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To the mythos’ credit, it was a particularly silent night.
The kind of night that feels frozen, not just by the flakes of ice that dust every surface, every touch, or by the thickness of air heavy with cold - but a night that felt frozen in time. So still, so smothered, so stagnant, that for a second, you can’t help but wonder if you blinked and missed the end of time itself. A soft temptation, hidden belief, that you could walk up to the edge of the world with a soft knock, and discover you were trapped in a snow globe.
It was the kind of night that, despite itself, warmed Aziraphale to his very core. Where he could sit, marvel at stars he had seen from all angles - all views, in all stages of life - and truly not care about them at all. Never possessing a single desire to view them from any other lens than the one from his small, perfect world.
It was the kind of night that made him love Her.
It was not the kind of night he had expected for Her arrival within man.
He was an angel, of course. And if pride was not a sin, he’d even argue that he was a good one. But still, he could admit that Upstairs had a slight penchant for the overdramatic, at certain times, to say the least. When he was briefed on ‘Operation Jesus’, he’d rather imagined something with more fanfare - opened heavens, flourishing crops, at least a celestial brass band. This felt empty, forsaken - almost.
Oh, he really knew that he shouldn’t think like that. It was important for the boy to truly live as human, and the presence of God was worth more than any material comfort, it was true. But still, watching the tiny, dotted figures stumble through the blanketing white, the tiny disruption in the static stillness, his heart hurt. Could it be possible that these figures, almost ant-like in the force of the world against them, hold the key to salvation within? Aziraphale knew what they would lose. What they would have to endure. What she already had endured, the selfhood, the dignity, the respect, she had sacrificed. Yes, this is what devotion is. Yes, this is the covenant. Yes, Yes, Yes.
But she was a child. And the wind’s teeth were too sharp, and her face too raw and the sound of her cries too much for Aziraphale to bear. He’d positioned himself as an innkeeper to watch from a distance. The silent protector (the silent spy) . He knew that the child was to be born of nothing, to rise into everything. He had seen the blueprints ( and he had signed his name). But he couldn’t go along with this, not anymore.
Gabriel had seen to his inn being at maximum capacity long before he had even had the decency to call in on the girl, Mary - she was. And, admittedly, there was little he could do about that. But he had a stable, and a manger, and a mind full of miracles. So he braced the snow - broke the ice-thin stillness of night - and called the weeping family to him. Held with firmness as the cold weakened the body of a girl already breaking apart. Soothed the fears of a man dotted with the white of a frozen beard.
His face contorted into an almost-grimace as their vice stiff, frozen hands clutched his in delirious thanks as he led them to wind-beaten and bitten structure. But whether it was for the slowly sickening knowledge of his disobedience, or his shame at not disobeying in a more meaningful matter, he was not sure. All he knew was that within the creaking wooden walls, against the scratching-softness of damp hay, for the first time, they looked like a family. In their eyes glistening with held back tears, there was a myriad of joy, and excitement, and pain, and fear. They were parents, waiting and fighting for their child. They were human . Not just a symbol of the weakness of man, but proof of the soft-strength of them.
And maybe Aziraphale had bent some natural rules. A few seasonal laws, but he was an angel after all. Didn’t necessarily have to be a ‘good’ one.
The soft glow emanating from his face was sharply interrupted by a quick rap on the door of the stables.
“Oi! Got any complimentary beverages?”
Aziraphale’s head turned, directing a sharp stream of celestial righteousness as it did.
“Terribly sorry, but we are quite in the middle of-”
Oh.
“Oh. It’s you.”
Two flame red strips of eyebrow dart up above pitch black, impenetrable circles. Long curled hair flops with the tilt of a head, curl of a lip.
“Thanks angel, don’t go looking so pleased now.”
Now noticed, the barely-there politeness that had possessed Crowley to alert Aziraphale to his presence with something as simple as a knock, suddenly dissipated. He swung the wooden door with a little more force than it was built to endure, and sauntered next to Aziraphale.
“Gosh, big night for you lot. Simply had to travel in for the occasion, didn’t I? What a coincidence that I find myself staying right here…”
The slow, curling tone to his voice made it comically obvious how little of a coincidence it was, annoyance triggering a flare in Aziraphale’s blood that almost distracted him from one glaring question. The key word being almost .
“You mean you, you know that - that he?”
Aziraphale cursed himself mentally as he felt himself flush, stutter, and grind to a general halt - hands intertwining round and around.
“Son of the old lady? Sure I do. Not like the thought hasn’t occurred to my lot to try something like this out. Think we’re waiting to see how this pans out first.”
Crowley’s statement of ‘his lot’’s plans was spoken with the deadpan sincerity of a storm prediction. Disconnected, but accepting.
“Well, I certainly can’t believe that the life of young Jesus, over there, could possibly resemble whatever, well, creature, you would create.”
The disdain coated Aziraphale’s tongue in a bitter sheen as he spat the words out, as if they were apple seeds souring in his mouth. He knew better than this, he knew Crowley better than this - that these conversations, hushed under the howl of wind, weren’t tactical brawls, but olive branches he was too afraid to touch. But still, the venom flowed as unending as the sea.
“No, no of course not. I mean, I wouldn’t instantly abandon him to suffer, angel. That’s all you. Our boy, we’d give him a good life. A good shot at one, anyway.”
“Well, we see a higher purpose than material comforts. We know that there are more important things. I wouldn’t expect someone like you to get it . (Or me, I cannot lie, I cannot deceive. I know who I’ve been believing.) ”
Aziraphale clenches every muscle of a corporation he still feels yet to grow into. Fake some semblance of control (lie, deceive, lie, deceive.)
Seemingly unaware of the gaping chasm taking the form of the angel by his side, Crowley gives a wry laugh.
“It’s not about wealth. It's about decency, comfort. About giving him a life worth living beyond a predestined purpose. A predestined agony. Giving him the best shot to give others that. Allowing him the space to know that he can just exist, that he’s enough that way.”
(Is that what happened to you, Crowley? Did you not know you were enough? Were your stars your agony?)
Aziraphale is an angel, he must do what he must, but his heart is softened, his resolve broken.
“It’s about equality, my dear. This boy, living like this, will show the whole world that God doesn’t see wealth or means, just character and heart. It’s a small price to pay. (Was that Gabriel’s line, or Michael’s?) ” .
The words flow like a mantra, does he believe them? He doesn’t want to know.
“It's about showing that God is with every man, that there is no shame in being lowly. It’s about Her living truly as them.”
Aziraphale had believed in this idea. Had been a pioneer for it. He’s lived on this planet longer than anyone (besides, well, him ), and he knew more than anyone the disillusionment and divide between human life and divine ideal. But doubts had crept in - always wearing hell-tinted hair with a smirk on their lips. The doubts spoke, a resounding call.
“Oh please, you can’t possibly think this is for authenticity. No. This is what you lot do. The humiliation. Reminding them that above all, they are nothing in the great plan . Reminding them that the only thing that should be running in their veins is fear, and the gratitude that they’ve lived long enough to register it. I mean, the census that drove them here came from somewhere, right? And sure, it makes a pretty picture. Maybe even a display one day. The spiritual social mobility is truly gratifying, I don’t deny. But to this extent? Come on angel, you’re smarter than that.”
Aziraphale blushed, directed his gaze to his feet.
“Well, maybe you aren’t. But you’re certainly a great deal kinder.”
The lilt of demonic tone was gone. The voice that remained spoke with a softened candour - pure as the driven snow. It continued.
“I was told very clearly about how this night was to go, Aziraphale. We both know this wasn’t it.”
The quick inhale of (biologically unnecessary) breath was, at that point, beyond Aziraphale’s control.
“You mean, you were sent here?”
Crowley’s covered eyes mirrored Aziraphale’s flustering back. Nothing else.
“What were you to do to him? What horrid scheme have I interrupted? (that’s not fair Aziraphale, and you know it) ”
And he knows it stings, he tipped his arrow in sharp-cut winter ice. Crowley gives nothing away.
“You know I don’t kill kids, angel. You must be mistaking me for someone.”
The quick bravado is a thin layer that begins to crack the second after the words leave Crowley’s mouth. His face falters, he turns, back to Aziraphale as he fumbles with the lenses of his glasses.
“It isn’t exactly, ngk, official business. Got a room, didn’t I? Big one. Too much space for just me. See you beat me to it though - probably for the best.”
The unspoken reason for that floods the air like a thick, burning smoke. (You’d send yourself down to the bottom for her? Her ice crusted hair and faint blue lips. Her breaking heart, and desperate soul.)
“You were going to help them, my dear, weren’t you?”
He doesn’t try to keep the tenderness out of his voice, the fondness taking control of his body, lifting and tilting his hand towards the demon ( is he?) beside him.
Crowley, turns to meet his gaze, snake eyes softly hitting, unguarded. Something unfurls, something fizzes.
Something breaks, the wounded scream of a man cuts through them, splits them apart.
“Help! She’s not moving! My darling, Mary, mine, help!”
Joseph sinks to his knees beside the slumped figure of Mary, still fighting to release the baby that could move heavens.
Aziraphale’s mind stutters (no, no, no, no. This is not meant to go like this. A miracle, I can do a miracle. Just tell Gabriel the importance of mother as well as baby. He’ll understand, right?)
But he doesn’t do anything. Because Crowley is there, jumping, running, kneeling down beside. Aziraphale watches helplessly as life sparks beneath his palms, soft colour blooming. A small adjustment, cupping of the child, and he slips softly to the hay. The dark soaked strands losing the saturated brand of maroon, lightening once more. Aziraphale felt the degrees notch up a few places, the soft drip, drip, drip of melting ice.
(What sort of angel? What sort of angel? What sort of angel stands and watches life ebb away? Lie, Aziraphale. Lie, deceive, and lie some more.)
***
From his place beside the new-formed-family, Crowley sees the faint, gold-tinted figure of Aziraphale retreat from the stable, and he wishes not to interrogate the sink of his core as he does so.
It’s his own fault, he tells himself. Thinking that there was something there, that something that was happening, that Aziraphale was finally seeing, not just the reality of things, but also - him. (He chose not to entertain the thought that Aziraphale could see, did know, did know him - and had simply chosen his side.)
He should have given up by now. Resigned himself to a life of undermining moves and long distance watching, he did not want to interrogate why he couldn’t do that either. It would be his undoing, one of these days. The final step too far, would it be worth it? (For that smile? Of course.)
Still, he was a demon, and the demon within him tried to extract some sick pleasure from the way Crowley held in his hands the son of his creator ( and undo-er). It had not been why he had helped, but he’d be lying to pretend he didn’t think he’d feel some power in this.
But as his, still wooden, limbs curled around the screaming child - the bonds of his being, the glue that stitched himself together came alight with a soft fuzz. The warm, solid, moving presence of something so loved, so dear - there because of him. Him alone. The soft gasp of wonder from the mother, face becoming wet with relief and adoration. Choked up and shaking hands of the man by her side. This was a child, loved so dearly for so many reasons. So much more than a chess piece. ( Could he ever be like that?).
The manger is no place for a baby. No place for a God. And yet, cradled in hay that will leave its poking, scratching, mark, Jesus belongs, pulls, creates, in a way that the empty shell of Crowley’s frame cannot. At least he has been of use. Given something, created something, not just stolen away, undermined.
He needs to leave. The baby is born, and this really isn’t his jurisdiction. There’ll be a temptation in a royal family to achieve, a soul snatched in an alley. Anything to avoid the melting snow dampening his core of hellfire. He’s done enough, (too much, to ever go back) .
Yet, Crowley doesn’t leave. Because there is the lightness of a palm against his shoulder, the warmth of drink in his hand. And Aziraphale is there, and he is open and clear and loving and pained. ( An angel, really.)
“Here, my dear. You’ve earned this.”
Crowley doesn’t think he means the drink.
Aziraphale retreats again. Careful, measured, evenly spaced footsteps trailing to the abandoned outside. But this time, instead of the ligering coldness and fog of guilt, Crowley hears his silent language (follow me, don’t ask why) .
As he rounds the corner beyond the stable, into the wide expanse of untouched snow, Crowley sees Aziraphale standing, curling in on himself, as he stares into the trail of footprints leading away from him, already becoming covered in the snowfall. Crowley thinks he looks beautiful like that, almost fallen, and hates himself for it.
A horrifying realisation dawns upon him.
"Was that, with Mary, that whole thing, was that part of your plan ?" He tastes the sourness as it leaves his mouth, but it's not what he means, not really. He tries again.
"Angel, are you going to get in trouble for what I did?"
That seems to snap Aziraphale out of the stupor he was fixed in, but not with alarm, instead with a slow grace as he turns his head and fixes his sparkless eyes on Crowley.
"Maybe it was. Honestly, I, I, I don't know anymore. But it was never briefed to me, Gabriel knows how soft I can be."
That's why you're so much better than them, Crowley thinks. (He's learnt not to say, never to say.)
"I'd rather be more worried about what they'd do to you , my dear. If anything comes about from Upstairs, I'll take the blame, play stupid, get emotional. They'll let me off with it, nobody else wants this job."
A sharp intake of breath and something Crowley would label a sob, if he didn't know better ( and he did, he knew so much better than that ) burst from the angelic figure.
"But if Hell- if they get any wind, Crowley, they'll ruin you."
The howl of the wind is the same faint whistle far away, the creak of a growing family still constant. The snow still falls, and the Earth still shivers, but Crowley shatters.
( You’re worrying about me? The son of God in your home and you worry for me? Don’t, don’t, don’t. All I want I have here, let that worry go.)
“Nah. I wouldn’t worry about that. None of them are paying attention to all this anyway. Chalking it up as an eventual win and then slacking off. Can’t blame ‘em really.”
The nonchalance in his voice is a thin and cracking disguise. (Not because he fears what Hell will do to him, but because he fears what Aziraphale has already done)
“What do you mean, ' chalking it up to an eventual win' ?"
Aziraphale's eyes are wide (endless, really) and petrified.
Crowley’s a coward, and dodges the question.
“Angel, were you a part of this? Was this your idea?”
Aziraphale’s eyes turn cloudy, and he turns away with a sigh.
“Well yes, I suppose. I’ve been, I guess you could say lobbying, for increased connection between The Almighty and mankind for quite some time.”
He tilted his head up, letting snowflakes catch on his face.
“I must say, I understand the disconnect a lot of them have to Her”
( Do you mean them? Or do you mean us?)
“I know they must, I believe they must - but it must be hard to love a God when all you do is suffer. So many of them, Crowley, so many of them only know suffering. When you feel abandoned. When your questions go unanswered.”
For an imperceptible moment, Crowley feels the bright flash of eyes landing upon his skin, burning like sulphur. But it’s over as it begins.
“So, I thought this, seeing Her reduced to a life of trials, just like them - might give them hope. Might give them a collective purpose - a feeling of something.”
“I still do have that hope. I do. But, there’s certain, rumours, going around. About their plan for the boy. And the census, and with what’s happening with Herrod, and sometimes I wonder if it's all just a show. All just to show how bloodsoaked this species is, how they will always be.”
Crowley breathes in the tender flesh of honesty. Tries not to shred it.
“Aziraphale, the way I see it, it's like a demonstration. Feels like Her saying ‘look! I lost my son too! You can’t complain!’”
Crowley chuckles, Aziraphale is motionless.
“Instead of making a whole mystical song and dance about her loss, why doesn’t she just make it easier? Make this winter a little warmer. And as for the future of the human race, faith has never really been unilaterally uniting. Yes, maybe he’ll inspire greatness in some, but he’ll inspire anger in others. It’s the way of the world - Her world. He’s something new to fight about, and they will. And I’ll get a pay-out.”
Crowley breathes the last part, surprising himself at the way it slips out. Aziraphale stirs, but no protestations are made.
“But what really bothers me, angel, is him. The boy. Born to die, and he doesn’t even know it. That’s no way to live.”
“So what are you going to do?”
Aziraphale sounds broken, cold.
“Nothing. Nothing I can do. Hell’s got me busy enough. Don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance to meet him - properly, that is.”
He risks a glance, Aziraphale is staring at him with an expression he cannot begin to decipher.
“What about you?”
He breaks the stare with a sigh.
“Officially, I’m not meant to do much. But I reckon I’ll stay close by, help where I can.”
“Can you do me a favour then, Aziraphale?”
Now it's Crowley’s turn to look away, eyes tightening to the horizon.
“Make sure he knows that his life is enough, you know? He can just live - aside from what he’s meant to be. He isn’t just some pawn.”
(Can you make me feel like that? All the time, not just these flashes.)
Aziraphale doesn’t answer. Crowley understands. (Better not).
“Anyway, I best be off. ‘Heard you’ve got a busy inn tonight anyway.”
He turns to leave, forces his spirit to rip away from the place it wishes to attach itself - when the soft fizz of a warm, painfully unfamiliar, hand lands upon his forearm.
“Crowley, wait-”
Aziraphale isn’t meeting his eyes, won’t meet his eyes. He pretends it doesn’t sting. (At least he’s well practised in lies.)
“Thank you.”
Crowley hadn’t been expecting that, and judging by the look on Aziraphale’s face, he isn’t sure if he was, either.
“You were remarkable tonight, my dear. You really are, you really are a-”
“No need, angel. It’s fine, of course it is.”
(Don’t say those words, Aziraphale. I can’t survive another fall.)
A tilt of the head, adjustment of glasses, and he leaves. Soul in shreds. ( but at least I didn’t look back.)
Aziraphale watches as Crowley saunters, through the bleak midwinter, to nowhere in particular. Inside, a child laughs.