Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Ligur was dead, to begin with.

Well, perhaps ‘dead’ is a little too soft a word considering the circumstances. ‘Dead’ implies an ‘after’, and that is not what had happened to Ligur.

Ligur was wholly eradicated from the face of existence, to follow up. There was no doubt whatsoever on that particular front. The examination of his liquified remains was done first by Crowley, then Aziraphale, and Crowley once more out of morbid curiosity. Aziraphale cleaned up the remnants himself, and when Aziraphale put his mind to it and actually bothered to clean something there was no evidence left that the mess had been there at all. But if we must use human colloquialisms to describe the matter at hand, Ligur was as dead as a very dead thing. The deadest of things.

Aziraphale knew that Ligur was that dead and yet, despite his nature, couldn’t quite find a place in his heart to be all that sorry about it. Yes, it was a little tragic and terrifying to comprehend absolute oblivion, but Ligur had been about to do something ghastly to Crowley and the would-be victim had merely acted in self defence. If you wanted to get technical about it, since Aziraphale had been the one to give Crowley the gift over a century in the making that caused Ligur’s end, Crowley was carrying out holy retribution with Aziraphale’s blessing. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone but his own deepest consciousness, but Aziraphale was more than a little pleased by the thought. Ligur’s end was something they had done together, another little tick mark in the ‘Crowley and Aziraphale Actually Were Useful During The Apocalypse Thank You Very Much’ column.

The thing about Aziraphale was that he was a bastard. He had always suspected as much, but once Crowley voiced the thought aloud he let it roll across him and settle comfortably in the middle of his chest, warming him through. A bastard worth liking had a certain ring to it, especially when spoken to him by a certain demon. Crowley had a way of saying things to Aziraphale that seemed terrible on the surface, but in actual fact were things he truly wanted to hear and he revelled in them every time. The angel knew he could be a little scatterbrained, for lack of a better word, which was why he hadn’t really taken offence at Crowley calling him both stupid and clever in the same breath. He knew he could be interpreted as such, but it wasn’t quite right— it was just that there were so many things worthy of being concentrated on that sometimes he forgot to follow one thread of thought to the centre of the labyrinth and darted about getting distracted along the way instead.

A lot of opportunities had been lost to Aziraphale this way over time.

He could be thoughtless at times, and more than a little selfish, and possibly enjoyed his alone time with only his books to keep him company a tad too much. Solitary as an oyster was something Aziraphale was supposed to be as an angel stationed on Earth, not offering to share them with his adversary. Crowley seemed to see all of those things and still chose to be his friend regardless of the angel’s prior token and unmeant protests on the subject, which Aziraphale thought was nothing short of miraculous. Despite the edicts of Heaven and Hell, Crowley was not Aziraphale’s worst enemy by a very long shot. That honour went to the angel himself, though that was a notion he was loathe to admit even in his most secret thoughts.

After the world failed to end, Aziraphale found himself rewarded with Crowley’s company in unprecedented measures. He was whisked off to several new show openings around the world, brought books he mentioned in passing several decades ago as gifts, treated to the tasting menu at incredibly exclusive restaurants that even his celestial powers couldn’t have garnered them a booking at until at least the next century (he had tried several times). At the end of each delightful new day, he would invite Crowley in for a drink, or eight, and then ceremoniously wish him a good night sometime before dawn as he returned to his desk to begin reading or repairing whatever new tome had found its way into his possession that week. In these moments, Crowley always looked as though he were going to say something. A witty barb at Aziraphale’s book-loving expense, perhaps, or a joke about knowing when to take a hint. In the old days, in the Before, that was exactly what would happen. Crowley would tease, Aziraphale would (politely) insist, and Crowley would go with the promise of a future rendezvous. This had not happened for months now. In this new world Crowley always paused, always primed to say something, then let it die on his forked tongue with an uncharacteristic soft smile. He would gather his things and pat the back of Aziraphale’s chair, another new addition to the routine, and silently wander out into the night. The angel found that he had to physically restrain himself at the desk in order to not get up and go to the window, to watch as the Bentley tore its way through the dark Soho streets (which was no mean feat, even at three in the morning).

There was nobody else with whom Azirapale would want to spend the rest of his life, no closer pair of friends than he and the demon, and he was inordinately pleased by the new freedom afforded to them by their defeat of their prior employers. In these quiet morning hours, though, when the last grumble of the Bentley’s engine had completely faded even from Aziraphale’s excellent hearing, he found himself feeling as though he wasn’t quite living as much as he should be. This, of course, was preposterous, he would immediately counter. Just this week he had been to see two excellent musicals, been treated to a private jaunt around the Natural History Museum’s ice rink, and been presented with Tchaikovsky’s original sheet music for the very first draft of The Nutcracker (a precursor, he was certain & then quickly proven right, to actual tickets to the ballet). He had deliberately lived in the slow lane for so long and attempted to keep Crowley in it too, nervously tapping the speedometer when it looked to be approaching what any other being would call a reasonable pace, and now he was letting the demon take him into what he thought of as the fast lane without complaint. Crowley took the lead so naturally, poured himself into entertaining them both so eagerly, that Aziraphale felt safe to sit back in the passenger seat and enjoy the journey.

Of course, Aziraphale cannot drive. I only mention this now because it is pertinent to note that Aziraphale cannot drive, and Aziraphale often does not pay too much attention when Crowley does as he is busy concentrating with all of his might to remain in one piece for the duration of the journey. So when I say that Aziraphale cannot drive, what I mean to say is Aziraphale does not realise that on very big roads that stretch out beyond the horizon there is, usually, a middle lane. The middle lane is neither here nor there, a transient place meant to either allow to you accelerate confidently into the fast lane or remove yourself from the flow of traffic and resign yourself to the slow— it is a means to an end, not somewhere to live. But Aziraphale did not know that at the present moment, and was well-practiced in both not driving and ignoring the uncomfortable truths of his existence.

It was a merry and bright evening. December had seen an unusual amount of snow, which Crowley and Aziraphale both quietly acknowledged was most likely to do with a certain Tadfield resident’s residual power casting one last spell over the land. Aziraphale was pleased as there was a sense of rightness to a white Christmas, as it brought a particular kind of childlike joy to many hearts over the season and made for a very memorable time of year. Crowley was pleased because it fuelled the conspiracy theorists who loved to say things like ‘Bloody freezing out there! Global warming my arse!’ which, in turn, made the retail staff being held hostage by their ignorance at the tills inch up that fake smile to a truly demonic degree. They’d been battling it out, although not seriously, for a few hours over who could truly claim the weather as a victory. It was still early enough after they’d both managed to survive their very literal severance packets that they hadn’t gotten out of the habit of voicing these things in terms of ‘our lot’ and ‘your lot’, though they smiled a lot more about it during these recent bouts. They were both doing so now, side by side on the sofa, knees bumping as their debate ramped up.

"What’s that got to do with anything?"

"You have to admit, you don’t fare well in cold temperatures. It’s like your internal clockwork needs a good winding and you start to go all stuttery and sluggish."

Crowley didn’t reply, waiting for Aziraphale to get to his point.

"A lot of the demons I’ve known whilst in your acquaintance seem to be—" he waved a hand, attempting to grasp at the threads of his mind, "cold blooded. Or at least creatures that survive better in warmer climes. So I don’t see that it could be so out of the question that it was designed with that in mind. It certainly didn’t snow in the Garden. It came a lot later, once the true nature of Hell had fully been realised."

"Are you seriously trying to tell me that you’re arguing snow is some sort of, of, heavenly biological weapon on the basis that Hell is supposedly hot?!"

Aziraphale blew out a soft laugh at that, and it steamed a little in the air. It really was cold with all the snow piling up outside, even here within the safe walls of the bookshop. Crowley hadn’t said anything about it, but he had left his coat on as they had made their way into the back room several hours ago. Aziraphale was warmed by the Grace of God that made up his very essence, he didn’t tend to bother with things like central heating. He thought briefly about offering to build a fire for Crowley, the idea oddly pleasing to him despite not needing the warmth himself, but wasn’t quite comfortable with an open flame around his books anymore. The night was ticking on, and Aziraphale decided it had been perfectly pleasant & he was ready for it to end before something spoiled it— like Crowley dying of frostbite on his upholstery.

"Perhaps you should be going."

He hadn’t quite meant to say it as bluntly as that. What he’d meant was Crowley, you’re clearly freezing. I know you have all sorts of heated blankets and functional radiators and whatnot in your flat so why don’t you get home and actually have a nice time instead of sitting here listening to me blather on about the weather. I am worried about you, your teeth are chattering.

He had not said that though, because that was not how these things went.

"Going? Why?"

That was definitely not how these things went. Aziraphale needled, gently requested; Crowley acquiesced. Crowley was a creature of questions, but there were certain things he didn’t, and this was one of them. The routine. Aziraphale looked at him impassively, trying to get them back on familiar ground. It wouldn’t do to admit he was worried, Crowley brushed off anything approaching concern for his person with unnatural fervour.

"It’s getting very late and the snow seems to be picking up. I wouldn’t want you driving home in all that."

Crowley appeared to be looking directly at him, but Aziraphale knew the eyes behind the glass were focussed on a spot slightly behind his head and to the right. He could always tell.

"I thought—" he began, "I mean, I had just— it’s" Aziraphale wanted to wait patiently, though Crowley had once sputtered on like this for almost fifteen minutes, and it was only getting colder.

"My dear boy, I don’t want to be rude, but I think the chill running through the shop has addled your brain. All the more reason for you to get yourself home immediately."

It was, apparently, the entirely wrong thing to say.

"So you do know how fucking cold it is in here. And, what, you just decided not to do anything about it? Even today, of all days! Thought it would get me out the door that much quicker, eh?"

"Well, I didn’t think—"

"Oh! Aziraphale didn’t think!" Crowley launched himself off the sofa, pacing the floor and looking anywhere but at Aziraphale. "A first in history, one for the record books!"

"Crowley, what on earth has gotten into you?"

"Do you know what day it is?"

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose, "Of course I do, I’m not an idiot. It’s Tuesday."

"Tuesday."

Crowley looked at him, a strange urgency taking over his features. Aziraphale waved a hand, indicating that he could go on. The demon threw his hands across his face and howled into them.

"Well, there’s no need for that."

"It’s Christmas Eve, Aziraphale."

The angel balked. Surely not so soon? Though, now that he thought about it, without all the orders from Heaven that made this time of year such a flurry of activity, he hadn’t actually stopped to consider the nearness of the day. He’d been too busy off having fun with Crowley to pay attention to things like the passage of time. Truth be told, Aziraphale had been looking forward to his first Christmas Day with nothing to do, nobody to see, alone with a cup of cocoa and a book. Peace at last— though why the fact that it was Christmas Eve today would make Crowley so angry with him he had no idea.

"I— I see."

He didn’t.

"You don’t," Crowley sighed, rubbing his cheek as though he’d been slapped and all the wind seemed to rush out of him. The conversation was getting away from Aziraphale incredibly quickly, and he wasn’t sure he’d even had hold of it in the first place.

"Look, Crowley, I’m sorry about the temperature. You know I run warm, I don’t think about these things unless you tell me—" at that, Crowley let out a short bark of a laugh, but Aziraphale pressed on, "so I apologise, but I really believe you should be getting home, regardless of what day it might be. I’m not sure why you’re so upset about it being Christmas Eve, but I’ve had such a lovely day and I don’t want to ruin it now by quarrelling. I think maybe we’ve both had too much to drink."

Aziraphale had never been more sober in his life than in the instant he finally looked at Crowley’s unguarded expression, sunglasses long gone.

"Aziraphale, I ask nothing of you. I want—" he paused, clearing his throat. It took some time for him to speak once more. "Let me stay, just this once? I‘d hoped— I’d planned stuff. For us. For tomorrow."

"Plans? For Christmas Day? Without consulting me?"

"Not consulting you on plans didn’t seem like a crime this morning."

"Well that’s different, Crowley, that was surprise tickets to the ballet! How could I refuse that? This is— I have my own way of keeping Christmas, you know."

Crowley frowned, looking wrong-footed by this.

"Yeah, but— you don’t have to do that this year. It’s not the same anymore, remember?"

"Exactly, dear boy. I had planned to spend the whole day gloriously alone, not a soul to bother me, just my books." Aziraphale smiled a little, running his hand down the spine of a particularly worn Dickens he’d won in a wager with Hans Christian Andersen (who was more than a little perturbed by the loss and spent a week campaigning outside the bookshop for its return, which Aziraphale wholeheartedly ignored).

"Ah, well," Crowley put his hands in his pockets and turned away, adopting the appearance of nonchalance that Aziraphale hadn’t been fooled by for many years now, "I just thought Christmas might be the time to—that I could—that we could... but no. You don’t want to be bothered. I see that now. You win, angel. Think I’ll spend Christmas getting in a long overdue nap, if that’s the case."

Aziraphale kept quiet as he digested this, not wanting to examine the tendrils of panic that crept up his spine at the thought of Crowley going to sleep after what seemed to be a fairly major argument, the spectre of one hundred years without him hovering over Aziraphale’s head— though he still couldn’t identify the true source of Crowley’s misery, why all this had gone so wrong so quickly. This simply couldn’t be just about Christmas, the demon had never seemed to care for it that much before. The drunken revelry of the turning of the year, though, was much safer territory for them both and a surefire way to salvage the mood of the evening. Aziraphale attempted a smile.

"Will you be awake before the New Year, would you imagine?"

"Dunno," Crowley was tucking his coat tighter around himself, readying for the outside world. "As you said. Clockwork’s all fucked up. It’s been a long, cold winter, and I am very tired."

"Crowley—" Aziraphale went to rise, but stopped himself. Crowley had replaced his sunglasses and located his scarf. This was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? For Crowley to leave, to go back to his flat and resume the comfortable routine of their lives as they had lived them until this evening. Perhaps the demon would be in a snit about whatever faux pas Aziraphale had unthinkingly committed for a little while, but the New Year was a time for making amends. Aziraphale believed it would all work out, because he had to.

Crowley walked to him, seeming impossibly small in this moment despite how he loomed over Aziraphale’s sitting form. This was the part of the evening where Crowley had taken to tapping the back of Aziraphale’s chair as he prepared to go. Tonight, however, he softly placed a hand on the side of Aziraphale’s face. Despite everything, the touch was incredibly warm as Crowley’s thumb trailed a comet of heat across Aziraphale’s cheekbone.

"Have a Merry Christmas, angel."

"Wait—"

The brush of skin to skin seemed to both last forever and vanish so instantly Aziraphale wasn’t certain whether or not he had imagined it, though why he’d imagine such a thing he couldn’t possibly say. Crowley had reached the doorway, and was not looking back.

"And a Happy New Year."

The door shut, and Aziraphale felt rooted to the spot by dread. What did that mean? Surely Crowley could just tell him that when he saw him on the day. Surely he didn’t really intend to sleep through to January? 

The snowstorm outside rose in violent crescendo so much so that Aziraphale couldn’t hear the familiar sound of the Bentley departing over the roaring of the wind. It rattled the shutters of the shop and Aziraphale finally was spurred into action to get up and lock the door now that Crowley had gone. Some things grounded you in this life, and couldn’t be replaced by mere miracles. The first bite of hot buttered toast, the warmth of a touch from a loved one, the security of locking one’s own front door by hand. No more unexpected visitors, no unwanted guests, no way for stray thoughts and regrets to sneak through. Peace at last, Aziraphale thought, and wondered why it didn’t feel as satisfying or true as it should have done.

"Oh, bugger it."

He returned to the sofa, choosing to sit in the cold spot where Crowley had been without examining his motives too closely, and miracled himself up a steaming mug of cocoa. He wouldn’t allow himself to dwell on the events of the evening— not now that he finally had the Christmas he’d always dreamed of at his fingertips. The familiar weight of the Dickens collection in his hand, he let out a little sigh and began to read the words he knew so well and found such comfort in. A story of redemption; of a soul saved; many lives changed for the better through the power of love and caring. Aziraphale settled in, and would permit nothing to spoil the tableau of his perfect Christmas.

This, of course, is when Ligur showed up.

Aziraphale had often heard it said (by Crowley) that Ligur was a ghoul, and he had believed it— but he did not believe in this apparition before him.

Ligur looked like a terrible special effect from a BBC Three adaptation. He glowed faintly blue, wibbling around the edges, and seemed to have a touch of static about his corporation. He wore no chains, but instead rattled vaguely, like loose change in the bottom of a bag you’ve not picked up in months. He regarded Aziraphale with barely contained boredom, which did a lot to dull the chilling effect his visage was most likely meant to have.

"What is this?" Aziraphale asked, peering around, "Crowley, are you still here? Is this your doing? Playing some sort of prank?"

"Crawly’s gone, little angel. You gave him the old heave-ho good an’ proper. Merciless, you are."

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. It certainly sounded like Ligur, though he had only had the misfortune to meet the demon once or twice in his lifetime. He quickly sobered himself up entirely, convinced that would do the trick, and was most annoyed to discover it hadn’t. Now he found himself tragically sober and still seeing things, which did not bode well at all. The supposed spirit crackled as he walked towards a bookshelf, tapping a finger at the spines at random.

"Would you please stop touching my things? If you must be here, then come and sit down while I sort out what to make of you."

Ligur snorted, but made his way over to the armchair and slumped into it. It seemed to be a mockery of the usual sprawl Crowley adopted, but lacked all of the finesse and aesthetics. His crotch was much too on display, and he scratched at it absently as Aziraphale attempted to avert his eyes.

"You don’t believe I’m real, do you."

"I do not. I’ve been on this planet for six millennia and never have I encountered anything that would make me believe in ghosts."

"Pffff. Shows what you know," the apparition laughed, pointing a finger at him. "Typical of you though, innit. Somethin’ obviously right in front of your face and you can’t even let yourself see it. Classic."

Aziraphale felt the beginnings of a headache coming on. He was not going to be lectured by what he was almost certain was the result of a bad batch of marmalade gin, and he certainly wasn’t going to go around believing in ghosts all of a sudden.

"Tell me, then, if you’re so clever— how is it possible that a demon destroyed by holy water is sitting in my back room and seems unable to stop intimately scratching himself."

The hand that had been so thoroughly offending him ceased its ministrations, and Ligur sniffed, "Not like I’ve got anythin’ down there. I’m no pervert, not like you an’ Crawly. Goin’ around with bits that you ain’t even usin’ properly."

"I am not having this conversation."

"That’s another Aziraphale classic, avoidin’ difficult conversations.'

Screaming into a pillow was not something Aziraphale had done in the entire time he had been alive, and he wasn’t about to start now, but he could certainly see the appeal. He reached for his mug of cocoa and found it utterly cold, the skin solidified to a horrible sludge. Ligur chuckled and it was all suddenly too much. His lovely day with Crowley ruined, his reading interrupted, his cocoa sullied. He rose from his seat and stood imposingly before the demonic entity, who had the smarts to at least look a little afraid.

"Alright, let’s say I’m willing to bend the laws of reality for a moment and agree that you are here. What do you want from me? You seem to be claiming to know things about me, but we hardly spoke when you were alive. Besides all that I would have thought if you’d wanted to haunt anyone, it would be Crowley. None of this makes any sense, so you have less than sixty seconds to give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just attempt to smite you, or exorcise you, or whatever you, from my sight immediately."

"You think I want to be here? I don’t have no choice in any of this. One minute I’m dead, after going through excruciatin’ pain the likes of which I wish I could make the snake feel for even a second, and the next I’m here hoverin’ about, watchin’ you be a complete idiot. Only you couldn’t see me then, dunno why it’s taken till now for me to be able to talk to you, but I reckon someone’s messin’ with you and I’m all for that. So now here I am, with all this shit about you in my head, only I know I can’t tell you it all. Just the important bits. Need to know basis."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow that spoke volumes. Smite-adjacent volumes. Ligur cleared his throat.

"Look, do you want me to tell you what’s goin’ on or not?"

"In a timely manner, if you please. I have reading to do."

Ligur rose, then. He rose and kept rising until he was hovering in the air above Aziraphale. His eyes became entirely opaque and when he spoke the room darkened and the furniture trembled. Aziraphale had seen a stage magician do this once back in the day and had been much more impressed with that than he was now, but he listened regardless.

"Principality Aziraphale! I am here to-night to warn you, you are stuck in a middle lane entirely of your own makin’! Yet you have the power to take charge of the car, and there is chance and hope for you yet, even if you are one half of the daftest pair of buggers that’s ever lived!"

Something was tugging at Aziraphale’s mind, something familiar he was certain he should be able to see the full shape and form of, but he was still half convinced this was a trick on Crowley’s part—especially now all this car talk was involved—and the demon would saunter out from behind a shelf and go ‘ta daaaa’ and Aziraphale could clap politely and all the strangeness of the evening would be forgotten. He wandered over to the nearest shelf in order to check behind it, just in case. Ligur continued, undaunted.

"You will be haunted by three other blokes!"

"Actually I believe the line is ‘you will be haunted by three spirits’," Aziraphale automatically piped up, before his eyes widened and he finally looked back at the book he’d left perched on the arm of the sofa. "Oh, no. No. Absolutely not. I refuse. It can’t be."

"It is."

"I think I’d rather not," he grimaced, picking up the book and flicked to the very conversation they were having. "This is completely ridiculous. A Christmas Carol? Really? Whoever is playing this game, this must stop now."

Ligur, apparently having finished delivering his full ghostly message, sank back down to the armchair and resumed scratching, looking very pleased with himself.

"You not gonna ask me if you can ‘take ‘em all at once’?" He smirked, and a complex and lewd hand gesture followed. Aziraphale refused to blush.

"That proves that this is stuff and nonsense. There isn't a force on this earth that would make me believe for even one moment you have read anything, never mind Dickens."

Ligur’s smirk didn’t abate.

"Course I haven’t, but ain’t you ever heard of The Great Gonzo?"

Chapter Text

Aziraphale was bothered exceedingly by Ligur’s ghost. Every time he resolved that it must have all been a dream, or a trick, the horrid spectre would start hurling books off of their shelves, or making what he must have thought were very hilarious and appropriate “woooooo” sounds but were nothing more than noise pollution.

"Look, Ligur, how long do you plan on keeping this up? You’ve delivered your message, and if you truly want me to believe in all this ridiculousness you’re not doing a very good job of sticking to the script— Marley’s ghost at least had the good manners to kindly bugger off when his part was done."

Ligur rattled with laughter, giving Aziraphale a grin that he was horribly certain could literally be described as shit-eating.

"What, and miss out on you royally makin’ a mess of your one chance? Not on your life sunshine."

"That’s another thing!" Aziraphale said, feeling a spot of angelic fury rising within him. "My one chance for what, exactly? I’m not some horrid old miser who can’t find room in his heart for Christmas! I love Christmas! In fact, I was planning on having my first ever proper Christmas, which was shaping up to be truly delightful until you ruined it."

Ligur tutted, doing his best impression of a disappointed nanny who had caught her ward in a terrible lie. Aziraphale was intimately acquainted with this expression, having witnessed it on no less than seventeen different occasions when in the employ of the Dowlings. One would think that the demon would have been glad to catch the boy in a lie, as an indicator of his true heritage, but when pressed on it later Ashtoreth had remarked ‘he can lie to everyone else— not his nanny’ and that was that. The look had been much more fetching on her. Ligur simply did not have the bone structure for it (especially as he now had no bones of which to speak).

"You call that a proper Christmas? Look, you can protest all you want but I reckon you fit the bill perfect for the role of ol’ Scrooge. Hates customers, holes himself up in his shop alone even at Christmas, kicks out the people what try an’ care about him—"

"I didn’t kick Crowley out! I merely suggested— I was only trying to say that he would be more comfortable—'

"Never specifically mentioned Crawly, now did I?"

This lit up a little lightbulb in Aziraphale’s head as he chose to ignore Ligur’s implication. Perhaps he should call Crowley? He now believed the demon truly wasn’t responsible for the events unfolding before him— Crowley liked to tease, but not torment, and the prolonged exposure to Ligur could be described as nothing else. He wondered for a brief moment if his spectral visitor would attempt to stop him from contacting the outside world and so began, very slowly, to inch his way over to the telephone on the front desk. Ligur, who had graduated from assaulting his nether regions and was onto picking his teeth, did not seem to notice the angel’s incredibly clever plan unfolding. Aziraphale was certain this was the solution: call Crowley, and allow himself to be rescued once more. His reached slowly for the phone, his unneeded heart beating a steady pace, and went to grab the receiver. To his dismay, it was not present. The phone had already been picked up.

The phone had been picked up, I tell you, by another’s hand. It was being held so close to his face that he could hear the dial tone (which chimed despite the fact that the phone had never found itself plugged in, simply because Aziraphale expected it to). He turned to regard the new visitor that had plagued his home and found himself staring at a familiar, if unexpected, guest.

"Not that it isn’t lovely to see you, dear girl, but may I kindly request that you return my phone?"

Anathema Device’s smile glittered. Aziraphale was certain it had not done that when last he saw her. He was also positive she had not died or ascended to the status of some otherworldly being in the months that had passed since that day on Tadfield airbase, so how she had come to appear in his shop, holding his phone aloft like a schoolyard bully keeping their victim’s prize possession in their unreachable grasp, was beyond him.

"Sorry, Aziraphale. I can’t let you call him. It’s against the rules."

The phone disappeared, which Aziraphale was sure shouldn’t have been possible as nobody present but himself had the power to make it so and he certainly hadn’t wanted rid of the telephone. He took the time to examine Anathema carefully. She didn’t look particularly different, save for the sparkling qualities. Thumbing through the book that had been set not one hour ago to be the cause of comfort, and that was now thoroughly ruining his evening, Aziraphale’s eyes settled on the passage relevant to his current situation.

"Well, at least you’re not having the same sort of problems with your physical appearance as this poor fellow seemed to have. I don’t quite like the idea of you sprouting ten new pairs of legs without ample warning," he sighed, and tucked the book into his pocket. "I hope you’ll be the more sensible party in all of this, Ms Device, as I’m not sure my patience can hold out after my last visitor."

It was only then that Anathema seemed to register the two of them were not the only figures in the bookshop. She recoiled a little at the sight of Ligur, before gathering up her skirts and marching toward him with all the indignation she could muster.

"What are you still doing here?" she hissed in the face of the apathetic ghost. "This isn’t how it’s meant to go!"

"My thoughts exactly," Aziraphale sniffed in agreement.

For his part, Ligur could only shrug. He jerked his head towards Aziraphale, and Anathema’s ire followed. The angel felt pinned by it and looked away, guiltily, though he still wasn’t certain he had done anything wrong.

"Blame him, not me. He’s not committin’ to it, though why that comes as a surprise to anyone is beyond me. Says he don’t believe it’s really happenin’, so I don’t see why I should have to follow the rules neither. Refuses to learn his lesson, or that he even has a lesson what needs learnin’. You’re gonna have a tough time of it, witch."

Anathema sighed, removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose as though the action could stave off the inevitable headache one gets when dealing with recalcitrant celestial beings. Aziraphale knew the gesture well as he had worn it himself, many a time throughout the years, when in the presence of certain archangels.

"You literally watched an eleven year old go up against Satan himself not even six months ago and win, and you can’t spare a little bit of belief that this, also, could really be happening? That we’re trying to help?" she asked.

Aziraphale attempted to respond kindly, but his thoughts were plagued with the notion that this was helping nothing but his bad mood. Anathema all at once seemed psychic, as well as occult, as she said immediately: "We are trying to help, Aziraphale. Well, no, okay— he seems like a total jerk who’s here to watch you fail but I’m trying to help, and I believe you’ll get it right. So, let’s go!"

She held out her hand to him, and when he didn’t take it, she rolled her eyes and thrust her arm through his, linking them together.

"Come on. If you’re determined to be difficult about this, the quicker we get going the quicker you can get back."

Aziraphale knew it would be in vain for him to beg off, having so thoroughly failed to convince Ligur that he should be left alone, and especially now his opponent was Anathema— who he knew from only their short acquaintance was ten times as stubborn as the dead demon. He let himself be led to the door the bookshop, where outside the storm still raged around London, casting an eye over Anathema the entire time.

"Aren’t you mortal, dear girl? How can it possibly be that you’re here? Is this something that Agnes foresaw?"

"Look, I know you’re gonna have a lot of questions, but you just have to trust me."

Aziraphale squinted at her.

"You have no idea how any of this is happening either, do you?"

Anathema pursed her lips, "Not really, no. But, even though I don’t know how I’m here, I know what I’m here for, I feel the sense of purpose within me and what it’s telling me to do, so I’m happy to do it for now. As long as I get back to the cottage before tomorrow morning."

"Special plans?"

"Newt and I are having our first Christmas together, I don’t want to miss a minute of it."

Aziraphale’s heart was simultaneously buoyed at the thought of the new love that the Apocalypse had borne, and dragged under tumultuous waves of a much darker emotion he couldn’t quite bring himself to identify. As though she sensed this turmoil within him, Anathema placed her hand over his heart, a look of concentration passing over her face.

"Oi! Wait for me, you ungrateful—"

Leaping from his sprawl on the armchair, Ligur rattled his way towards them with an alarming speed, grabbing onto the sleeve of Aziraphale’s jacket much too roughly just as the scenery around the three of them changed. They passed through the floor of the bookshop as though they were made from nothing at all and their feet found purchase as they now stood in a hollow, white hall. Aziraphale’s home, and London with it, had entirely vanished. Not a single inch of it was to be seen. The snowstorm that had been raging outside had vanished with it, for it was a clear, sterile environment they found themselves in, no weather of any kind to be found.

"Good Heavens", Aziraphale exclaimed, but he did not really mean that at all. What he meant was oh fuck, this is Heaven.

"Ugh," Ligur held a hand over his eyes, as though that would do anything to combat the unrelenting whiteness of the place, "almost forgot how soddin’ bright it is in here. Can’t believe anyone wanted to stick around an’ live with this after the war."

To his horror, Aziraphale found himself half agreeing— if not with the overall sentiment, then at least part of it. He felt Anathema’s grip tighten on their linked arms, and was suddenly overcome with a spike of concern for the girl. He thought of her earlier conviction, and her decree that the quicker they completed this leg of the story, the quicker they could all return to familiar and welcome territory. He patted her hand gently, and she turned wide eyes upon him.

"I believe you’re meant to ask me if I recollect the way."

"I— yes. Sorry, yes," her countenance transformed from one of human horror at beholding the vast expanse of the afterlife for the first time, to one of a consummate professional who was here to do a job, "yes, of course. Let’s go on."

Aziraphale walked them through the corridors of Heaven, and was unsurprised to see it empty. If they were indeed here at Christmastime, and Anathema was indeed leaning into her role as the Ghost of Christmas Past, then that added up nicely. The host of Heaven would often all clear out at this time of year in days gone by, spreading their righteousness across Earth in person, as they were wont to do. As though he had summoned them with his thoughts alone, a gaggle of angels sprung from a nearby doorway and dashed by them, looking as merry as angels during the season of goodwill could (which was to say, not very merry at all— expressions full of divine and holy smugness did not leave much room for merriment). They approached the large globe that appeared with a soft popping sound in the centre of the room as a unit, chatting amongst themselves about the season. One acknowledged that though it was right and just that they should be stationed on Earth for the celebration of the Saviour’s birth, they were glad they didn’t have to stay down there long, as they hated having to witness the humans ‘absorb mass’— a particularly prevalent event at this time of year.

"Yes," chimed another, scanning the continents for their mission’s destination, "it is particularly grotesque, the consuming of matter. I’m glad we are all above such things."

"Well, not all of us. Though he certainly consumes enough for us all!" one said in a very unkind tone. The assembled angels laughed, a nasty sort of merriment finally making itself a home upon their faces, and they all disappeared into the Earthly realm in this manner, carrying their mean-spirited humour with them. Aziraphale could only sigh softly. Ligur made yet another of his very rude gestures at the spot where they had stood, and though he knew it wasn’t in service to him or his feelings, the angel felt a little comforted by it.

"Heaven isn’t quite empty, is it, Aziraphale?" said Anathema. "There’s someone here, an outcast who has not been cast out, left still."

Aziraphale snippily said he was well aware, thank you very much, but didn’t let go of Anathema’s arm. He walked them through the corridors until they approached a room which seemed a little less well-kept than the others. Where most offices of Heaven had a nameplate on the door that could blind one if the glare reflected off it in too direct a manner, this door had a hand-written sign that had clearly been torn down and reinstated several times. It was a most confusing sign, with notices given about office hours and instructions on when the inhabitant of the room would allow himself to be disturbed which, if the sign were to be believed, amounted to ‘never’. There was an addendum to the sign which had now been scribbled out, but which Aziraphale knew had once read ‘entirely unavailable between the dates of December 24th and December 26th’.

"Are we just gonna stand here and look at the bleedin’ door all day?" Ligur broke the contemplative silence that had fallen over both Aziraphale and Anathema, and pushed his way inside through the very fabric of the door itself. The angel and his guide exchanged a look that desperately said how much they wished he hadn’t been able to accompany them, before following suit.

The room they found themselves in seemed to have less of a retina-destroying sheen than the corridor they had entered from. The glow in here would be described on a box of Christmas lights as ‘warm’, whereas the rest of Heaven seemed adamant on purchasing the ‘cool’ option. At the white desk in the back corner of the cramped quarters sat Aziraphale himself, as he knew he would be. The angel’s past self looked no different, had no extra youth hanging about his visage to tug at the heartstrings for a lonely boy in his childhood— not that Aziraphale had any childhood of which to speak, and by this point in his timeline was well on his way to six thousand years old. No, Aziraphale looked upon himself and knew he looked exactly as he had when he regarded his mirror that very morning before departing to the theatre with Crowley. How long ago the events of the day seemed now! He wished, not for the first time that evening, that Crowley was here.

"I wish Crowley was here," the angel at the desk sighed into what he thought was an empty room. A look of panic then crossed his face, as though he were terrified of having said so aloud— and rightfully so. If anyone had overheard him, it would have caused more questions than his life was worth. Aziraphale of the present looked to Anathema and Ligur, to see what they had made of this admission. The former’s face was molded into a soft smile, tinged with melancholy. The latter’s eyes had rolled so thoroughly that they threatened to dislodge themselves from his face.

"Well, really," Aziraphale began to defend himself, "there’s no need to look like that. We were supposed to go to the opera that day, if I recall the year correctly. I thought I’d be allowed to remain on Earth for the season, planned to wrangle a few hours back from my busy Christmas schedule to enjoy myself. I thought Heaven would be reasonable about it all." He broke off, and huffed. "I made that mistake often."

The door behind them burst open as he finished speaking and all three trespassers on the scene jumped as one, all for reasons of their own, to see the Archangel Gabriel swan into the room, carrying what one might reasonably describe as a metric fuckton of paperwork.

"Aziraphale! A Merry Christmas to you!" Gabriel boomed, smile unrelenting as he slammed the unwelcome workload onto Aziraphale’s desk. "Thanks so much again for volunteering to stay back at the office and get caught up on all those reports you’ve been missing, buddy. Real team player attitude, putting in the overtime so close to the holidays."

The Aziraphale-that-was regarded the mountain upon his desk, pondered the cavalier way in which Gabriel stretched the meaning of the word ‘volunteering’, and to his credit was able to school his expression into one of willing resolve rather than abject despair before he met Gabriel’s gaze. "Surely, this can’t be all mine? I’m quite punctual with all of my reports, and file them appropriately."

"Well, there’s some of yours, some of Sandalphon’s, some of Ezekiel’s— look, you get to spend all year round on Earth; squaring up with the enemy, spreading peace and goodwill to all men and—" he paused, violet eyes casting a discerning glow over the angel’s form, "eating. I thought you deserved a nice break from all that and a reminder of the behind-the-scenes work that goes on that allows you to live such a rich and fulfilling life on the Almighty’s dime."

Aziraphale-that-is gestured dramatically at the scene before them, almost pulling Anathema over as he did so, "You see! It’s an outrage that I am being placed in the Scrooge role in this dreadful little scenario of yours, when if I must be anyone I am so clearly the hard-done-by Bob Crachit. Can’t you take me back to the bookshop and go bother Gabriel about what it means to keep Christmas properly? He certainly needs a change of heart, or a swift kick up the rear."

"While I don’t disagree that your boss is a total asshat, that isn’t how this works, Aziraphale," Anathema said, "we’re here for you, and you have a lesson to learn."

"I don’t know how often I can say this without sounding like a stuck record pressing— I have absolutely no issue with Christmas."

"Just watch, and then we’ll move on. Hopefully you’ll start to understand soon. Ligur, please take this seriously and stop doing that."

The demonic spirit removed his finger from where it had been half buried up the oblivious archangel’s nose, and motioned as though he were wiping residue on the back of Gabriel’s suit.

"Don’t let me have no fun, some witch you are."

Gabriel finished expounding to Aziraphale all of the reasons he believed being stuck by himself, in Heaven, for the entirety of the Christmas period really was in the Principality’s best interests, wished him yet another Merry Christmas, and made himself scarce. The door echoed as it slammed shut, and Aziraphale-that-was lowered his head to the desk with a small groan. His head turned to the side and he regarded the stacks of paperwork awaiting his labour. After a minute or two of this, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wrapped parcel. Aziraphale blinked at himself, before his mouth fell open in a soft ‘oh’.

"You remember this, then?"

"I do, yes. This wasn’t the year we were meant to see the opera at all. We had planned— Crowley thought it would be fun to pretend to be human for Christmas," he was embarrassed to admit the thought aloud. It seemed so childish and juvenile now, but it was a notion he and Crowley had hatched together when drunk towards the end of October and once they had sobered up in the first week of November they still found that they wanted to do it. Crowley had announced he would be in charge of the dinner as he didn’t trust Aziraphale anywhere near a stove, and Aziraphale argued that he would be in charge of decorating the tree as minimalism was not something one should inflict on a resplendent tannenbaum. They’d been halfway through their preparations when Aziraphale was suddenly and without warning recalled to Heaven and asked to report in for his Christmas assignments. His past self held in his hands the present he had wrapped for Crowley. With a resigned sigh, he tore into the paper. It was the very Dickens that sat in our Aziraphale’s pocket.

"Wait, are you meanin’ to tell me you got Crawly a dusty old book for Christmas?" Ligur paced around the angel at the desk, who was tapping his figures on the cover of the novel. "What would he want that for? Seems to me like you got somethin’ for yourself, hopin’ he would hand it over to you after he opened it. Proper shifty, that. Practically demonic if you ask me."

Aziraphale had to admit to himself, Ligur did have a point. Why had he wanted to give Crowley this particular book? Perhaps something to do with the manner in which he acquired it? Crowley had always loved the story of Andersen’s fall from grace in Dickens’ opinion, but not so much so that Aziraphale would think of it as a reason to gift him a book of all things. Surely his motives couldn’t have been so selfish? He looked to Anathema, who seemed as clueless has he was, but smiled gamely at him.

‘Maybe it will all make sense at the end?’

The angel hummed the way one does when one doesn’t want to appear stupid, but still doesn’t quite see the entire picture before them. Anathema squeezed his arm and the scene around them changed, leaving behind one Aziraphale-that-was (who was in the process of ignoring the work to be done and settling in to read) and coming across another, who was not in Heaven, but instead bustling about though St. James’ Park. All three of their ghostly party let out a sigh of relief to no longer be trapped in the harsh constraints of Heaven’s seemingly-endless walls.

"Where are you off to, in such a rush?" Anathema asked, as the angel’s past self dashed past them. Aziraphale took in the clothes of passers-by, the buildings around them, and attempted to make sense of what year it was. It was difficult to do— when you have been alive for as long as a creature such as Aziraphale has, certain periods of your life will blend together in memory. He had now spent so many Christmasses rushing about at the beck and call of his Heavenly masters he wasn’t sure where one ended in his mind and another began. He went to march after himself, pulling Anathema with him and not bothering to check that Ligur followed (the incessant jingling of his movements confirmed that he was, however).

It was with some great effort on the angel’s part that as they followed his past self the memory of this Christmas emerged in the foreground of his mind, though it was not a welcome one when it arrived. His steps faltered, and Anathema helped Aziraphale right himself as though she had anticipated this misstep of memory.

"You know when we are, then?"

"I do," Aziraphale admitted, as the first signs of the bandstand came into focus. The sight of it made him feel queasy, even though they were years before anything earth-shatteringly terrible would happen there. Even so, he fancied he could hear the echo of his own harsh words in the air, and hurried on towards their destination, as though he could escape them that way. "Though I couldn’t possibly say why this particular Christmas stands out. They were all very much the same."

"Liar," Ligur scoffed, walking in front of them now and wagging a finger over his shoulder at Aziraphale. "S’not very angelic, to lie like that."

The trio of odd companions reached their destination only a few steps behind Aziraphale-that-was, and all four of them together regarded the sole figure in the centre of the structure. He cut a handsome silhouette, in his customary tailored black so deep it would seem to be mourning wear to any giving it a cursory glance. His hair was longer than when Aziraphale had seen him earlier that day, and it made him pine a little for the way it had once framed his face so elegantly. There was a lightness to the way he held himself that Aziraphale couldn’t recall him bearing for decades now. It hurt, in honesty, to look at him. But Aziraphale— both Aziraphales— found themselves unable to do nothing less.

"Angel," Crowley drawled happily, breath neither of them needed but both kept like a Yuletide tradition heating the air before him. "Happy Christmas."

"You know that isn’t until to-morrow, Crowley," Aziraphale-that-was smiled at him, though it was tentative. He was here to deliver bad news, it showed in the incessant wringing of his hands, and he was impatient to get it over and done with.

"Well, yeah but. You know. ‘Tis the season and all that."

"I always thought it a little odd, the way you enjoy this time of year," Aziraphale was, if nothing else, an expert in prolonging his own agony.

"What’s not to love? Capitalism and commercialism are on the up-and-up, angel. In less than a century everyone’ll be driving themselves mad trying to keep up with it all, bigger and better gifts that nobody can afford but everyone wants. I take pride in a job well done."

"And the fact it’s a certain someone’s birthday has nothing to do with it?"

Crowley scoffed, waving a hand in front of him as though offended by a thoroughly bad smell.

"It's not like that. I just like the idea of having a drink, everyone getting a little too merry— plenty of opportunity for some very fun mistakes at Christmas, even for the likes of us. Besides, it’s not even his actual birthday, though I suppose he’d get a kick out of everyone thinking it was. Capricorn my arse. Yeshua was an Aries through and through."

Both Aziraphales smirked victoriously as Crowley began to sputter his way out of the hole he realised he had dug himself into. Anathema, who Aziraphale had almost forgotten in regard of his friend, leaned in to Aziraphale’s side and asked "wait, is he implying that he knew—?"

"Yes, he certainly did."

"And they were friends?"

"They were, for a time."

"Did you know him?"

"Oh, heavens, no. That wouldn’t have been allowed at all."

Anathema looked baffled by this revelation.

"Christian Mythology is so friggin’ weird."

The angel was about to protest at the events of his life being referred to as mythology, but before he could speak, his other self finally blurted out the missive he had come to reluctantly deliver.

"I’m afraid I’m here to give you some bad news, Crowley."

To the demon’s credit, he didn’t seem particularly surprised by this turn of events, but his smile became incrementally stiffer.

"Forget to buy me a gift, did you?"

"No, no, I— oh. Oh yes, I rather did, actually. Goodness, Crowley, I am so sorry, it completely slipped my mind."

The demon laughed, and the angel couldn’t recall it seeming so hollow and resigned in the remembrance of this event in his mind, "Aziraphale, you’ve forgotten to buy me a gift every Christmas since the idea of getting someone gifts for Christmas was conceived. I’m thoroughly used to it by now."

"You’re not missin’ out on much, Crawly, he’d only give you a bloody book he wants for himself," Ligur had made his way over to Crowley and was doing what Aziraphale suspected might have been some sort of martial arts move on him, though of course he couldn’t interact with Crowley’s physical form and so was merely scrabbling about attempting to look menacing and tough (and entirely failing at it).

"We’re still on for dinner tomorrow, though, eh?"

Aziraphale winced, knowing what was coming next.

"Ah, actually, the thing is—"

"Oh, come on. You’re joking, aren’t you? Aziraphale, please tell me you’re joking!"

"I’m rather afraid I’m not."

Crowley had begun to pace the bandstand, turned away from the Aziraphale of the past. Anathema pulled the angel around to the other side of the scene so they could see the demon’s expression, and Aziraphale immediately wished that she hadn’t. True devastation was not a good look for Crowley, but his voice, being all that Aziraphale remembered of this particular moment in his life, betrayed nothing that the set of his eyes would have.

"Every year, Aziraphale! We go through this every blessed year! When are you going to understand that you don’t have to do as they say?!"

Aziraphale’s past self regarded Crowley’s back with a guilt that was slowly edging towards anger, "Now see here, Crowley, you know that that simply isn’t true. This is the time of year where my work matters most and I—"

"Oh come off it! That’s not your ‘work’, your ‘work’ is guarding your books from any human foolish enough to think you might sell them one! Your 'work' is looking after the downtrodden and the poor year round and is far kinder and far more generous than any of those other feathered morons could possibly conceive of being! The rest of them only stick their hand in once a year! Your 'work' is whatever you want it to be, angel, and if you were blowing me off for that I'd have no trouble with it all. These— these are just orders."

"Be that as it may, I have my orders, and I take them very seriously."

"They’re just shoving you somewhere out of the way to make you miserable and miss all the fun!"

"Crowley, for goodness’ sake, you’re being absolutely ridiculous. As you say, this happens every single year. You think you would have learned to expect it by now."

"I expect it from them! I don’t expect it from you!"

He whirled, turning on the angel, and all the devastation that had overtaken his expression was replaced with disappointment and anger. Our Aziraphale privately thought to himself that it was very stupid of them to have kept this up as one of their rendezvous points after this particular spat— it was marred by a fair few arguments over the years, so no wonder that what happened during the Apocalypse had taken place here, of all their meeting spots.

"You don’t expect me to do my Heavenly duty? I shan’t be tempted away from the good and righteous acts I am to perform just because you wish to see me debase myself in gluttony and greed, like the rest of the population your lot are slowly turning away from the true meaning of Christmastime."

"Oh, for G— it’s not even his birthday! Good and righteous acts? It’s bastard paperwork, Aziraphale! It’s paperwork the rest of them are too lazy to do the rest of the year, and they hand it off to you because you’ll sit there like a good little soldier and take it, and not think about what you want for yourself for once in your life!"

"Anathema," Aziraphale murmured softly, taking in the two figures before him and feeling the dread of what was to come, "could we not take our leave now? I think I’ve seen more than enough of this, considering I already lived it once."

Anathema looked as though she wanted to take pity on him, but shook her head, and repeated that this was not the way it worked. He had to stay, to witness, to learn. Though learn what, she was still reticent to mention outright.

"I’m leaving," Aziraphale-that-was declared, wriggling his shoulders in determined fury, "I shan’t be spoken to like this by a demon. Perhaps one day you’ll get your wish and we can spend all Christmas blaspheming in a drunken stupor as you so clearly would like to, and I shall make a fool of myself and you can laugh to your heart’s content at my desire to fulfil my purpose and continue to lecture me about the very things I was made to do, and I shall sit there and take it but that day is not today! I have my orders and I resolutely do not need your permission to do my job, as I don’t see what any of my business has to do with you at all, serpent."

Ligur let out a slow whistle, assessing the scene before him and almost looking impressed at Aziraphale’s outburst. Anathema’s gaze hadn’t left Crowley’s face during the entire tirade, though Aziraphale found himself unable to join her in that— partly because he couldn’t bear to again see the plethora of heavy emotions he knew were crossing his friend’s face, but mostly because he was fascinated to look upon himself, and I remind you again that Aziraphale does not age, time does not affect our angel, and so Aziraphale looked upon a very reflection of his current self—not much changed in appearance or, truthfully, dress, as Aziraphale noted that they were not so far from the present day as he had initially thought—and could not recognise who stood before him.

"Was I really so beastly to him?" he muttered softly, searching for any signs of regret in his prior self’s face, and knowing he would find none. He still felt the echoes of his fury in this moment, the self-satisfied knowledge that he was just and right at Crowley’s seeming defeat.

"It’s hard, you know," Anathema’s hand lay on top of his, a kind act that Aziraphale wasn’t so sure he deserved at that exact moment, "It’s hard to grow up being told your entire life is set to go a certain way, to have one job that you have to do, that you were destined for, and to then try and confront the idea that your past doesn’t have to determine your future. That you can decide for yourself what it is that you want. That you can let yourself want something that you didn’t think was meant for you. Especially when you have to hear it from someone else, and even more so when you secretly want to be told it."

"What— what are you implying?" Aziraphale asked, not out of ignorance of her meaning, but in an attempt to stem the soft sort of hope that was growing in his chest, to slow the realisation that he was coming to understand something about the circumstances of the night.

"I spent so long living with Agnes hanging over my head. I knew what she wanted me to do was right, I knew things should go the way she said, but it felt— it felt like it wasn’t my life, half of the time. It didn’t feel like living," she admitted, bravely, "So when the second book arrived, and after everything Newt had done with me and told me and let me feel, I thought—"

"The second book?" Aziraphale’s eyes widened, and he turned fully away from the now frozen scene of his past, gripping the witch by both arms, "Agnes Nutter wrote a second book of prophecy? My dear, this is, this is—"

"It’s gone."

Aziraphale felt his blood run cold.

"Gone?"

"I burned it."

Ligur’s howls of laughter rang like the peal of the morning bells of Christmas in Aziraphale’s mind.

"I wish I could take a picture of your face, little angel! Sweet Satan, that’s priceless! You look just like Crawly over there!"

Aziraphale’s eyes darted towards the frozen figure of Crowley, seeing but not truly taking in the expression on the demon’s face that Ligur was so tickled by insisting mirrored his own. Aziraphale thought it looked rather like heartbreak, and dimly registered that it was not the first time he could recall seeing his constant companion wear something similar. It frightened him, and he found his voice once more as he turned back to the witch.

"Anathema, you must tell me at once that this is some sort of awful joke, or that there’s a second copy, or- or—"

She sighed, and the scene was starting to fade as snow Aziraphale knew had not been falling that particular Christmas Eve whipped around them, masking his past self, leaving only Crowley’s broken figure hauntingly stark against the white flurry.

"You almost had it there, for a moment!" she told him, gripping him back just as firmly as he held onto her, "Forget about the book! I did, and it turned out that was just what I needed!"

"Anathema, you must tell me exactly when you burned the book, or better yet, take us there! I can look at it before you have a chance to do something foolish and destroy it!"

"There are some things that have been that cannot be changed! That they are what they are, don’t point the finger of blame at me!" she cried back, fighting to be heard over the terrible clamour of the snowstorm. Even Ligur had stopped laughing, looking unsure and moved closer toward them as if seeking comfort. Crowley was finally swallowed up by it, the sad slope of his eyes visible over his shades the last thing to vanish.

"I cannot believe you would do something so utterly— take me back to the shop this instant! I’ve had enough of this ridiculous series of events!" Aziraphale exclaimed.

"You’re not getting it, Aziraphale! Some things can’t be changed, but others can! Agnes wasn’t right about everything! She said Newt and I would only be together for one day, for the Apocalypse, and look at us now! We weren’t meant to be according to her, but we’re making it work because we wanted to stay together! Aziraphale, it’s not about the book!"

"While I am truly happy for you, dear girl, the circumstances of your relationship have nothing whatsoever to do with me! I’m cold, miserable, I’ve just found out that the rarest book of prophecy that may have ever existed was burned by a lovesick fool, and I am no longer in the mood for this— I beg of you, both of you, bugger off and haunt me no longer!"

The snowstorm howled, and Aziraphale attempted to wrest himself out of Anathema’s clutches. She tried to cling to him and yell out one last time but it was lost to the winds— though whether she meant to call to him in anger or in concern he could not say. He didn’t like to utilise his heavenly strength against mortals, or against any living being, but was so fed up that he couldn’t bring it upon himself to feel guilt as he finally let a trickle of his divine power push her away from him. The moment they lost their point of contact, the storm settled to nothing more than a gentle dusting. Aziraphale looked around and found himself outside the bookshop once more, just as he had left it earlier in the evening. He seemed to be alone, but took several good looks up and down the empty street to be certain before letting himself back inside, an uneasy calm settling over his spirits.

He wandered through the shelves with caution, looking for any hint of Anathema or Ligur, and came up blessedly short. His telephone, he noted with no small amount of alarm, was still missing. Tomorrow, when this was all over, he would call and make certain she had returned home safely, but for now he was lost in his thoughts. Aziraphale briefly considered putting on a thicker coat and his scarf and setting out into the wee small hours to consult with Crowley in person about the strange events of the evening, but after the scene he had just forcibly been party to once again at the bandstand he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to explain it all without dredging up some other events or emotions he and Crowley both had long since buried within themselves. Resolving to stay put and continue on in the Christmas he had originally planned, Aziraphale moved to the back room, and was immediately dismayed to find Ligur’s ghost had not, in fact, left him, but was now taking a kip on the sofa. He held out his hand for a brief moment, seriously giving weight to the thought of attempting to smite the thing, before sighing and lowering it. He had until two o’clock, by his count, before he was to expect the next guest (though Ligur had not said any of the lines about the timings of the visits in his spiel at the start of the evening, and really, even if it was preposterous, couldn’t anyone in this tale take the care to get it right?). Aziraphale prided himself on many things, and being a gracious— if sometimes unwilling— host was one of them. He was no Scrooge. There was room in his heart for kindness, even on those most undeserving.

He turned on the stove, and placed two mugs on the counter.

Chapter Text

Jolted out of his own thoughts by a prodigiously tough snore of Ligur’s making, Aziraphale had no occasion to be told that the time was approaching that the next visitor would arrive. He was making hot cocoa on the stovetop, and his thoughts felt as stirred as the contents of the pan before him. It wasn’t as though people went around being sucked into the plot of various novels for no reason—Aziraphale was well aware of that, even if such a thing had never happened to him before personally (though he was mildly conscious of the fact that some of the more eventful moments of his life would likely make for a jolly good read). He cast a sharp eye over his surroundings, trying to think about what it was about himself that made him target of the evening’s proceedings. The back room of the bookshop was not without holiday cheer. Though Aziraphale had not been as savvy as Crowley at recognising the nearness of the day, he still had little boughs of holly and lights festooned around the place. He was the sort who liked to decorate on the very first day of December as this both allowed him to fully bask in the emotion of the season, and precluded the event that he might forget halfway through the month that he was supposed to have decorated at all. So it was not, as evidenced, that he was a Scrooge when it came to Christmas at all. What was it that Anathema had said, as they were parted by the winds and Aziraphale’s frowardness?

It wasn’t about the book.

Well, Aziraphale thought to himself haughtily, that was very easy for her to say. She most likely had given herself a chance to peruse the pages—handwritten pages he thought with a devastated groan—before choosing to perform the absolute worst act Aziraphale could possibly think of. If only he had kept a closer eye on their comrades-in-arms against the end of the world; if only he had stopped to think that making friends with the descendant of the only true prophetess his adopted country had ever produced would be a clever move, impressed upon her what a fan he was of her ancestor’s writings, how marvellous he found the study of the future through the words of the past, then perhaps then she would have called him upon the book’s delivery and insisted he take a look—no, better yet, as they were such good friends, well, why shouldn’t he keep it! There was more than one way to avoid living in the shadow of the past, and one didn’t need the dangerous blaze of firelight to free oneself from such darkness; a steadfast and true companion was, to Aziraphale’s mind and heart, a much more pleasing conductor of light.

That caught on something in Aziraphale’s busy thoughts, like a skittish animal in a trap, and he grappled with it for a moment and the consideration of whether to free it, or hold it tight. Both outcomes equally shook him, and it was in this half-frozen stupor that he registered a voice.

"Milk’s burnin'."

Ligur, despite the handicap of constant noise he seemed unable to cease, had managed to sneak up on him whilst he was lost in a world of his own making. He felt the decision taken from him as the animal-thought bolted from the trap, lost to him for the moment, or possibly forever. Aziraphale quickly took the whole lot off the stove, stirring faster to try and salvage what he could from the carnage taking place at the bottom of the pan.

"Oh dear, I am dreadfully sorry," he automatically began, not really considering whether or not he needed to apologise to Ligur of all people— it was just in his nature. He poured what he could into the two mugs he had set out, the back of the spoon acting as a dam against the flecks of burnt detritus. Dumping the pan in the sink, from whence it disappeared entirely as the concept of ‘washing up’ did not appeal to Aziraphale in the slightest, he turned and held out one of the mugs for Ligur, who seemed both amused and unsure at the gesture.

"If I try an’ pick this up, an’ it don’t work, don’t blame me if your carpet gets covered."

"I seem to recall you throwing my books around at a truly remarkable rate earlier, so be grateful you’re getting anything and know that I will know the only way you can drop this is if you have chosen to do so on purpose."

Ligur’s hand fizzled a little as it reached out, then found purchase around the mug. Aziraphale did not yet release it to him, giving him a stern look to communicate just how much he was fond of the particular rug they found themselves standing on, it had been a gift, thank you very much, and Ligur’s returning smirk seemed to say, oh, a gift, was it? I wonder who from?

The angel turned away, leaving the spirit to sup in glorious victory of a point well made in an argument— a sensation which makes any drink, burned bits or not, taste that much sweeter.

"So," Aziraphale asked, when half their cocoa had been downed in near-companionable silence, and Ligur was privately but seriously giving body to the idea that if this was what his afterlife could be, maybe he would stick around for longer than his part, but Aziraphale had no way of knowing this and pressed on, "the next of the spirits."

"The other blokes, yeah."

"Indeed, how forward-thinking of you. When, if I am allowed to ask, should I be expecting them? Perhaps I should have waited to make the drinks, I don’t want to be rude if someone shows up and I have nothing to offer them."

"Did you get Crawly a Christmas present this year?"

A non-sequitur if ever Aziraphale had heard one.

"I have to say, Ligur, for someone who didn’t seem keen on him in life you are very quick to talk about Crowley in death. One might think you were a little obsessed with him. Did this start before or after he dumped an entire bucket of Holy Water on your head, hmm?"

Perhaps a little too far for a jibe, but Aziraphale was getting rather sick of everyone shoving Crowley in his face. It had worried him for so long in the Before, that their respective sides would see them, that someone would figure it out, would know and comment upon it, that he found himself quite automatically defensive in situations where his relationship with the demon was brought up. He was a soldier, after all, even if he had traded in his flaming sword for pointed words long ago. It was also distracting him to a truly maddening degree, as his thoughts kept sliding to his earlier spat with Crowley when he should have been concentrating on figuring out why exactly he was being tormented thus by a conspiracy of his acquaintances, roping him into what would be charitably described as a very loose adaptation of Dickens.

"Here I am, tryin’ to help him, even though it’s completely disgustin’, and he still wants to be difficult!" Ligur turned his head upwards, and Aziraphale fancied for a brief moment that it almost appeared he was praying, "I always knew angels were stupid, but I didn’t know they could be this bloody odtuse."

"Obtuse."

"Gesundheit."

"No, no, you said—" Aziraphale stopped. He stopped because he had followed Ligur’s line of vision to the ceiling above him, and when he did so he heard something that set his nerves on edge.

Someone was moving around in his flat above them.

Eyes wide, he looked to Ligur for an explanation, but found none forthcoming. Or, at least, none that was satisfying as Ligur only shrugged, as if to say, your guess is as good as mine, mate. He rose from his seat and the spirit followed, both discarding their cocoa mugs and taking the stairs together as slowly as Aziraphale possibly could. He reached the doorway at the top, and took in the glow that slipped through the cracks in the frame. The angel turned.

"Look, I shall make this plea one last time: you so clearly are finding no pleasure in helping me, or rather, you’re finding the wrong sort of pleasure in watching me flail about like a fool trying to piece this all together. I do not wish to be taught any particular lessons today, nor do I find myself lacking in anything that I believe I won’t solve on my own without this most unwelcome little intervention of whoever’s making. So I beg of you once more— leave me in peace. Let me open this door and find nothing but my flat, as I left it this morning, and allow me to celebrate Christmas without being told I’m failing some sort of test I didn’t even know I was to take!"

Ligur’s face betrayed nothing. His stance did not change, he did not laugh at Aziraphale nor did he sneer, or shout, or, sadly, disappear. He remained as he was, but for the arm he lifted to gesture to the door, the message clear: after you.

Aziraphale held in the sigh that begged to escape him. It had been worth a shot, but Crowley was always the one who could talk his way out of anything. He would have known just what to say to get rid of the evening’s company, Aziraphale was certain of it. Resigned, he turned back to the door and took hold of the handle.

The moment his hand was upon it, a strange voice called him by his name, and bade him enter.

"Coo-ee, Mister Aziraphale! In you come, dear!"

He obeyed, of course - she was, after all, a former dominatrix.

It was not his own room. There was no doubt about that.

Between opening the door at the top of his staircase, and stepping through its threshold, Aziraphale found his surroundings had undergone a surprising transformation. Where there had been low ceilings, wooden panels, dust, and tatty old throws on armchairs with several half-drunk mugs scattered on mismatched end tables, there was now tall walls which were so hung with living green, it looked not unlike the very first place Aziraphale had set foot upon this Earth. There was a marked difference between here and the Garden, though, in that there was a ceiling, eventually, and the greenery with which Aziraphale found himself surrounded was much more on the festive side— crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe and ivy, growing so resplendently that one would imagine only a supernatural force could produce such dedication to their seasonal appearance. There was no hearth present in the room, no candles; no trace of fire whatsoever. Instead, warm strings of lights in their hundreds ran across the top of the room, perfectly arranged side by side, and some lights amongst them glowed brighter than others. Even one who was not such an expert in navigating the night sky as Aziraphale could pick out that these particular lights mirrored constellations, surrounded by dimmer but no less beautiful stars, though which ones were present he could not say for certain as there were far too many for him to note each individually.

Aziraphale found his senses overloaded with delight, but that was not the end of it. In the centre of this lush tableau there was a kind of throne, surrounded by tables laden with seemingly endless piles of Christmas food— turkey, geese, game, poultry, joints of meat, long wreaths of sausages, luscious oranges, sprouts, stuffing, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters. An entire table was dedicated to a display of heart-red apples, and next to that a great bowl of mulled wine added to the dreamy starlight sky effect by providing a sort of cloud-cover with the amount of steam it produced. Aziraphale could smell the vintage from here, and knew he would do anything to taste it. A soft cough brought him out of his trance, and he turned his attention once more to the throne pride of place in the room.

"Come in, dearie!" exclaimed Madame Tracy, beckoning him with what looked as though it might have been a magic wand, but upon closer inspection was a riding crop wrapped in tinsel, its end point fashioned into a golden leather star. "I would say to come in and know me better man, but those days are behind me now, as a married woman. Besides, you’ve already been inside me once, haven’t you Mister Aziraphale?"

Ligur, who up until this point had been looking somewhat shocked for the first time that night at where they found themselves, let out a huge whoop of laughter.

"You what? You didn’t tell me that, Aziraphale! Lettin’ me go around thinkin’ you ain’t been usin’ your bits, when all this time you’d gone an’ done it with a human! A human woman!"

Aziraphale looked to Madame Tracy in desperation, but she was clearly enjoying herself too much, and only smirked naughtily in his direction instead of the clarification he’d hoped she would provide Ligur with.

"Tonight I’ll be roleplaying as the Ghost of Christmas Present!" she said. "Look upon me, boys!"

Aziraphale reluctantly did so. She was clothed in an outfit that was a crude facsimile of the modern day depiction of St. Nicholas. A simple robe, so simple that there was barely anything to it, velvety red and trimmed with white fur around the bottom of the skirt and the top of the torso, which was higher across the breast that it would have been back in the day, Madame Tracy explained as she gave them a little twirl. Her feet were bare, but by the side of the throne sat a pair of heels with at least six-inches to the stiletto. "I got a bit tired of waiting, and they aren’t as comfortable as they used to be," she said when Aziraphale’s eyes took note of their removal from the outfit. Her hair was pinned up, some of her vibrant curls escaping to freedom around her face, and surrounding the messy bun was a scrunchie designed to look like a wreath. Earrings in the shape of icicles made music akin to wind chimes as she turned her head, the notes as light and twinkling as her sparkling eyes, her open hands, her cheery voice. She was, quite clearly, having the time of her life.

"Have you ever seen anything like it?" exclaimed the Madame.

"Never," Aziraphale answered kindly, though he had lived through too much of the twenties, and much of it in Berlin, to be wholeheartedly telling the truth of the matter. Ligur also kept quiet, oddly respectful, and Aziraphale was certain that there must be something he had seen in Hell that was on a par with this display.

"Ooh, well then, you’re in for a treat," she winked, and stepped towards them, careful not to upset any of the trays with extra servings on Aziraphale now noted were scattered around her feet. They had placed upon them many of his favourites from Selfridges, Fortnum & Mason’s, The Ritz— Aziraphale suddenly found himself a little sheepish about his ‘proper Christmas’, alone with naught but a book and a cup of cocoa. This was something else entirely, all perfect things he now knew he had always wanted, but had at the same time not thought to let himself want before this moment.

'Who, may I ask, is all this food for? This certainly isn’t my home. Is this your abode, Madame Tracy?" Aziraphale knew how the story went, and that they would soon be whisked away from this place to look upon others celebrating Christmas in their own way, and selfishly found he didn’t want to leave. "If it is, I would request an invitation next year— this is simply stunning."

"Oh no, dear. Me and the hubbie don’t have enough money for all this, even with my retirement fund and his pension from his army days. Besides, I wouldn't go in for any of this showy stuff, it'd be wasted on my Dougie. This looks like it could feed more than eighteen hundred hungry little mouths!"

"Or one real greedy one," Ligur muttered, and Aziraphale coughed in mortification.

"Madame— Spirit," he submitted, seeing the look upon her face. She was committed to her roleplay, and he wouldn’t discourage her in that, "conduct me where you will. I’ve already been led about by Anathema, and though I must confess I believe all of this is highly unnecessary, I know you’re just as helpless to the whims of the night as I. So, teach me what you must, and let’s both profit from an early end to the evening."

"Helpless?! Mister Aziraphale, I wanted to do this! I said to Dougie, I said— now look here, only one of us can be the Ghost of Christmas Present, and I won’t have someone without years of acting experience muck it up! And anyway, I already had the perfect costume. Dougie couldn’t pull this off!" she gave a slight wiggle of her hips, and horrified realisation dawned upon Aziraphale.

"My dear woman, you don’t mean to tell me that—you can’t possibly be implying that—Sergeant Shadwell was almost the Ghost of Christmas Present?"

"See, now aren’t you glad I’m here," she pinched his cheeks, before linking arms with him in the manner that Anathema had done. "Off we go then poppet! Just hang on to the riding crop and we’ll be away!"

Both Aziraphale and Ligur did as they were told, and held it fast.

The room and all its trimmings disappeared in an instant, and Aziraphale privately mourned its loss, wondering for a moment if he would ever in his life be able to recreate such a Christmas perfectly tailored to his own whims and desires. They all three stood now in the streets of London on Christmas morning, where the snowstorm that had followed Aziraphale through his evening’s journey had not yet abated, but slowed to a steady pace. As it was London in which they stood, and not some quiet village where the inhabitants never left their homes from the first stroke of Christmas to the last, the city was bustling. Aziraphale could live a hundred lifetimes in London and still never be tired of the energy he felt thrumming within its boundaries, and this was no exception, with the slight difference that the fact it was Christmas seemed to light up many of the souls he felt passing by them. Indeed, not everyone celebrated the season, and he would be willfully ignorant to call it a season of goodwill for all, but those who did keep it in their hearts were aglow with joy. It soothed him in a way he hadn’t known he needed to be soothed.

Madame Tracy turned him this way and that about the streets, letting him feel the generosity in the average human that this time of year helped to stoke. Hard times softened by gentle people, wonderful people— those that saw their fellows in need and rushed to assist. A tear came to Aziraphale’s eye to witness it in so many different faces, and he felt Madame Tracy squeeze his arm.

"You really do love it, don’t you dear?"

"Oh, I do. I do. I must admit, it’s partly why I’ve been so put out by my place in all this," he gestured, encompassing Madame Tracy and Ligur, "Though perhaps the way I wanted to keep my first Christmas myself this year was a little selfish…"

The two spirits regarded each other with surprise, as though they neither of them had expected him to pick up on what they were doing so easily or quickly (if only reaching a small revelation at this point in the journey could be called easy, or quick).

"Is that so?"

"Yes, I see the shape of things now, clearer than I did before. I got so carried away with no Heaven leaning over my shoulder, the idea of not having to do anything at Christmas except please myself, I unthinkingly dismissed that there may be others who have need of me this time of year."

Madame Tracy and Ligur both leaned in, the way people often do as the intensity of the match rises, the team they’ve been cheering for all night without a single goal to its name coming close to their first victory, finally a distant light on the horizon. They both held their breath as Aziraphale came to what he believed to be the crux of the matter.

"Even though Heaven isn’t giving the orders anymore, I should still be spending Christmas out there with the people! Giving blessings, sharing healing words, directing souls towards the Almighty of my own volition— because it’s the right thing to do!" he finished, proudly, looking to them both with a smile that sought validation.

He found none.

Ligur had drifted away from their party as Aziraphale had been speaking, clearly having decided that he had failed yet again, and now passed in and out of the fronts of various buses that lined the street. As he did so, one by one, their destination signs changed to all read ‘THIS BUS IS NOT IN SERVICE - HO HO HO’. Madame Tracy heaved a disappointed sigh, and looked to Aziraphale with a kind smile that was more than a little bit patronising, if the angel did say so himself.

"Not that that’s not a very noble thought, Mister Aziraphale, but you’re still a little off. Helping the poor and needy is something we should do year round, don’t you think?"

"Yes, dear lady, and I do," he insisted.

"Well then, if you were doing that all along, there’d be no point in me taking you out for a special Christmas field trip to get you to do something you’ve been doing in the first place, now would there?"

"No, I— I suppose you’re right," he said, and his shoulders slumped, "Madame Spirit, I’m rather afraid I’m going to let everyone down here. I don’t know how to satisfactorily conclude this story— I’m a reader, not a novelist."

The Ghost of Christmas Past stamped her foot, which made a soft crunching sound as the snow beneath her gave way, as though she could defeat his gloom through sheer gusto alone.

"I know just where to take you, might give you the answer we’re looking for. I won’t let you give up, Mister Aziraphale! Well, not unless you absolutely have to, in which case the safety word is Bethlehem."

Ignoring the sputtering of the angel she drew closer to her side, she slapped the festive riding crop against the side of her leg.

"Mister Ligur! We’re off again, so if you insist on joining us you have five seconds to get your bottom back here!"

The demon spirit flitted to them and grabbed the riding crop just in time for the world around them to dissolve in a flurry of white once more, and they flew through the countryside with a joyous shout from Madame Tracy. Aziraphale recognised the route they were taking, as it was one he and the Madame had taken together before. He looked below their feet as they flew and saw three lanes, packed with traffic even on Christmas day. Their trio stayed above the centre of the road the entire time they followed the road, before taking a sharp right as they approached their destination, and fields and trees replaced the cars and lorries.

"I know this place," Ligur grunted as they passed a graveyard, clicking his fingers as though it would summon the memory to him. "Tip of my tongue. Tadpole?"

"Tadfield," both angel and guide intoned together.

It was indeed Tadfield, more glorious and beautiful than any other village at this time of year. As Crowley and Aziraphale had both suspected, even after the Antichrist had forsaken his hellish powers and decreed he wouldn’t be interfering with matters any longer, the overwhelming power of a boy’s love for Christmas cannot so easily be wiped from the slate. Those responsible for the designing of biscuit tins that littered supermarket aisles this time of year, the kind that always found their way into the hands of grandparents who looked upon the scenes depicted and let out a heartfelt sigh in the warmth of reminiscing days gone by, could not know it but each of them that year simultaneously had the exact same vision of how to paint the perfect Christmastime landscape for the top of the box, and that vision was Tadfield incarnate. Madame Tracy let out a happy little giggle as they raced towards it, her face all lit up with such fun Aziraphale couldn’t help but be carried along with her mood in much the same way as he was being carried with her through the air.

"I never thought I’d get to do this sort of thing in all my days!" she told him over the rush of winds passing them by, "Is life always like this for you, Mister Aziraphale? You and that handsome friend of yours off on all sorts of strange and wonderful adventures?"

"Not quite, dear lady," he smiled. "Though we’ve certainly had our share of fun through the ages."

"You’ll have to both pop round for tea sometime and tell me all about it."

They had reached their destination, and Aziraphale had known they were coming here all along but was still heartened to see it.

"Jasmine Cottage! Oh, this is just the ticket. I was hoping to check in and make sure Anathema had returned home safely after all the fuss earlier on," the angel was almost more eager than his guide to get closer to the windows of the quaint little home.

"I thought you might have been worried about her," Madame Tracy patted his hand, "You’re a good man, Mister Aziraphale."

"Well, I must confess I was a little rough with her at the end— just a touch!" he clarified at her chastising look. "I know she was there to help, she said so several times herself, but she’d just given me some dreadful news and I’m afraid I got a bit carried away."

The glow from the window fell upon them as they peered inside as a unit. Inside the cottage was an odd mix of decor— a Christmas Tree covered in crystals, a hearth with a fire inside that glowed an otherworldly green, displays of statues of various Pagan gods and goddesses broken up by the jolly pudge of cuddly Santa Clauses and Rudolphs, a Nativity scene where everyone depicted had the right colouring for once. In the centre of the floor sat the residents of the cottage, still in their pyjamas, looking for all the world like— well, there was really no other comparison to be made. They looked like children on Christmas morning. Anathema was already surrounded by shredded wrapping paper, and was sporting a rather fetching new scarf, and had next to her what Aziraphale recognised as one of the few examples of a genuine Victorian vampire hunting kit— incredibly rare, these days, and also incredibly useless, but he didn’t think it was really relevant to mention that to anyone.

"Is this really for me?" Newton Pulsifer asked, eyes wide and mouth wider as he beheld the present he had just finished unwrapping. The woman he loved looked at him with a knowing and patient smirk. "Anathema, these cost—I mean if I break it, it’ll be—oh no, I’m going to break it, aren’t I?"

He held in his hands the kind of sleek tablet that Aziraphale had often seen Crowley toting around with him, when he had need of such things. Contrary to the demon’s assertions, Aziraphale was no luddite. He had, after all, owned one of the first computers on the market. It was just that he never saw the need to constantly update these things with the times when the one he had recently (as recent as the mid nineties!) replaced was holding up just fine indeed.

"Open your second present," she gently pushed a parcel towards him, much the same size as the machinery in his hands already. Newt carefully stripped back the packaging to find a tablet holder, inscribed with all sorts of runes and that, if one knew how to listen to the right frequency, let out a soft hum of healing magic.

"What do all these mean?"

"You don’t get to own a large percentage of shares in Apple without knowing a few technomancers along the way," Anathema told him, grinning from ear to ear, "I had some of the girls come up with the best protection spells possible for your iPad, then got them engraved into a one-of-a-kind custom case. As long as you keep it in there, you’ll never be able to break it."

Newt didn’t look at the case in his hands as she spoke— his eyes could not leave Anathema’s face, and Aziraphale recognised the look of one who had already thought he was as head-over-heels as one can be, and yet found himself in the peculiar position of falling in love all over again. Strangely, it brought to Aziraphale’s mind the sound of bombs going off, which he didn’t think was a particularly romantic accompaniment to the moment but he wasn’t able to dismiss something that felt so right to him as an error— not only that, but it felt familiar and it ached.

"They’re a lovely young couple, aren’t they? Ah, if only Dougie and I had gotten our act together sooner. Feels like you’re missing out when you look at them, don’t you think Mister Ligur?" Madame Tracy raised both eyebrows at the demon, obviously trying to give him some sort of instruction.

"Soppy buggers," he snorted derisively, but his eyes didn’t quite commit to the sentiment, "Wouldn’t mind that vampire kit, though. That’s a proper gift that is, a gift you can do some real damage with. I know someone who’d love a gift like that, if we were the sort to go around givin’ each other gifts."

Aziraphale made no noise at that, though privately thought he couldn’t wait to tell Crowley that his long-standing theories about the involvement of two particular Dukes of Hell may not have been all in his head after all. Oh, Crowley! The ache in his chest intensified as he allowed himself to mentally drift back to all he had seen of his friend that night, in person and in spirit. Had they ever had such a happy Christmas as this together? He knew that they had not, of course. His commitment at this time of year, at any time of year, had been to Heaven. Aziraphale thought of the one gift he had once wanted to wrap and give to Crowley, possibly the only time in their shared history he had actually remembered to procure something for him, and pulled the very book he’d been carrying all evening out of his pocket. He ran his hands over the cover, attempted to throw his mind back to that year. Why this book? Aziraphale resented himself for being so thoughtless— it wasn’t as though he didn’t know Crowley better than any other being on this Earth or, indeed, off it. If he had only been set to give him a gift this single year, why this gift? Why not something more relevant to the man himself? Once more, he felt on the cusp of discovery, when suddenly—

"Aziraphale!"

The cry had come from within the cottage. "Yes, here!" he responded automatically, and pushed his way in through the wall. "Here I am!"

Anathema was holding her glass of champagne up, of course not having seen him and was merely toasting with her beloved on Christmas morning, who looked a little perplexed.

"Aziraphale? What kind of toast is that? Who— hang on, wasn’t he one of the weird men from the airfield? Why are we toasting to him? If I’m remembering right, they didn’t really do anything."

"Newt, it’s Christmas Day. He’s an angel, and I have a feeling he needs all the good cheer he can get this year."

"Well, I suppose if— he's an angel?!"

Anathema gave him the look worn by millenia’s worth of patient women, who loved men who were very stupid at times.

"Yes, sweetheart. He’s an angel. Crowley’s a demon. Actually, scratch my first toast. Let’s drink to Aziraphale and Crowley. Or maybe just Crowley. God knows what he does for Christmas. Aziraphale’s getting some help and hopefully, seeing as it’s Christmas morning, by now he’s reached the finale— Crowley’s been all by himself."

"I don’t understand a lot of the things you say," Newt admitted, looking as flummoxed as he had at the start of this conversation, "but if you say we need to toast to Aziraphale and Crowley—and you’re really going to have to fill me in on the whole angel and demon thing later—then I’ll toast to them for your sake and the sake of the day. Merry Christmas, Aziraphale and Crowley! They’ll be very merry and very happy. If you’re wishing that for them, I have no doubt in my mind it’ll come true."

They clinked glasses, drank, and kissed as only those who are truly deep in a love that they have chosen can. Ligur mimed vomiting, Madame Tracy let out a soft little ‘aww’ like a pantomime goer, and what of Aziraphale, you ask? He saw nothing of the kiss before him, a darkness clouding his vision. A cold sort of certainty had overtaken him as he worried at the thread in his mind.

What did Crowley do for Christmas?

He had to admit, he simply didn’t know. He wasn’t sure if he had ever asked upon his return from Heaven how the demon had spent the season while he had been wasting away in his horrid little office, surrounded by the worst and most boring dregs of work his colleagues could inflict upon him year after relentless year. The thought of Crowley revelling without him, partying without him, eating without him, drinking without him, spending Christmas with people that were not him was as abhorrent to him today as it had been every year previous. Wonderful celebrations populated with the interesting and arty types Crowley had filled his inner circle with throughout history paraded across the solitary angel’s imaginings. He hadn’t wanted to know, if that had ever been the case, and so firmly had resolved not to ask, and the demon had never offered as though out of respect for the preservation of Aziraphale’s sanity. The angel knew, without a shred of hesitation, that he must find out before the evening was through.

As he took his usual time to come to this realisation, he had missed how the room around them had suddenly ceased to be, and the heavy snow had picked up around them again. Aziraphale clung to Madame Tracy, but found it harder and harder to find purchase. She was fading before his very eyes, and she let out a soft yawn.

"Bedtime for me, dearie. My brief part in this story is coming to an end."

"No! Dear lady, Madame Spirit—Tracy, please! You must stand strong, I need you to make one more stop for me!"

She hummed softly, patting his cheek in a motherly fashion.

"You must tell me, what of Crowley!" he cried, and felt the storm rage in attempt to drag him from her. Aziraphale knew that the moment they ceased to be linked his chance would be lost, and in a turn from the last moments of his time with Anathema, he gripped onto the riding crop she held with all his heavenly strength, knowing that if he were to hold her in such a way he would cause lasting damage to the poor woman.

"Crowley? Your handsome young man?"

"Can I not see how his Christmas Day would look? We’ve never— I’ve never spent it with him! He said he had plans for us today, but I…" he almost lost hold, and threw out his wings to increase any wind resistance he might make his ally. When he was sure he had taken a firm enough stance he spoke again, soft words, ones he wasn’t sure he wanted anyone else to be able to hear for the shame of it. "I told him I wanted to be alone. I don’t think he wanted the same. I know he didn’t. Truth be told I don’t think, really, that I did either. I’d like to see him, to see how his Christmas Day plans unfolded, even without me! What a perfect Christmas looks like for Crowley! Please, Madame Tracy, you must show me!"

He knew his chance was lost. Madame Tracy was practically unconscious, carried off in the arms of Morpheus by some force invisible to him. She roused herself with some difficulty for one last smile in his direction.

"Mister Aziraphale, you’re a lovely man, a delight to be possessed by, and an angel at that so I don’t reckon it’s sensible to be too rude to you, but all the same love— you aren’t half thick sometimes."

The storm died suddenly and without warning.

Aziraphale looked around him for any sign of her, or the Ghost of Ligur, but saw them not.

He was back in his flat above the bookshop, wooden panels, dust, tatty throws and all. The only evidence it had ever been different was the betinselled riding crop, still in his iron grip. Aziraphale thought of all he had seen, of all that Madame Tracy had shown him, tucked his wings away and wondered still about what on Earth a Christmas at Crowley’s—with his flair for the dramatic and his penchant to know exactly what Aziraphale would want without even asking, who had told the angel he would ask nothing of him but to be allowed to stay and share the day with him—what that Christmas would look like if he had done what he knew now they both wished he had, and had not so thoroughly chased him away the previous night.

When the answer came to him it arrived suddenly and painfully, like being struck across an intimate area with the favoured tool of a retired sex worker. Of course, such things are often done with the intent that the pain will give way to pleasure as the initial shock of sensation fades and settles into your skin. A Christmas with Crowley would look, Aziraphale thought with an impending sense of that very pleasure, almost exactly like—

I interrupt here because Aziraphale is far too busy having a very large crisis of a very personal nature to note the scene around him properly, so I shall endeavour to do it for him, and impress upon you why what is about to happen, happens.

As we look from our angel, caught in the thick storm of his feelings, we take in the whole of the room around him. All light had vanished from the place. Ligur was nowhere to be seen, and I cannot say now whether he will return for what comes next. Much like Aziraphale, I am certain you know the story of A Christmas Carol well enough, dear reader, to know that the third ghost that visits Scrooge is perhaps the most terrifying of all. Even The Muppets could not make this ghoul anything less than the stuff of nightmares. So when I say that Aziraphale could not note the full horror of the scene around him, you must understand how utterly distracted he was by six thousand years of realisations piling upon him all at once to not have been able to see it.

It was the Phantom.

It was huge, taller than two men, and it was bent a little strangely at what you might wish to call its waist in order to make up for the low ceilings I have previously told you Aziraphale lives under. It was clothed in a robe black as midnight, which concealed the area where it may have a head, or a body, or any sort of form at all. The only clue that anything may reside under that impressive swath of fabric was a hand, which was smaller than one might expect for such a being, but was appropriately pale, which reached out towards the angel. But for this it would have been impossible to separate the figure from the pitch black that now filled the room, as Aziraphale would had discovered himself had he taken the time to just look up.

The figure paused, as though unsure of what to do— as though it were waiting for Aziraphale to take heed and speak his line. He did not.

It cleared its throat.

He did not stir.

It made a fairly loud ‘ha-HEM’ sound.

Still he did not stir.

Finally, a muffled voice that seemed to come from somewhere around its torso said, "oh, for goodness’ SAKE, just go tap him on the shoulder!" and the Phantom shuffled forward without much menace and instead with more of an air of frustration.

"Er, ‘scuse me!" it cried, with a different voice that now emerged from where its left hip may have been, as the pale hand finally made contact with its target.

I have told you Aziraphale was distracted, and you have seen that Aziraphale possessed a great amount of Heavenly strength, and you are aware of the tale of how Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate and formed Soldier of Heaven, once carried at his side a flaming sword.

The touch drew him in a most unwelcome manner out of his thoughts, and he panicked at suddenly finding himself confronted with a great beast, in utter blackness, and that the thing was already upon him. He could only think of Azrael, come for vengeance after the failed Apocalypse. In an instant he slashed at it with the riding crop, which was as shocked as the angel to now find itself on fire, and sharp as steel.

The Phantom, for its part, cried out in a four-part harmony as it was severed clean through the middle and collapsed to the floor, robes contemplating the idea of catching fire but somehow aware that following through on that notion would be a particularly bad thing to do in this bookshop, and so let themselves smoke a little for dramatic emphasis and nothing more.

"Oh, fuck," Aziraphale whispered, quickly putting out the riding crop with a thought and casting it to one side, wondering what actually happens when one kills Death. He supposed retribution would be swift— or perhaps he’d have to take up the mantle himself, in the manner of a very odd Christmas film Crowley had once explained to him where a divorced father murders St. Nicholas and is cursed forever to take his place. Aziraphale wasn’t sure he had the vocal chops to pull off the role, to be perfectly honest. He’d never gotten the hang of intentional capitalisation.

"Er, so sorry!" he said, much louder and in relief as the figure lying prostrate on his floor started twitching, "You gave me such a fright, my good fellow, I reacted without thinking. I seem to be doing that a lot these days. I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?"

To his surprise, the figure sat up. The figure sat up four times over, in fact, which was the truly surprising part. Where he had expected a skull, there was a mop of curly blond hair, and it was soon joined by the three faces Aziraphale knew it would never be parted from, even in such a situation that only called for one spirit.

"For an angel, you seem very keen on tryin’ to kill me," Adam Young said. "I reckon I can excuse the time just after my birthday, but tryin’ to kill a kid on Christmas? Just seems a bit much."

Chapter Text

Aziraphale feared the Ghost of the Future more than any spectre he had seen.

This was not because the angel feared the future anymore— no, indeed, in his time he had plenty of practice at that. The future had been, to Aziraphale-that-was, where consequence lay. Consequence of his actions, of Crowley’s actions and, worst of all, of their actions together. It was no wonder he had been so reluctant in the past to live in the present alongside the demon with a joyous and open heart. He was getting his tenses all mixed up but, to be fair to our angel, he had just had an epiphany that he ordinarily would have had at least another chapter to prepare himself for.

No, Aziraphale feared the Ghost of the Future because he was about to tell a very powerful eleven year old and his stalwart companions, on Christmas, that they were up past their bedtime for absolutely no good reason.

"Now see here, children. Not that it isn’t absolutely delightful to see you all, and I apologise again for, erm, the bit with the riding crop and almost killing you twice in one year— dreadful misstep on my part, both times! I don’t mean to disappoint, but I’m afraid to tell you all that I already came to my moment of denouement," Aziraphale explained to the four spirits, "right as you were busy looming toward me. So, really, I don’t believe it’s in anyone’s best interest for you to drag me round some gruesome scene of my own grave in the hopes that I’ll change when I already have— besides which, it would be a ridiculous place to take me, as I’ve already been to it. Crowley and I faked the deaths of our human personae once about two hundred years ago and it was such fun, to attend one’s own funeral in disguise!"

"What’s a denouement?" Brian asked.

"Reckon it’s some sort of fancy dessert. They’ve always got French names, fancy desserts," Adam said decisively.

"Actually, it means the last act of a play, or the final chapter of a book," Wensleydale offered, the only of the four children to have gotten to the end of Snicket’s oeuvre.

"Well that’s just rude!" Pepper exclaimed, turning upon Aziraphale with furious eyes and he mourned the loss of the robe that had protected him from being speared by their indignant fury. "We spent ages thinking of the best way to show you how to go about making your life better and less sad and pathetic, and here you’re telling us you’ve gone and done it on your own! Didn’t even give us a chance!"

Although well used to ghostly company by this time, Aziraphale feared that he was about to be put through the worst of his trials yet and was determined to not let it come to that.

"Really, dear girl, I understand that it must be vexing for you all but I assure you I am now fully aware of my foibles and the conclusion this narrative has led me to. I thank you, all of you, for your efforts, but surely we can just skip all that because I’ve already discovered that I’m—"

"HOLD IT!" Adam yelled, and though the angel didn’t think the boy had lied when he inferred he’d given up his powers, he still felt compelled to obey. "Haven’t you been gettin’ at the others all night, Mr. Fell, about messin’ with the story? Not doin’ it proper? Not takin’ it seriously?"

"I— no, no, I’m sure I wasn’t that insistent about it all," the angel stammered, feeling a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"He definitely has," Brian nodded, arms crossed, "That’s what I sound like when I’m trying to convince my mum and dad I haven’t been at the pudding before dinner."

"Oh, bother. I’m not going to be able to convince you to leave me alone, am I?" Aziraphale said.

"Nope," Wensleydale smiled up at him, and Aziraphale felt the last shreds of hope leave him. This child had felt the most sensible, the most adult of them all and yet here he was, the very picture of betrayal complete with oversized glasses and a very nifty sweater vest. "It’s only that we worked so hard on our scenes, Mr. Fell. I really think you’re going to enjoy them!"

Aziraphale sighed, and glumly moved toward them, holding out a hand. "Very well. Lead on. The night is waning fast, and my time is now very precious as I am anxious to get to the finale, for more than the sake of just myself."

Adam nodded, then curiously regarded Aziraphale’s outstretched hand. He took it and the angel braced himself, but they were not instantly transported into some dark and dingy street where those around them spoke gleefully at Aziraphale’s infamy and demise. Instead, the young antichrist led him to his own sofa and deposited him there, patting his hand as he did so, like one would an elderly relative who doesn’t quite have all their higher functions anymore. Aziraphale tried not to bristle at the indignation, but he didn’t try very hard.

"You sit there, Mr. Fell, an’ we’ll get it all set up in a moment," he was told, and the four set to work. Out of the shadow of the robe (which was still letting off a few curls of smoke every now and then as if to remind everyone how hard-done-by it was and what a good job it was doing not bursting into an inferno) the Them began to pull various objects, like smaller and infinitely more chaotic Mary Poppinses. Wigs, hats, suit jackets, little halos and little devil horns, a toy gun, a toy sword—

Props, Aziraphale thought spontaneously, and then, oh, Good Lord, I’m to be subjected to junior school level am-dram.

The children were now donning their costumes. He saw that Pepper had won out for the apparently coveted role of Crowley, given the bitter looks she attracted from the others, which was signified by the bright orange wig she tucked her hair into, and the Peppa Pig sunglasses she slid onto her nose. There was some light teasing from her comrades about these, but she quickly set them all straight by insisting they were her baby sister’s and if everyone had given her more time to prepare she could have found her own, which were infinitely cooler, thank you very much. Aziraphale was to be played by Wensleydale, a role which required no costume changes save for a bow tie that the angel couldn’t say for certain whether or not the boy might have been wearing when he arrived as it seemed to suit him down to the ground, and the small halo on a stick that was placed atop his head completed the look. Adam, oddly enough, had also put a halo on top of his head, and was wearing a very light grey jacket that he had most likely liberated from his mother’s wardrobe. A little white scarf was wrapped around his neck and Aziraphale realised that this was meant to be Gabriel, and got no small kick out of imagining how the archangel would react to the sight of the son of Satan himself choosing to perform as him. That left Brian, who pulled on what looked to be a tattered, beaten up, dirty old dinner jacket that Aziraphale was sure must have been pulled out of the attic of a long-deceased relative but, upon closer inspection, was just the boy’s own school blazer. He opened a little plastic baggie and poured something over his head that looked like black confetti, but that he explained eventually were tiny plastic flies that he had daringly purchased from the joke-cum-costume store in the next town over, the one with the shiny bead curtain that led to a back room with a sign above the door that both beckoned and forbade.

"Ah, Beelzebub!" Aziraphale snapped his fingers after this final touch was added, "A perfect likeness, absolutely spot on. Although I don’t recall them ever having need of a gun, young man."

Brian pumped the barrel of the toy gun, which was an absolutely ridiculous sight, not in the least because it was a pistol.

"Looks cooler, though."

"If you’re all done giving unsolicited criticisms on the work of our costume department, can we get started?" Pepper asked, hands on hips that were cast at a very in-character jaunty angle. It was much less jaunty than the sort Crowley was able to achieve, but he had the distinct benefit of not needing to worry about how the logistics of a human spine should work. Aziraphale tucked his hands into his lap and nodded emphatically, counting down the moments until this was over and he could flee to reach a conclusion to the night he hoped would be narratively and personally satisfying.

The Them cleared their impromptu stage, all unanimously deciding to use Aziraphale’s personal bookshelves as the wings. Adam strolled forward first, of course, as though there could have been anybody else to deliver the opening lines of their little performance.

"Aziraphale’s Future!" He boomed, putting on the sort of hokey American accent one adopts when the only interaction with the country one has is through terrible blockbusters and children’s cartoons, "It’s a real trash dump of a life! He’s been a bad angel all this time, and now that he’s all alone and a real loser, we’re finally gonna punish him for it!"

Wensleydale, or, as he had now become, Aziraphale was thrust onto the stage. He fell to his knees before Gabriel, dragging his toy sword by his side.

"Oh, please oh please, dear chap! Don’t kill me! Oh, tragic day! Oh, horrid horrid misfortune! I’m ever so sad and lonely and miserable and— and— SAD!" Aziraphale whined, and the real angel rose to his feet.

"Excuse me! I do not sound like that!"

"Audiences should be seen and not heard!" A reply was hissed from one of the ‘wings’. Aziraphale bit his tongue and said nothing more, sinking back down and reminding himself privately that these were children, Crowley liked children, Crowley would be very sore with him if anything were to happen to the children.

"Where was I… oh yes. SAD!"

"Sorry, bub, but you gotta die!" Adam had Gabriel’s uncanny knack for retaining a cheery inflection whilst delivering terrible news down to a tee. He wrenched the plastic sword out of Aziraphale’s hands and swung it over his head in a massive arc towards the false angel’s neck.

"HASTA LA VISTA, BABY!"

Then, a sound like a gramophone needle that had been startled out of place filled the room. Aziraphale jumped and cast his eyes about, wondering when he’d been so careless as to leave a record playing up here, and what had caused it to scratch at that particular moment. When he looked back to the children, Adam was frozen with the sword still in mid-air, and Wensleydale was back on his feet, looking right at him.

"See that angel down there, about to get his head chopped off? That’s me. I’m certain you’re wondering how I ended up in this mess. Well, let me tell you! It all started six thousand years ago, when myself and a demon were made to do a job in a garden."

The children then mimed their actions, but backwards, as though they were images on a video cassette being rewound. Aziraphale had to admit, they were very good at it. They even managed to make it sound as though they were speaking their lines in reverse! It was quite clever, truth be told, he’d never seen the like before. Finally they stopped moving, only this time Gabriel was gone, and Pepper-as-Crowley had joined the Aziraphale up on the stage. They stood side by side, and Crowley regarded Aziraphale over the top of her sunglasses. It set something softly alight inside Aziraphale’s chest, to think back to their very first meeting. He’d been so much less afraid then, though he couldn’t truly class it as bravery on his own part. He hadn’t yet known what there was to be afraid of. It was blissful ignorance, really, that allowed him to be so bold and tender as to shelter a demon from the first rains. He wondered exactly how much of that first meeting the children knew, and felt a little less put off that this was the turn the evening had taken. Perhaps it would be fun, to see his history laid out in such a manner— like their own personal Shakespearean revue! Aziraphale resolved to give the children his full attention as on the stage Crowley, taking the lead just as he had all those years ago, spoke her first words to the angel.

"Come here often?" she said, then added a big hiss onto the end of her sentence.

"I say, old bean, did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?" the reply came, and Aziraphale put his head in his hands and wished he had just let the children take him to his grave instead, as that would have been a much more comfortable experience.

Aziraphale was subjected to more dialogue along the same lines with increasing horror as the Them took a tour of quick vignettes through the angel and demon’s shared history. He knew of the two of them that Crowley was certainly the more outwardly demonstrative in their friendship over the years, but he couldn’t recall anything half as bold or mortifying as the words that the Them put into the demon’s mouth. It was not for Aziraphale to know that half of the lines, in lieu of the children having any experience or interest in examining adult relationships, had been lifted directly from a book that was stashed away in the downstairs bathroom in Brian’s house. Insomuch as it is true that any cassette tape left in a car’s glove compartment for long enough will eventually become a Best of Queen collection, so too is the immutable fact of the universe that a bathroom that has been inhabited at any point by a British father between the ages of 35 and 40 will contain three back issues of Viz, a half-read Dan Brown novel, a copy of Dune that has been dropped in the bath at least once and some form of joke book that purports to be hilarious but that caters to exactly nobody’s sense of humour. This book, in Brian’s household, was ‘Devilishly Good Pick-Ups & Angelically Divine Come-Ons: Pithy Proclamations for a Supernaturally Successful Sex Life’. The Them had, of course, skirted over all the pages in the back bit of the book where lots of body parts and things which they were not yet ready for were mentioned, and stuck to the bit at the front that was marked by a tiny halo in the top right corner of the pages which indicated these jokes were ‘safe for work’.

They were catching up to the present at a remarkable speed, though Aziraphale wished to himself they had stopped for an intermission so he could have fixed a stiff drink to get through the rest of it with nerves intact.

"Oh, how wonderful to finally own my own bookshop! This is a dream come true for me, Aziraphale the angel, I have never been so happy! I hope nothing destroys this happiness that I have found or makes it so that I have to leave this Earth!" Aziraphale declared on stage, pressing his hand to his chest. Crowley, stage left, held a box that had CHOCOLATES written on it in huge letters. The ‘O’s were fashioned to look like little hearts.

"I have brought the angel a fancy box of chocolates to celebrate the opening of his bookshop! This is a very normal thing to do for someone who is just a friend and only a friend and nothing more! Chocolates are a platonic gift! Nobody in films or romance novels or anything smushy like that ever gave anyone else any chocolates for any reason other than just to tell them what a great pal they are!" She looked directly at the real Aziraphale as she spoke her lines, eyes wide and eyebrows high over the tops of the sunglasses. He wished, even harder, for that drink.

"Oh, A-zee-ra-FAIL!" Gabriel burst onto the scene and Crowley half hid herself behind one of the wings. "I’m here to tell you it’s time to come back to Heaven forever! Or else!"

Stage Aziraphale let out a soft sob and collapsed to his knees, which wasn’t entirely historically accurate, but did represent how the angel had felt on the inside at that particular moment and so Aziraphale allowed it to pass without comment on the basis of poetic licence.

"I’ll save you, angel!" Crowley stage whispered, "I’ll save you just like I always manage to! Again, this is a totally normal and platonic thing to do for someone who you just see as a friend!"

What followed was a most peculiar scene involving Gabriel disappearing to visit his tailor’s, which Aziraphale recalled with perfect clarity, whilst a mannequin (played with great believability by Brian) held a ‘conversation’ with Crowley in an alleyway outside the establishment, and Gabriel eavesdropped on their fake conversation— which Aziraphale did not recall knowing about at all. The scene concluded and Aziraphale found himself surprised for the first time during the production, for here was a moment in his own history that he hadn’t known occurred. For a minute or so he thought that perhaps it could yet again be chalked up to poetic licence but something told him that wasn’t the case. The Them, for all their creative choices in the dialogue department, had done a stellar job so far of actually showing things as they happened. There was no need to fabricate any of the overall details, and it wasn’t as though Aziraphale didn’t believe this really was how Gabriel’s mind was changed, now he had borne witness to it. Of course Crowley was the reason he had been granted a reprieve on Earth. Of course Crowley had figured out a way to save him, as he always had, as he always would. Crowley had wanted him to stay and had found a way to make it happen without the angel even suspecting he had been the reason for it. And when Crowley had wanted the same, to be allowed to stay? What then? What had happened when the demon had actually worked up the courage to ask it of him outright?

"Perhaps you should be going."

Aziraphale’s head shot up. The version of himself on the stage was now sitting next to the demon, and the play was reaching its conclusion. Crowley stood up, and looked down at her counterpart.

"What if I don’t want to go? I don’t think you want me to go, either, but I’m probably not going to say that out loud because we’re both very stubborn."

"Well, I do want you to go! For some reason! And I’m going to have a Christmas all by myself, which sounds very boring and lonely and sad but it’s what I’ve decided to do."

"Well I want to have Christmas with you! Otherwise it will be boring and lonely and sad! Only I also probably didn’t say that out loud, but thought it really really hard!"

"All I want for Christmas is to be alone with a book!"

"Angel," Crowley’s hand touched the side of Aziraphale’s face, "all I want for Christmas… is you."

He knew, of course, that he should have been dying many-a-small death to witness such an embarrassing spectacle. He knew that this should have been the moment where he stood up, screamed bloody murder, chased the children out of the bookshop in the manner he did all unwelcome customers and conceptualisations. He knew all of that, but in that moment all Aziraphale could think of was the heat of Crowley’s fingertips against his skin. Despite how cold he had been, despite how cold Aziraphale had allowed the atmosphere around them to remain, despite the cold light of Heaven that cast a shadow underneath Aziraphale, a shadow he had forced Crowley to live in with him for far, far too long; despite all of it, Crowley’s touch was pure warmth.

The play had moved on, and Aziraphale surfaced from his own head to see Crowley had arrived back at her flat. She paced a little, yelled at a plant (played by Adam, and the angel was very impressed with the versatility of their acting chops), then lay down on the floor.

"If he still doesn’t understand after all this time, then I don’t think he ever will, even though I bet there are loads of very smart and intelligent people trying their best to help him," she sighed, and draped an arm over her face, like a reclining Grecian statue, "no, I give up on it! All of it! I’m going to go to sleep now, who knows how long for, and maybe when I wake up it will all be better and I can try to move on with my life! Merry Christmas, angel, wherever you are!"

She lay down her head and began to snore. Into the background of the scene crept Beelzebub, who was carrying the gun high above him.

"Finally, that traitor Crowley is asleep and so I, Beelzebub, can kill him! There’s nothing anyone can do about it! Crowley is so sad and pathetic and alone and very very asleep, and nobody will come to his rescue!"

He held the gun to the sleeping demon’s temple.

"Poor Crowley. He’s dead tired."

He pulled the trigger and threw from his pocket a handful of red confetti that covered Crowley’s body. The two of them froze and Adam and Wensleydale made their way onto the stage.

"You’re coming with me, punk!" Gabriel grabbed at the pretend angel.

"What have I done? You cannot manhandle me in my own home! Oh, help, someone, please help!"

"Nobody is coming, Aziraphale! Crowley’s dead, thanks to Beelzebub! They killed him and now I’m gonna kill you!"

He pushed stage Aziraphale to his knees, and the scene from the beginning played out once more, only this time the toy sword completed its arc and landed with a meaty thunk against Aziraphale’s neck. Another handful of red confetti burst forth from Gabriel’s pocket onto where Aziraphale had collapsed onto the stage. On the other side of the scene, Beelzebub unfroze and sauntered towards Gabriel.

"Well, that worked out well for us, Gabe."

"You’re right. Thanks to the two of them being all split up and stuff, we were able to do something really bad! Or, as I like to call it, really good! Excellent job, Beez!" Gabriel grinned and held out a hand for the Prince of Hell to shake. With a smirk the demon took it, and then was roughly yanked forward and onto the blade.

"I knew you’d betray me!" He yelled, confetti covering his side where the sword was held fast in place by an arm, and brought his pistol up to shoot at Gabriel as he fell to the floor. The archangel staggered back, clutching at his chest where yet more red confetti fell from his palm. Aziraphale was very glad he wouldn’t have to clean this all up by hand.

"A Merry Christmas to all, and to all… a good… night," Gabriel stammered out, before collapsing down as well.

There was a silence that lasted for a good ten seconds, before Aziraphale realised they were holding position and it was up to him to move things along. He stood, then burst into applause.

"Bravo! Bravissima! Excellent, excellent show! How wonderful! An emotional and technical triumph of theatre! A rival to Shakespeare himself!"

The angel knew he was laying it on a little thick, but they’d clearly worked very hard and each of the Them beamed as they stepped forward and received an individual round of applause from him.

"Yes, it’s funny that you mentioned Shakespeare, actually. I got the inspiration for the ending from Hamlet," Wensleydale told Aziraphale after the fourth and final round of bows was over, and he was subtly massaging his very sore hands, "Have you ever heard of it?"

"Hamlet? I dare say I have, yes."

"But you’ve not seen it, have you? Only, if you had of seen it, I think it would have been rather obvious how our play was going to end."

"Oh no, dear boy, I wouldn’t say that. I can honestly tell you without a shadow of a doubt that I would have never, in a million years, with a million viewings of Hamlet under my belt, have foreseen that as the ending to your play."

This seemed to satisfy Wensleydale. Aziraphale congratulated all the players individually on a job well done again before grabbing Adam and privately taking him off to one side.

"I know you might attempt to be mysterious or aloof when I ask you things, as is the wont of a spirit of Christmas, but I have to know how much of what I just saw is likely to come to pass. Are the forces of Heaven and Hell truly coming for Crowley and myself so soon? Do I need to prepare for a fight?"

Adam wrinkled his nose, "It’s just a play, Mr. Fell. It’s hyper bowl, that’s what Wensleydale said."

"Do you mean hyperbole?"

"That too. We just used all that death stuff for dramatic emphasis, so you’d realise how daft you were bein’ and how much you need Mr. Crowley, and how much he needs you too. Course, like you said, you’d already figured that out before we got to tell you about it."

Aziraphale resisted the urge to ruffle the antichrist’s hair as the boy scuffed his foot against the floor, "I appreciate it nonetheless. Very entertaining and informative, you still taught me some things I hadn’t figured out for myself so a job very well done. Once all this is over perhaps you and your troupe would like to perform an encore for myself and a plus one? I know he’d be thrilled to bits to see himself portrayed in such a positively Byronic light."

Adam grinned, "I s’pose we could do that, but it can’t be tomorrow or the day after cos that’s Christmas Day then Boxing Day and they’re holidays, you see, and Pepper says we’ve got workers rights."

"We’re in a union," Pepper announced, holding a homemade business card out to Aziraphale. It read:

WE ARE IN A UNION
SO DON’T EVEN TRY IT!

"I’ll endeavour to keep that in mind," the angel said, tucking the card into his breast pocket. "You know, if I had to give one critique it would be that for the Ghosts of Christmas Yet To Come, you spent an awfully long time exploring things that have already happened, and they weren’t even all set at Christmas! Other than that, I give the whole thing five stars. A roaring success."

"Who says it has to be about Christmas?" Adam asked, frowning. "Who says it all has to be about the future?"

"The book, I suppose."

Brian snorted from where he knelt, picking up the little flies that had scattered from his person during his death scene, "It’s not about the book. S’about you, innit?"

Aziraphale froze.

"What— what did you say?"

"I said it’s not about the book. Who cares if some old guy wrote all this stuff about Christmas and other old guys with too much money and ghosts and stuff thousands and thousands of years ago? We’re not ghosts, really, and you’re not an old guy with too much money—otherwise I reckon you’d live in a less dusty house with nicer things—and yeah it is Christmas and that helps with stuff but that’s not why Adam said we’ve done all this. You decided that on your own, Mr. Fell."

The angel sat down, quite solidly.

"Why show me all this now, then, if I am finally allowed to ask? All of you— Ligur, Anathema, Madame Tracy too. Why do all this according to A Christmas Carol, and not just tell me outright that through the actions of the man I was I had caused such pain to those dearest to me?"

"I mean, you’re a bit of an idiot," Pepper said, finally.

"Yeah, you are," Brian added, "and I should know."

"Actually, I have to say, it is a little frightening to think that we knew something an angel didn’t," Wensleydale nodded.

"The thing is, Mr. Fell," Adam stood in front of him now, and Aziraphale felt that the Them were readying for their final stage exit,"is that you already knew all of that. You just didn’t want to know that you knew it. Y’know?"

Aziraphale laughed, softly, and attempted a smile, "Despite your complete disregard for logical syntax, I do believe I follow your meaning, Adam."

"So that’s why we all agreed to help like this. S’like how films for little kids are always sneakily teachin’ you lessons about life. Like how to share, an’ how to be kind to people even if you maybe think they don’t deserve it at first, an’ how it’s important to tell the people you love that you love ‘em," the antichrist said. "We all already know that stuff, kinda, but it’s easier to know it better when you learn about it through a story with characters you like."

"Well, I liked your characters very much indeed," Aziraphale told them, giving them all a true smile in turn before patting his knees decisively and rising "Now, I believe it is still Christmas Eve— I have some very pressing matters to attend to, and you should all scurry off to bed before Father Christmas realises you aren’t where you should be and decides you belong on the naughty list!"

The Them exchanged A Look.

"Should we tell him—" Brian whispered.

"Nah," Adam cut him off, eyes drifting over to Aziraphale, "He’s had to learn a lot tonight. Learnin’ that too might be a bit much for him."

"Grown ups are so delicate. Mum cried when I told her, said innocence was well and truly dead," Pepper agreed.

"Tell him what?" Wensleydale asked.

Adam picked up the discarded robe and promised Wensleydale he’d explain later. The Them turned to Aziraphale as one and chorused "Merry Christmas Mr. Fell!’" before their leader swirled the black fabric around them all. Just as soon as it covered them in toto it immediately fell to the floor, empty. The Them were gone, having effortlessly pulled off a trick that Aziraphale had spent months attempting in vain to recreate without the use of a miracle after seeing Copperfield vanishing Lady Liberty.

"A Merry Christmas, children," Aziraphale murmured, and again took out of his pocket the only Christmas present he had ever thought to give to the demon. He flicked ahead to the end of the story, a habit Aziraphale abhorred usually but knew Crowley had adopted in the rare instances he did read in order to get a rise out of him, just to remind himself whether he could count on any more surprises from the narrative before he took matters into his own hands but was unexpectedly arrested by what he saw there.

The Spirits, all of them, had been right. It most certainly was not about the book.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale was neither light as a feather, nor merry as a schoolboy, nor giddy as a drunken man. An argument could be made for him being happy as an angel, but he’d been an angel all his life and had been happy for a vast amount of it. No, Aziraphale did not find himself prancing about, as Scrooge had done, calling hither and thither to his household objects and praising their very existence, or recounting to exactly no-one the various events of the night. There was only one being he wanted to tell this story to anyway—only one being that the angel ever wanted to tell his stories to—and Aziraphale was not yet prepared to see him. The clock above his mantle struck one, and Aziraphale adjusted his waistcoat before nodding to himself primly. He had work to do, and when this particular happy angel had work to do, there was only one way to get started.

He sat down in his armchair and readied himself with the book.

Now, something is about to happen, and I would ask that you do not look upon Aziraphale too harshly for it in the aftermath. He has been through a great deal this night, and much of it against his will. It is no easy task to reckon with the weaknesses of oneself and, often, when being exposed to the truth of one’s heart in such a way one can forget what strengths you have to work with. Here is what happened— Aziraphale’s living room was still darkened after the appearance of the Phantom, and so he tutted and clicked his fingers to miracle up himself a lamp. He thought nothing of it, and licked the tip of his finger to turn a page. You, however, loyal reader— I fancy I may hear you cry, ‘why did Aziraphale not simply miracle a telephone at the start of the evening? why did the angel not miracle himself away, or his unwanted guests? why wait until now to utilise a power so useful to him?’ To those queries I can offer you only the patient look of a narrator who loves their readers, who can be very stupid at times.

Once Aziraphale was done with his research (and it did not take long at all— the fifth stave of A Christmas Carol is but six pages in total) he began preparations in earnest, many of which we shall keep quiet about for the time being as Aziraphale is a private creature who likes to hold his cards very close to his chest, and isn’t averse to a little cheating when the game and opponent calls for it, and so we shall not begrudge him his secrets here. Hours passed in this manner, a frenzy of activity the likes of which the walls of A. Z. Fell and Co had not seen since its first days of existence. Crowley was not the only one of the pair who was fond of his dramatic flourishes, and so when the time came that Aziraphale was almost fully satisfied with his work, the clock did not yet read eight. The angel took a deep breath and then, because one night of fairly intense immersive therapy is not enough to break a lifetime of old habits, he began to panic.

There were three things that panicked Aziraphale primarily, and they were as follows: he wasn’t certain how best to get to Mayfair, as usually when he wished to go anywhere he was taken at his earliest convenience in the Bentley and Aziraphale, as I have mentioned before, cannot drive; he had an initially-fleeting but now fully-rooted fear that he’d somehow gotten so wrapped up in what he was doing he’d worked right through and now the day was almost over and, finally; in all that the spirits had shown him, no-one had actually out-and-out said how Crowley, well, felt. About any of it. Christmas. Their Arrangement. Aziraphale, himself. Wouldn’t it be funny if—

No. It certainly wouldn’t be funny at all.

The angel took another breath, and resolved to deal with each fear in order of most easily vanquished. First, the hour. He rushed downstairs, to the door of the bookshop. Aziraphale was most gratified to see his telephone had returned to its place on the desk, sitting there innocently as though it had not abandoned him by some unknown power in his time of need last night. He cast a judgmental eye over it, and fancied he heard it rattle in place. He’d never seen the appeal before but he was coming to understand something about why Crowley kept his plants in line the way that he did.

Bursting through the door to the shop, he cast an eye above. Unfortunately, they were not far enough removed from the Winter Solstice yet that the sky could give him any clue to the side of the day the hour had fallen upon. The snow had stopped falling, but the cloud cover was still a dense, dark, bruising purple. He looked about the street and felt elation overtake him when he saw a stranger hunched in the bright white alleyway outside of the nightclub across the way. This gentleman, this fine fellow, this hero of the day could relieve his fears.

"Hallo! You there, dear boy! What’s to-day?"

The stranger lifted his head, and Aziraphale understood in a moment of immediate clarity why it was that the man had been hunched over so.

"Must be joking, mate?"

"Ah, so sorry to disturb you, but if you could just let me know that I haven’t missed it—that it still is the day I hope it is—I would be much obliged."

"Fuckin’... you been on the piss? It’s Chr-It’s Chris— oh, Christ," the man bent over once more, and deposited a truly spectacular amount of the contents of his stomach onto the street between them.

"Christmas Day! Oh, splendid, wonderful, and you’re only just heading home from an evening of revelling I see, so it must still be morning—I get quite wrapped up in my own head, always have done, and I thought—ah, yes, your hangover," he said, undaunted in his cheer despite the two fingered salute from the man. "Not to worry, not to worry at all! There, I think you’ll find yourself quite sober now, that’s no state to be in on Christmas Morn! Off you pop, home again home again and all that."

"Wanker," the man said, because finding oneself immediately sober is not especially pleasant when one isn’t used to it, and also because he wasn’t a particularly pleasant person to begin with. Aziraphale, luckily for the gent, did not hear him. He was practically skipping back to the shop, one fear down, two fears to go.

The question of whether or not Crowley felt— well. Felt, for him, Aziraphale, specifically. That was the fear the angel wished to assuage next before he went over there and made an absolute fool of himself, but knew that no answer would be forthcoming unless he put himself out there first. The demon had been the one to take the first steps in every other aspect of their relationship throughout the ages— Aziraphale owed it to Crowley, and to himself, to do this much on nothing but a leap of faith, though it would have been nice to show his work to someone else and get at least a little hint that the answer he’d come up with was the right one. For the first time that night, for the first time ever, Aziraphale missed Ligur.

(I do not wish to labour the point of what happened to Ligur’s Ghost as Christmas Morning rose over London. If you’d like, you can imagine he was once again removed from the face of existence, his part in this story, or any story, well and truly done. If you prefer, you can imagine he was reinstated as a demon, to lurk to his heart’s content, a second chance granted by an unknown entity who decided he had paid his dues. I, dear reader, personally like to imagine that he rattled off to see a shambling, stinking, somewhat amphibian-like corporation in the shape of a man about a Vampire Hunting Kit.)

Of course, just because Ligur’s Ghost was now nowhere to be seen didn’t mean Aziraphale was left with no way to contact any of the spirits he’d been visited by that night. He eyed the telephone on his way past and thought about calling Anathema, but he had already intruded on enough of her Christmas with her young man. The Them, he was certain, wouldn’t have wasted a single minute upon waking that morning and would already be causing havoc for all of their parents, and woe betide any creature who tries to drag an excited child away from their Christmas presents to discuss anything at all, let alone romance. That left, fittingly enough, the Ghost of Christmas Present. Aziraphale wasn’t certain that Madame Tracy would be best pleased to see him before the conclusion of their evening’s lessons had been resolved but needs must and, as he looked over all the Christmas trimmings that needed transportation, he had the sort of idea that could kill two turtle doves with one stone.

It was just before lunchtime when Aziraphale finally found himself standing outside of Crowley’s door. The welcome at Madame Tracy’s had been warm (after being subjected to a lecture from the woman herself and the third round of questioning from her husband about how many of this and that he had on his chest) and she had insisted on feeding him a bite or two before he set off again with the promise that he would return in the New Year, demon in tow, for that cup of tea she’d mentioned.

"If all goes according to plan," Aziraphale had said, the third fear looming large now that he’d managed to solve the second.

Madame Tracy had just given him that same smile again, the one she had worn when she called him thick, and sent him on his way.

Aziraphale pressed his forehead to the cool stone of Crowley’s front door and gathered up his thoughts. He knew the door would not be locked to him, in the same way that the bookshop had never been locked to Crowley. He would not have to expend a miracle to work his way into Crowley’s personal space, his sanctum. The door, as it had done before, would open to him willingly and gladly. Crowley’s plants would lean toward him as he entered, already used to praise from him despite the few times he’d been here, and Crowley— Crowley might laugh at him. Crowley might wonder why on Earth he’d bothered coming over, or why Aziraphale felt he had any right to do so after his performance last night. Crowley might say, ‘Were you expecting something else, angel?’ in that sneering tone he was more than capable of but did not often deploy, as Aziraphale looked around at the bare white walls, the cold and empty throne, the high ceilings with nothing cast across them but shadows. Aziraphale couldn’t bear it, any of it, and considered turning tail and fleeing from all possibilities, good and bad. Old habits, he thought to himself, angrily. He thought of Crowley, again. Not Crowley as he pictured he might be, but Crowley as he was. Crowley expecting better of him, Crowley wanting to cook him a Christmas dinner, Crowley asking him if he could stay.

He pushed the door open.

The plants were there, just as they always were. They seemed to know nothing of the importance of Aziraphale’s mission, eager for a kind word and a soft touch.

"I’m sorry, my dears, but I’ll be going in here," he whispered, closing the door gently behind him and turning away from them. The truth was, in order to reach the plants, Aziraphale would have to pass by the open door to the room he hoped looked exactly as it had done last night. If he walked past that room now and saw it empty, without all of its seasonal fanfare— well, the kitchen seemed a much safer place to start. He could work his way to the throne room from there. Kitchen first, then throne room then, hopefully, to Crowley’s side.

There is a very human activity that is universally applicable as a means of communicating a particular sort of mood. In days gone by, it was seen as the purview of frustrated housewives which is sexist nonsense in every way possible and also incredibly unfair to everyone else who may wish to utilise it as a weapon, or a means of relieving stress. When one has finished cooking a meal, whether for loved ones or hated ones or oneself (who can be both loved and hated), and one needs to drive home the point that actually, I’m really rather fed up of all this, I am undervalued and underappreciated and you don’t know what a good thing you’ve got going on here, the best thing for it is passive-aggressive dish washing. This method usually works best when there are other people present in the kitchen, because every now and then they may feebly attempt to offer help, and one can have the great satisfaction of going no, no! I’ve got it, don’t you trouble yourself. Just sit there and finish your drink and let me do all the work, and, really, there’s nothing else quite like attacking a particularly stubborn burnt bit on the side of a favourite lasagna dish with a scouring pad and pretending it’s the head of the one who has wronged you.

All of this to say, whereas Aziraphale is the sort of being who vanishes his dirty dishes because he is too lazy and pays too much for his manicures to bother with all that, Crowley is the sort of being who loves a good passive-aggressive dishwash, and Crowley’s kitchen was stacked to the rafters with dirty dishes.

This is also to say that, because Aziraphale doesn’t do dishes, he did not understand the implication behind the piles other than the immediately obvious— that Crowley must have cooked a hell of a lot of food. There were roasting tins, frying pans, those lovely little Le Creuset dishes that Aziraphale always coveted but saw no point in for himself, pyrex bowls, saucepans, several Kitchen Aid mixers with dirtied bowls standing inside of them, hand whisks, meat thermometers, wooden spoons, spatulas: the only things not left filthy was Crowley’s immaculate set of kitchen knives, because there was only so much you could sacrifice for a good emotional round of washing up. The angel knew there was enough carnage here for Crowley to have cooked Christmas dinner ten times over, and then some. Aziraphale felt his heart buoy at the sight of it all, but couldn’t figure out what had happened to all the lovely food. He’d never forgive himself if Crowley had thrown it all away— obviously, this was not his first priority, but it was a small fear he could deal with in the moment to distract him from the main event. He moved to the fridge and pulled the handle, to see if some of the food at least had survived. The entire fridge swung forward and in his haste for answers Aziraphale worried he had forgotten to temper his strength and now had destroying the demon’s white goods to add to his monumental list of apologies. The fridge did not, however, fall forward. It continued to swing, as though on hinges, and Aziraphale found himself facing a hole in the wall, and a room he knew for a fact was not on the flat’s floorplan.

Crowley had made for himself a walk-in cool room. The angel made no move to enter, still grasping the handle of the fridge-slash-door, but he could see rows and rows of shelves burdened with his favourite foods, wrapped and stacked and stored safely away. He hadn’t thrown it out, not a sausage out of place. Everything he had seen, everything he had smelled and wished for and been desperate to taste the night before was all here, waiting for him. Like a culinary Sleeping Beauty. The angel silently promised the food he would be back for it later and, closing the door, he pressed on, feeling the rest of the fear slowly melting away despite the slight chill in the air that had escaped the cool room.

Aziraphale practically ran into the throne room, laughing as he ran his hands along the greenery hung from the walls. It was the very same room Madame Tracy had shown him! The holly, ivy, mistletoe— they were all here! The strings of light hung overhead, dark now, but with a thought Aziraphale brought them to vibrant life. No wonder he had not recognised the room immediately when brought there the night before— as well as the addition of the dense curtain of greenery, Crowley had removed the slab marble desk that usually resided there, as well as the television and the lectern (though our angel was not to know that had gone after the first time Aziraphale had commented on it looking somewhat familiar). The only thing that remained of the room’s previous inhabitants was the throne, which was so ostentatious and so ridiculously at-odds with the rest of Crowley’s home decor that it seemed much more suitable to the atmosphere of the room now than it ever had before, and Aziraphale ran a hand over it. He couldn’t put it off much longer— the story demanded a finale, and this seemed like the proper place for it.

"Is your master at home then, my dears?" Aziraphale said quietly, looking around at the plants on the wall. They all seemed to bloom a little more verdantly, and a very brave vine of ivy curled down over the door to Crowley’s bedroom.

"Wonderful," he smiled, then cleared his throat and put on the most unaffected voice he could manage and called out.

"Hallo! Crowley! What do you mean by sleeping at this time of day?"

There was a slightly worrying crash from the bedroom, followed by several very loud curses. Aziraphale held position, not even daring to breathe.

"Aziraphale?—Fuck fucking trousers fuck—Angel? Is that you?"

"Yes, I’m rather afraid it is," he called back.

"Hang on, don’t—don’t go anywhere shit, ow, where’s—Don’t leave!"

"I wasn’t planning on it, dear boy."

The demon burst forth from his bedroom, in something of a state. Hair stood up all along one side, pillow-creases still fading on his cheek, rumpled silk pyjamas hastily tugged on if the state of the buttons on the shirt were anything to go by. Aziraphale forced himself not to blush at wondering what Crowley’s regular sleepwear was if not this, and met the demon’s eyes. Usually, Aziraphale felt most rewarded when Crowley’s guard was down enough to go without his armour around the angel, and he revelled in the beautiful colour of them and the wide, searching gaze Crowley possessed. Now, the demon looked rather more like a baby mole than a snake, eyelids struggling to stay alert and open in the face of an unexpected awakening. It wasn’t so much a rewarding experience was it was devastating, in the best possible way. Aziraphale wasn’t certain he could have ever described Crowley as adorable before this moment.

"I, er. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be, I dunno, deep in the throes of passion with one of the Brontë sisters by now?"

Aziraphale hummed, hand still running idly over the top of the throne, "The Brontës are hardly fitting for Christmas, Crowley, really."

"Oh, come on, you know what I mean. That was your plan, wasn’t it? Read the day away."

"And here you seem to have a splendid party planned."

That put a stop to any residual sleepiness hanging about Crowley’s corporation. His eyes shot open, and he appeared to realise for the first time that the room was decorated, and that Aziraphale was truly standing in it.

"I— er. Yes. Yes! Big party! Loads of guests, stacks of ‘em, guests out the wazoo. Sure they'll be arriving any minute now."

Aziraphale kept up his air of innocence, but didn’t think he could manage for much longer. There was teasing, and then there was torment.

"Sounds absolutely wonderful. I don’t know why you didn’t just say you were having such a shindig last night! I would imagine you do this every year?"

Crowley attempted to fix the buttons on his shirt while trying to work himself up to his usual affected nonchalance. He managed neither.

"I mean, not every year."

"How many years have you been throwing this particular Christmas party, Crowley?"

"Oh, y’know," he tried for one of his vague, handsy gestures, but only succeeded in dislodging several more buttons, "Probably… probably since the beginning."

The angel took pity, as Crowley had just managed to unbutton and rebutton the same incorrect toggle in the same incorrect hole thrice. Aziraphale moved forward into Crowley’s space, felt the demon’s small intake of breath, saw how it lifted his chest. He batted Crowley’s hands out the way and set to work righting the wrongs.

"I’m sorry to have missed them."

"Nah. They were never that good, to be honest, angel. Nothing to fret over. Party never really worked out the way you’d want a party to," he paused, looked away. "Guest of honour never showed up. Or, well, any guests. Or— or anyone, really. Wasn’t a very long guestlist so that’s on me. The company was miserable. You’d have hated it. I always did."

"Crowley," Aziraphale finished his task, and smoothed down the collar on the demon’s pyjama shirt, unable to quite meet his eye but all trace of teasing now gone from his voice. "I’m truly sorry to have missed them."

Crowley didn’t seem to know what to do with himself, and Aziraphale had to confess he felt the same. They stood there, together, an angel’s hands on a demon’s collar for a beat too long for nothing to have been said. Crowley broke first, pulling away and manifesting a pair of sunglasses.

"Well, not that this hasn’t been lovely but, I should probably. Got bed stuff to do. Sleeping! I’m sleeping, and you’ve got book stuff to do," he said, and shoved the glasses onto his face.

"You can’t possibly expect me to believe you made yourself a pair of glasses in order to just go back to sleep, Crowley that’s completely ridiculo— oh. Oh! Book stuff!"

Aziraphale patted his pockets, then found his prize.

"I meant to give this to you, my dear. Years ago now," he pulled out the Dickens and then gave a soft groan of dismay, "oh, dash it all, it’s not wrapped. Crowley, I cannot apologise enough."

The demon, still caught in the throes of uncertainty that comes from being roused without ample time to discern if what is happening is reality or still part of a dream, took the book.

"You wanted to give me… a book? Hang on, isn’t this the one you refused to give back to that idiot Hans? Made a right stink outside your shop for days, if I remember right," Crowley’s fingers carded through the pages until he reached the end first, as he always did when being presented with a book, and the demon froze. Aziraphale took this as his cue, and began rambling.

"I know it’s not much of a present for the likes of you, I think my motives may have been a touch selfish—oh! I don’t mean for the likes of you in any derogatory reference to your demonic qualities, of course, I simply meant—well, you are deserving of far more than just a book, or any book, which I know are not your media preference but I must confess when I originally planned to give this to you little else was available. If I could have invented the cinematic capture device years before humans envisioned the concept for your benefit I certainly would have done, Crowley, but as it stands only books were available and so—"

"Aziraphale," the demon held the final page aloft, waving it in front of the angel’s face. "Aziraphale, you wrote in a book."

And he had. The book itself had never been the gift, not really, and in the years after Aziraphale had found himself unable to give it to Crowley he’d spent so long following the wrong thread—how close they had been to being discovered that year, how the extra-heavy workload Gabriel had set upon his desk seemed almost like a pointed punishment, how foolish it had been of him to expect to be allowed to spend Christmas with a demon at all in the first place—that he had let knowledge of the message slip entirely from his mind. Perhaps that was why he had hidden it in the book in the first place, at the very end where none but Crowley would think to immediately look. Some form of self-preservation, or else self-denial. The message itself was not particularly vague in sentiment. It read:

My dearest, Crowley

Let this Christmas be the first in a long line of Christmasses together, and with acknowledgment of our precarious circumstances, in place of the traditional line allow me to say with a full heart that as long as we spend them together then I shall personally bless them, and feel blessed by them, every one.

"You wrote in a book for me," Crowley said once more.

"I’d do more than that for you, my dear, if you’d let me. If you still— if you’d like me to. If you were to say the word, I’d write in all my books," Aziraphale said.

"I know you don’t mean that."

"Well, no, alright. Perhaps not all my books, but certainly a great deal of them. I’ll happily write in all my Dickens for you. I’m not actually all that fond of him as an author, come to think of it, and especially after the events of last night."

"Look, Aziraphale." Crowley had begun to pace, which had never been a good sign, "I know—at least, I think I know—what you’re trying to say to me here, in a very roundabout, Aziraphale-y sort of way. And while I don’t know what brought on this particular epiphany—"

"Oh, I was Christmas Carol’d."

"— right, right, of course, you got Christmas Carol’d, and so I— er. You what?"

"Crowley," the angel smiled. "Focus, if you would."

"Yes, yes, sorry, fucking hell, let’s put a pin in that for now. What I’m trying to say is—what I’m trying to ask is—look, are you trying to tell me something here, or are you just upset about missing a party that didn’t happen, or am I just having a very potent hallucination brought on by eating all the brandy snaps before bed last night? Because I’d like to know if it’s one or the other before I get the wrong idea and start saying all sorts of things I won’t be able to take back and, I’m telling you angel, once I get started I won’t be able to stop so you had better be sure you’re trying to say what— whatever it is you’re trying to say, because—"

The demon stumbled over his words, losing his train of thought as Aziraphale mirrored the touch between them from the bookshop the night before, fingertips skirting over Crowley’s sharp cheekbone. It was very effective at shutting the demon up, and Aziraphale almost made to remove Crowley’s glasses but took notice of the fragile thing that had taken up residence across his face and thought better of it. He knew how to handle with care, when to go slow.

"Crowley, I’m not here about the party. Though I do hope you’re not entirely serious about having eaten all the brandy snaps because I would quite like to have some, alongside the marvellous looking trifle I saw sitting in your fridge. That’s not the point though, my dear. Even without it— even without any of it, I would still be standing here in front of you, and it’s only right that today is the day we get all this out in the open because, well, as it turns out," Aziraphale screwed his courage to the sticking place, and looked Crowley in the eye, hand trembling against the side of the demon’s face.

"All I want for Christmas is you."

Crowley turned as red as a particularly famous reindeer’s nose. He stammered a little, not a real word to be found amongst the gutteral sounds that tore themselves from his throat, his eyes roamed behind the tinted glass to land anywhere except upon the face of the angel before them, his scaly toes curled and then uncurled against the floor beneath them and he finally let out a long hiss of breath through pursed lips, like a steam train whistle. It did nothing to alleviate the redness on his face, the spread of which was only made more obvious when he removed his sunglasses and pressed his fingertips to his closed eyes.

"Gotta say, angel, all the times I’ve let myself imagine this moment might happen—and believe me when I say I have imagined it plenty—I never thought once that that would be what came out of your mouth. Where have you even heard Mariah Carey, who’s done that to you?"

"Oh dear," Aziraphale stepped back, their contact having been broken during Crowley’s veritable cavalcade of reactions, "I suppose it was a little cheesy, wasn’t it? I must confess, I’ve been fretting over the right way to say it all morning, and I panicked in the moment. It didn’t seem half as mortifying when you said it to me."

Crowley’s eyes flew open in horror.

"I think I’d remember saying something that idiotically embarrassing! I know I’ve not exactly been subtle through the years, but Christ, Aziraphale! Give me some credit!"

"No, no, you didn’t say it. The other you did," Aziraphale said lamely, trying his best to explain while the words idiotically embarrassing echoed around his head.

"The— the other me. Right. I’m assuming this was while you were being Christmas Carol’d?" Crowley asked, and there seemed no end to the amusement in his voice. Aziraphale couldn’t bear to look at him, now under the distinct impression that he was being teased, mocked, made fun of. He was suddenly terrified that this was all getting away from him— he’d mucked it all up and, as Ligur had gleefully said, made a mess of his one chance. This wasn’t at all how he’d pictured this going on the ride over here. Aziraphale found himself fed up enough to do at least three times the amount of dishes in Crowley’s kitchen.

"Now see here, Crowley. I came to you, on Christmas Day, in order to tell you what a blasted fool I’ve been all these years, and it was hard for me in the past to look all this in the face and see it for what it was, to be truly honest with myself in order to be honest with you, and I know, I know that’s no excuse but—"

The demon, in rare moment of true alignment with his nature, had started to laugh at him.

"-oh, wonderful! I’m so glad you’re finding all of this amusing, Crowley! I’ve had an absolutely awful night. I’ve been told time and time again that I’m some sort of defective Ebenezer Scrooge type, with only the vaguest of instructions as to why and what to do about it! I’ve had to put up with Ligur’s incessant rattling, and Anathema’s book burning, and Madame Tracy’s riding crop, and witnessed some of the moments I hold dearest in this world reduced to nothing but vaudeville by a group of eleven year olds, and all of this I could have dealt with! But when I am finally here in front of you, as I’ve wished to be all night, exposing myself in a way I didn’t think I would ever be able to, and I’m truly, truly terrified for the first time of something other than Heaven because it’s you. It’s you, Crowley, it was always you, and if I’ve ruined it all by taking so long I’ll never forgive myself, but all you can do is stand there and laugh at me while I try to tell you that I’m in love with you!"

If this were a film, or a romance novel, or something smushy along those lines, one might have been forgiven for expecting this confession to stop Crowley’s laughter, for them to move immediately into heartfelt moments and tender touches, but this is not any of those things, and Crowley and Aziraphale are not star-crossed lovers who have been persecuted by the universe. Crowley and Aziraphale are their own worst enemies, and Crowley, in the face of a love confession six thousand years in the making, could not stop laughing. Aziraphale stood there, embarrassed and resigned, and waited for a moment when he could quietly excuse himself and try Crowley’s tested and true method of sleeping off the mortification for the next hundred years. He went to move, to head for the door, to remove himself from the situation but found something grounded him to the spot. The ringing in Aziraphale’s ears quieted enough that the angel could hear how the demon’s laughter had mellowed out and softened, and then Crowley was in one glance much closer in his line of sight than he had been a moment ago, and the angel realised two very warm hands were cradling his face, when on earth had all this happened? And then oh, oh—

Crowley kissed him.

Crowley kissed Aziraphale even as there was still laughter crowding his lips, but made space there for the angel just the same. The laughter, now that Aziraphale could taste it, was not mocking but merry. Not ribbing, but relieved. The angel felt his own answering laughter rising to meet the demon, true happiness bursting forth from him because he could feel so much love being gifted to him in the embrace and it felt— well. It felt like Christmas.

Crowley seemed too elated, too caught in the moment to think to take things further, but Aziraphale, for once, was ready to go a little faster. He pressed his hands to Crowley’s chest, deepening the kiss to a truly debauched degree, and crowded the demon back against the lush green tapestry, utilising a little of his angelic strength to do so which, if the noises Crowley made in response were anything to go by, was a very good use of his natural abilities. He couldn't say how long they stayed there, hands and mouths with minds of their own and an abundance of very good ideas between them, but eventually Crowley made a noise closer to the edge of pain than pleasure.

"Ow, shit," Crowley snarled, breaking off the kiss and trying to get out from under Aziraphale’s firm grasp, "That bastard holly is sharp."

"Well, of course it is," Aziraphale pulled him away from the wall a little without relinquishing his hold, and placed several more kisses to his jaw and the corner of his mouth, "you grew it, my dear. I wouldn’t expect it to be anything less than perfect."

Crowley pressed his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck and breathed in for a few moments, arms not leaving their now steadfast position around the angel’s waist.

"Well," he drawled, and the soft tickle of lips across the skin was divine, oh, why had they not done this decades before! "If you want perfect, you should taste the mulled wine I made for you. Used a proper vintage for it, it's possibly the most expensive mulled wine ever made. Come on, now the guest of honour is here, may as well set up the rest of the party."

"Not to say that isn’t an utterly tempting idea, my darling," Aziraphale pulled back from him, nudging Crowley’s chin up to deliver what he hoped was a truly blissful smile, "but I rather thought you might put on some clothes and then we could go for a Christmas Day jaunt somewhere? I’m driving."

The demon’s face did something very complicated.

"Angel, I love you, but— oh, hadn’t actually said that out loud yet, had I? Sorry, let me do that properly, one tic," he cleared his throat. "Aziraphale, I’m in love with you. You know, just in case all the kissing and the gifts and the rescues and the six thousand years of pining over your ridiculously infuriating self didn’t get the message across."

The angel tittered, "I must admit I had something of an inkling, my dear, but thank you for clearing up the finer points."

"Good, yes, glad we’ve got that sorted. Anyway, as I was saying, I love you but if you think that just because we’re finally mutually in this thing I’m going to let you drive my car, then we need to set some relationship boundaries, ASAP."

Aziraphale grinned, and led the demon over to where he knew the window to be, and pulled aside the greenery hung there like a curtain so they could both look at the snow-covered street below. Crowley gaped.

"Is that a—"

"Yes, it is."

"And it looks like it’s filled with—"

"Yes."

"Are all of those— who are all of those for?" Crowley asked, in the tone of voice a demon who thinks they might be about to be roped into charity work.

"Oh come now, Crowley. You didn’t think I’d forgotten to get you a real present, now did you? That would be a dreadful way to go about things. Everything you see before you, hundreds of years of overdue gifts— it’s all yours. As am I."

"So, when you say you’re driving, what you mean is—"

"I always was better at handling horses than you," Aziraphale announced, only somewhat smugly.

The horse in question was not actually a horse. It is necessary to mention this because the demon Crowley was famously averse to travelling by horse, and so the angel who loved him had to assure him that the horse in question was not actually a horse.

"It’s Madame Tracy’s scooter!" Aziraphale told him, already holding the reins and sat on the bench seat, patting the space next to him. Plush blankets pooled around his feet and waist, and the demon’s gifts were piled high behind him in the carriage itself. Of course, the main gift was at the end of that open road before them, but Aziraphale had decided he’d work up to that.

"The horse… is a scooter?" Crowley, who was now fully dressed and wearing the first of his Christmas presents (a scarf and a pair of matching gloves the angel had knitted a century ago, that Aziraphale had initially thought he’d made in the spur of the moment and never thought to wear but now knew had always been marked for Crowley), hopped up alongside him.

"Hopefully it will take to you more than an actual horse would, my dear, and I’ve already had experience handling the scooter. It seemed like an elegant solution, was no trouble at all to apply the miracle to, and Madame Tracy was only too happy to oblige!"

"Well, as long as we get where we’re going before midnight," Crowley snorted, tucking a blanket around himself and eyeing the frankly stupid amount of presents that filled the back of the sleigh. "Are they really all for me?"

Aziraphale told him, for the seventh time that morning, that they were, then with a flick of his wrists on the reins encouraged the horse onward. Ordinarily one horse would not have been enough to carry such a load as an entire sleigh, two supernatural beings and the ridiculous array of gifts out of London, but this horse had experience carrying unusual cargo in its past life and was very much enjoying its reprieve from carrying Sergeant Shadwell around so found no reason to complain. It was Christmas, after all.

"Have to say, angel," Crowley said as they approached their exit, and if one didn’t know he was a demon one might be forgiven for assuming he was snuggled into Aziraphale’s side in the seat of the sleigh, the two of them looking for all the world like birds of a feather, a very familiar thermos filled with mulled wine nestled between them, "I could get used to this sort of treatment. Shame to go back to normal when Christmas is over."

"Oh no, dearheart," the angel replied, making Crowley once again turn that lovely shade of festive red. "Now that I’ve begun, I find it most gratifying to lavish you with all sorts of affection. I want you to get used to this sort of treatment, Crowley— in fact, I intend to make it last all year."

Aziraphale navigated the sleigh down the slip road to the A3, which miraculously found itself still covered in a thick blanket of snowfall from the day before. I have already told you that our angel has no idea how to drive a car, and thus has no idea exactly how road traffic laws have been set out for the modern motorist but what Aziraphale is, as he himself has said, is a reader. He was well-versed in what a happy ending was supposed to look like and so, with that knowledge under his belt (and the knowledge that it would delight Crowley to no end to hold up so much traffic on Christmas Day), Aziraphale, heading for East Sussex, merged onto the A3 and confidently pulled the sleigh across three streams of traffic into the fast lane.