want to stay on Earth. If it's all the same to you, that is."

"It is not! I've told you twice, now."

In the cold, Aziraphale was aflame; his cheeks and his chest burned. He wanted to do something, but he stood, legs locked shut. Crowley moved before he could. He let go of Aziraphale's hand. He knelt down and dug into the snow. He grabbed a handful of it and rolled it over in his palms. Aziraphale watched him with his jaw dropped.

"Crowley," he hissed, hurriedly. He ignored him.

She was still talking. He pulled an arm back and aimed.

He threw it.

God stopped short. She focused on Crowley. The snowball landed and broke apart. It'd barely made it a few feet into the air, let alone to Heaven. She blinked again.

"Crowley?"

"Yes, God?"

"What were you hoping to accomplish with that?"

Crowley pushed his bottom lip out in thought. "Just seeing if I could," he said.

"I'll have you know that —"

She'd lecture him all day if She could. Aziraphale stooped down. He scooped up a snowball of his own and threw it at Her. It flew a little higher. It shattered into a miniature snowstorm when it fell. And before She could respond to that, Jesus threw one too.

"Alright," She said, bitterly. "You've made your point."

Her light went out.

Aziraphale's breath shook and when it fogged it came out in little puffs rather than a cloud. The Earth went quiet.

"Still an atheist, then?" asked Noah, turning to look at Chris.

Chris swallowed. Pulled his eyebrows together as he thought. Looked at each of them. Nodded to himself a few times.

"Yes," he said.

"This is mad," said Nina. "I could've been home getting smashed off eggnog."

Jesus threw a snowball at her for that. She yelped, then threw one back. Maggie laughed and joined in.

Whatever had been in the air that day fizzled, popped and went out like a fuse exploding. They ran through the snow, chasing each other down and flinging snow across the yard. The tension melted away into shrieking laughter.

Muriel came out of the house to see what all the fuss was about. They knelt to make a snowball, then gasped and jumped back like a startled cat.

"Oh, it's cold! And wet! Nobody told me it'd be wet," they exclaimed, shaking their hands off. "It's like rain all over again."

But they were caught in the crossfire soon enough, and they didn't take it lying down. They gathered up enough snow to send Shadwell packing.

"Hit the decks!" he cried, grabbing Tracy's hand and leading her behind a snowdrift.

The wind that whipped through the village streets went straight through their coats. The cold pierced Aziraphale's eyebrows and limbs until everything was shaky and halfway numb. But there were honeyed lights on in the houses around them, and the neighbours watched from their porches or came to join. That was warmth enough.

They stayed out until the lights dimmed in the other houses. The last of the gold melted away, leaving behind empty windows. They were all soaked through by the end, and Aziraphale was shivering when they came inside. Muriel's curls were plastered to their face. Crowley miracled them a towel, then rolled his eyes when they thanked him. They wrapped it around their shoulders and clung to it.

"Oh, the dining room," groaned Aziraphale, taking off his boots in the entryway. "I forgot."

He stepped into the dining room, bracing himself for the carnage that his bones were too heavy for.

It was spotless.

"We cleaned up whilst you were outside," explained Gabriel.

"You can do a lot with a bit of glue and a broom," said Chris.

"And a miracle," added Beelzebub.

Crowley whistled. "You can say that again."

"And we found some leftover biscuits and icing in the kitchen," said Eden.

She walked past him and disappeared into it for a few moments. When she came back she was holding a tray. She put it down on the — now upright — table. On it were a few rows of biscuits, shakily decorated to spell out:

MERRY CHRISTMAS

&

SORRY

"Oh." He melted into a grin. "Now, whose idea was this?"

"Eden's. But Chris and I helped," said Gabriel.

"It's very kind of you all." He looked around the dining room. If anything, it looked nicer than it had before. They'd put a bouquet of flowers on the centre of the table. "You really didn't have to go through all this trouble for me. I could've cleaned it up."

"Of course we did." Maggie gave him a half-hug, one hand around his shoulders. "You're family, Mr Fell."

Eden came over to give him a hug, too, then Crowley. The others joined one by one until he was at the centre of a newborn star; all heat and fizzing energy. He was cold. His coat was heavy with melting snow. His back ached. His head was starting to hurt even though it really shouldn't, though it had never got that impression. He was quite startled to find that he was happy.

They stayed there for a while, holding each other close until it warmed them down to their cores. They parted one by one, the hug gently burning out and scattering.

"I suppose we should go home," said Tracy, finally breaking the still. "We've got a long drive."

"Of course."

After they left, the others said their goodbyes as well. There were more hugs, laughter and apologies. Maggie stayed by the door fiddling with her coat whilst saying goodbye. Muriel hugged him again, extra tight. The cars lined up on the driveway lit up, rumbled into life and left. Most went home by car unless they were too drunk to. The ones who went by bus found that the driver was strangely willing to make a stop right outside their house. Noah, Eden and her kids walked home. Gabriel and Beelzebub went to the middle of the front yard and simply vanished.

Aziraphale lingered by the door, watching the space where they'd all been.

"That was fun," said Crowley, grinning.

"You know what?"

"Mmm?"

"It was." Aziraphale grinned back at him.

"I'm not half tired, though." He stretched out his shoulder blades. "I'm going to bed."

"Alright."

He locked the door whilst Crowley went upstairs to sleep. He thumbed a knot at the small of his back, then turned to go. He changed into his pyjamas in the bathroom, then went upstairs, running his hand through his hair.

He found Crowley leaning against the doorway of the bedroom. The light was on inside, and his slender limbs were in silhouette. His sunglasses were finally off. He was in his pyjamas. He was also entirely in the way.

"Would you mind moving aside a tad?"

"I would, actually."

He nodded upwards. A sprig of mistletoe was strung above their door. He tried and failed to suppress a smile, his cheeks already warning.

"I see."

"Some fiendish creature put it up there."

"Like a demon, perhaps?"

"Exactly."

"Now, what am I going to do about that?"

"You tell me."

"I'll have to make sure he's smitten." He swayed towards him.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that." Crowley grinned and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale's shoulders. He clasped his hands just behind his neck. "He already is."

Aziraphale put his hands on Crowley's cheeks. He urged him forward into a kiss. They melted into each other. When they pulled apart, Crowley pressed closer until they were hugging.

"It was a good party, angel," he whispered, pulling back just enough to look at his face.

"Thank you." His throat felt thick when he tried to speak again. "I don't know if I am anymore."

"You are."

"I threw a snowball at God," he said, and it was halfway between a sob and a laugh. "I can't be."

"If you're not Their angel," he said, his voice low and serious, "then you're mine."

Aziraphale softened. He went up on the tips of his toes to kiss the corner of Crowley's mouth. He smiled. The corners of his eyes crinkled up and the wrinkles flowed over his cheekbones like a waterfall. His eyes were soft and half-closed. He watched him through a slit of gold.

"If They got one thing right," Crowley mumbled, "it was giving me you."

He wondered if She meant for them to be like this. It could've been an accident. If, when She was sewing them out of the fabric of spacetime, She forgot to cut away the threads separating them. Now their souls were all tangled up and inseparable right down to their atoms.

Or they found each other. Again and again, until lost became found became brought home.

"And I'm very glad She did." He hesitated. "Do you ever miss Her?"

Crowley tipped his head up minutely, then down again. "Sometimes."

"I don't suppose it ever stops hurting?"

"No. Well. Maybe it does. We've got all of eternity to find out, you and I."

"Oh." Despite himself, Aziraphale beamed. "Yes. Yes, we do."

And maybe that was enough.

"Merry Christmas, angel."

"Merry Christmas, my dear."

Crowley tugged on his hands, gently leading him to bed. It was not a particularly holy night, what with God being chased off and angels getting drunk. It was not particularly calm, either. But it did fall silent.

[1] In the end they got cards for Anathema and Newt, Sergeant Shadwell and Madame Tracy, the Youngs, all of Whickber Street and what seemed like half the village. They sent Warlock a card, too. It was signed Love from Nanny Ashtoreth, Brother Francis, Mr Cortese and Mr Harrison. They spent an afternoon giggling as they tried to forge the signatures their aliases would have.

[2] Their next door neighbour. She'd first spoken to them when she heard Crowley yelling at the plants in their garden. She'd wanted to know what the hell he was doing. When he explained she laughed and said, "You're weird! I like you."

[3] And a deeply Christian man, at that. Aziraphale felt he should approve more than he really did. He liked Christians on principle, of course. The trouble was some of them got very silly ideas about God, and he always had to choose between holding his tongue and being called a blasphemer for attempting to explain his angelic status and subsequent correctness.