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Later, whenever Crowley told this story, he always said it was the Christmas tree’s fault.
A faux fir tree, lavishly decorated and mounted on top of an oversized Roomba, it cruised the foyer of the theater before the house doors opened and then during the intermission, playing Christmas songs. Crowley found it slightly unsettling; trees, even fake ones, were supposed to stay stationary and quiet, not chase you down the hallway belting out “All I want for Christmas is you” like a drunk diva. But alas, the theater management didn’t ask for his opinion when introducing the monster to the foyer for this year’s production of The Nutcracker, alongside the holiday boutique selling tree ornaments, sparkly tiaras, and nutcrackers, photo backdrops, and a concession stand with fresh baked goods.
Newt, the tree’s designated handler, swore up and down that it was perfectly safe. Crowley shrugged and quietly added “keeping an eye on the potentially evil singing tree robot to make sure it doesn’t run anybody over” to the list of his normal duties as an usher.
At first, his scepticism seemed unjustified. The first few weeks of the production passed without incident. The tree crept around, too slow and too loud to sneak on anyone properly. Crowley started to relax and even imagined that it might be fun to bring something like that to welcome the guests at the next year’s Dracula. However, the weekend before Christmas things changed.
Afterwards, nobody could tell what exactly happened. Maybe something glitched in the programming that was supposed to guide the holiday Roomba to its corner after the intermission. Maybe Newt, with his history of weird technology-related accidents, got too close to the robot and fried its breaks. Maybe it was a Christmas miracle in disguise. Either way, instead of calming down and coming to a stop, the tree blinked its lights, blared the opening lyrics of “Silent Night”, and careened towards the concession stand, thankfully, temporarily unmanned, crashing into it at full speed.
🎄🎄🎄
“Well, that went down like a lead balloon,” Crowley offered to the baked goods seller when he returned to his stand only to find it destroyed. Newt managed to coax the tree away from the ruins and was now herding it into the corner, away from everybody. Crowley and Nina, the woman from the ornaments stand, were crouching among the detritus, cleaning up at a hectic pace.
“Yes, yes, it did, rather,” the man said faintly, surveying the damage.
“It’s not as bad as it looks! We’re almost done with the cleanup…” Crowley said, in a rush to console the man, and trailed off, realising that he never learned the man’s name, for all the time he spent stealing glances at him from afar. He just couldn’t help himself; the man’s pale curls almost shone in the dim light of the foyer, and his bright smile and joy he took in talking with his customers finished the job.
“Aziraphale,” the man provided in response to Crowley’s questioning look. “Thank you ever so much for helping. That was very kind of you.”
“Not kind,” Crowley growled automatically. Then he frowned, looking around. “Didn’t you have a nutcracker at your stand?”
“Er, well-”
“You did. It was vintage like anything. What happened to it?” Crowley asked, already scanning the floor in search for the missing toy. It was very impressive indeed, the kind of a vintage toy that must’ve inspired Tchaikovsky to write his ballet. Aziraphale used to keep some nuts at his stand to crack them using the toy, to the inevitable delight of the kids watching him. He heard Nina saying this was the best advertisement for the toys she sold at her boutique she ever had.
“Oh, no need to look for it here. If you must know, I gave it away.”
“You what?” Crowley whipped his head up to stare.
“I gave it away! There was this young woman with a toddler, and she was so very upset when she couldn’t buy a toy for her kid, I think she couldn’t afford it. So I just said, here you go, a perfectly functional nutcracker, don’t thank me.”
Crowley kept staring at the man. He knew he was probably being rude, but he just couldn’t help it.
🎄🎄🎄
They spent the second act chatting about everything and nothing in particular, cleaning up the wreckage of the concession stand. The baked goods were not fit for selling any longer, of course, but nobody minded finishing off the broken up pieces that didn’t end up on the floor. Newt grabbed a few of the less damaged shortbread cookies and scampered off to tend to the tree in its corner. Nina did the same, muttering something about not breaking up an intimate moment. Aziraphale and Crowley were left alone.
“This is brilliant,” Crowley said, shoving half a florentine in his mouth. “Do you bake them yourself?”
Aziraphale hummed his agreement, biting into his slightly crumbled biscotti. “It is a lovely holiday tradition, supporting a cause I care about and practicing my baking skills too. And it seems particularly appropriate to enjoy the sweets while listening to the music from the Land of Sweets!”
Indeed, faint sounds of music reached them from the house.
“If you could be anyone from The Nutcracker, who would you be?” Crowley found himself asking. He spent so much time watching the ballet in the past few weeks, he couldn’t help but daydream.
Admittedly, the show did not have a lot of male dancers. Crowley liked the Mouse King; the guy cut a dashing figure in his blacks and greys, the only dark figure on the scene of white, pastels, and glitter, and went out in a blaze of glory after just a few minutes instead of carrying the prima ballerina around for half the act like the Nutcracker Prince had to. But in the end he settled on the Arabian danseur in the Kingdom of Sweets; his dance looked exotic and sensual, as far removed from the winter wonderland of the rest of the show as it could be, plus it was supposed to symbolize coffee, which Crowley could absolutely get behind!
“Anyone at all?” Aziraphale clarified, and, after a nod from Crowley, gushed. “Oh, that would be Herr Drosselmeyer, of course!”
“Huh,” Crowley said. Clara’s mysterious godfather could be interpreted as a magician or a skilled craftsman, but definitely a man of broad learning and wild imagination. In the production they’ve been watching, he barely danced with other adult guests, instead playing games with the kids and then spending time with a huge book lit from within, taking notes of the events unfolding after the party or possibly even directing them. That would fit Aziraphale very well, Crowley thought, with him always having his nose in a book during their downtime and entertaining kids with terrible magic tricks during the intermission if there was no line for his stand.
“What about you, my dear fellow?” Aziraphale asked in return with a coy smile. “Not Fritz, I hope, always out to break the toys I would bring to the children?”
Crowley shook his head. He was about to explain all about the Mouse King and the Arabian, but what actually left his mouth was “Clara, I think.”
“Clara?” Aziraphale looked surprised, but not repulsed by the idea. “The grown-up version who dances with the prince? The prima?”
“No, the girl who gets the toy Nutcracker and then fights the mice at his side.”
Aziraphale hummed, considering. “Why?”
“Because she’s the one who gets to dance with you- I mean, Herr Drosselmeyer,” Crowley corrected himself quickly. He was pretty sure Aziraphale caught his meaning and had no objections, though, from the way the man blushed and gave him a coy glance.
At the opening notes of the Waltz of Flowers Crowley had a bold thought. He stood up and offered his hand to Aziraphale.
“Can I have this dance to conclude this magical night, Herr Drosselmeyer?”
Aziraphale giggled shyly, nodding. Moments later they swayed together, artlessly, not even trying to follow the barely audible music, just enjoying the feeling of closeness.
And in his corner, Newt was quietly despairing to figure out why the Christmas tree, with only holiday songs loaded into its memory, was crooning “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square”.