Title: The Holiday Season
Author: Meyghasa
Pairing: Very slight A/C overtones
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Good Omens belongs to the geniuses known as Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.
Summary: Crowley hates Christmas. Can Aziraphale show him that the holiday season isn't all bad?***
It was December 1st, and Aziraphale was strolling back to his bookshop in Soho, contemplating the many facets of his personal favorite holiday - Christmas.
The holidays were always an exciting time for Aziraphale. He rejoiced in the month-long celebration of the glory of God and Heaven, the singing, the exchanging of gifts, the effusive glow of peace that pervaded every soul...
Well, almost every soul. Aziraphale thought of his demon associate with a frown. Being a demon, Crowley was not a fan of Christmas. Nor was he a big aficionado of all the good deeds and joyous feeling that came as a result of the holidays. In all of his years, the most he could come up with to thwart the intrinsic happiness of the holiday season was to work things in a way such that wives got toasters from their husbands or that one child got a single more toy than the other, thus ensuring fights and strife well into the next year.
Aziraphale knew that the constant talk of Up There during the month of December made Crowley nervous. He suspected that it made Crowley think too much about the past, which invariably led to thoughts of the Fall. These were never good thoughts, and often made the demon anxious and irritable. Therefore, given these factors and that the two played for opposite sides so to speak, tensions between angel and demon rose to their peak this time every year.
Usually Crowley disappeared somewhere between the beginning of November and didn't return until mid-January, when all the trees and lights and decorations had been put away to wait for the next holiday season. Aziraphale had often wondered where it was exactly that Crowley went off to each Christmas, but upon asking always received a rather curt answer.* Eventually he had given up asking altogether.
This year, however, was different. It was two days before the beginning of December and, after much pleading and the eventual bargain of a substantial collection of very fine wine, Crowley had been persuaded to spend his December in London.
This year, Crowley would enjoy the Christmas season. Aziraphale had a plan.
* That answer being, "Somewhere warm and Christmas-free." Once, however, after a few too many bottles of wine, he had let slip that "they sure can make a demon forget himself." Thereafter Aziraphale suspected that the Satanist nuns were somehow involved, but, fearing and expecting a most unsavory answer, never questioned any further.
***
Aziraphale was not generally keen on Christmas decorations. A few tasteful lights were all right, and he certainly had no objections to the decorated tree they raised in Trafalgar Square, but the masses of Santas and assorted figurines of glowing reindeer and baby Jesus were, in his opinion, quite terrible. Of course, as an angel, he knew the meaning of Christmas beneath the shining decorations. But also, as an angel, he was well aware that all the miniature Santa Clauses in the world often did not, in the end, bring people any closer to Him.
This was a burning fact that upset Aziraphale more than he cared to admit, particularly after a few too many glasses of spiced mulled wine. People were so enamored of the holidays, but often for entirely the wrong reasons. Presents, presents, presents. This seemed to be the meaning behind it all, these days. He thwarted evil and instilled good, but in the end he worried that humanity was comprised of consumer-driven, greedy bastards.
He vaguely wondered if Crowley had something to do with it.
Regardless, this year he set aside his bias against Christmas decorations and his gloomy thoughts about mass consumerism. Part one of his plan to help Crowley enjoy Christmas included many decorations with which he would turn his bookshop into a glowing holiday paradise. He knew that beneath the demon's cynicism lay a deep love of flashiness, and Aziraphale had every intention of exploiting this weakness.*
A good two hours spent at the nearest department store filled the angel's needs. He stumbled into the bookshop buried under the weight of eight rustling bags bursting with assorted plastic, electronic, and shining decorations. After setting the bags on the floor, disrupting a thick layer of dust, he went to the kitchenette to make a cup of tea.
No, a cup won't do, he thought. Better make a pot. This will take quite some time, I think.
Two pots of tea, an entire roll of scotch tape, no less than twenty nails, two surge protectors, and enough dust clouds to choke the stoutest of human beings later, the bookshop was barely recognizable. Stockings lined in rows hung from the top of every bookshelf. Light-up Santas and reindeer were strategically placed around the stacks of books on the floor - though, naturally, far enough from the precious books as to not cause them harm. Multicolored Christmas lights lined each of the storefront windows and the large pane of the shop's door. A small, rather obviously plastic Christmas tree stood in the corner, covered in angels, soldiers, sleighs, kittens in Santa hats, carolers, and poinsettias. Topping the tree was a plastic glowing angel, hands folded as if in prayer. Finally, more because the clerk insisted that due to an expectation of use, a sprig of mistletoe bedecked in ribbons hung in the archway leading to the small back room.
Standing at the counter with his arms folded across his chest, Aziraphale examined his handiwork with no small amount of pride. "I think it looks quite festive," he said aloud to no one in particular. "Crowley is sure to love it."
*A rather less-than-holy action that he wrote off as holy. After all, he was doing it for a good and heavenly cause.
***
St. James' Park was always rather forlorn this time of year. The trees were bereft of their leaves, the grass was brown and crispy, and only the bravest of ducks would venture into the icy water. To top it off on this particular evening, the sky was overcast and a sharp wind was blowing.
Despite the deplorable conditions, Aziraphale and Crowley sat on their bench and looked out over the pond. They had carried on a comfortable silence for nearly a half hour, taking the time to examine the landscape and, particularly in Crowley's case, snicker at the poor souls who walked by with dripping noses and watering eyes.
Eventually, though, the cold did penetrate their warm coats and unusual tolerance of the elements. "It's getting rather chilly, Crowley dear," Aziraphale said as he rubbed his arms vigorously. "Shall we go to the shop for some cocoa?"
"Sure," the demon agreed. "Though I'd be fonder of that mulled wine you make around this time of year."
They walked with their heads down against the wind and their bodies close together to avoid the press of evening Christmas shoppers that lined the sidewalks. During the journey, Crowley entertained himself with various acts of a demonic nature. Across the street, a woman laden with innumerable shopping bags stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk and fell to the ground, her purchases flying in all directions. In a store they passed, a man's credit card was rejected during the sale of a rather expensive and very important diamond ring. In the toy shop at the corner, four children broke out into a noisy and rambunctious fight over the latest gaming system. Instead of bringing peace, the sets of intervening parents broke out into their own fight.
Aziraphale looked at Crowley with a frown. "Honestly, dear, is that really necessary?"
"I'm a demon, Aziraphale. It's part of the job description."
"I just don't think you ought to be so enthusiastic about it, is all," the angel countered as suddenly a group of carolers rushed over to subdue the fighting parents.
When the duo was around the corner of Aziraphale's bookshop, the angel surreptitiously miracled the various lights and figurines on. The look on Crowley's face when he rounded the corner to a store front full of garish blinking lights made the angel wish he kept a camera around.
"...the hell?" Crowley sputtered.
Aziraphale beamed nearly as brightly as his shop. "Well, don't stand there gawking. Come in and have some cocoa, dear boy."
Crowley followed the angel inside, momentarily speechless. Everything was so... bright. Vaguely he thanked Go-, Sata-, anybody that he wore sunglasses. He had never seen the bookshop any way other than filled with piles of old books and thick dust covering everything in sight. Apparently the angel had decided to give Christmas decorating a go, and, in his charmingly tasteless way, had gotten it terribly, terribly wrong.
Where did one get plastic reindeer with tartan reins, anyway?
As Aziraphale bustled in the kitchenette and furtively switched on the record player - conveniently loaded with Ella Fitzgerald's "Best of Christmas" - Crowley weaved through the books and Santas to lean on the counter. "So, angel, what's all this?"
"Oh, I just thought I'd try my hand at decorating," Aziraphale answered in what he hoped wasn't an overly innocent tone.
The demon was not convinced. "You've never tried in the past millennia I've known you."
"Yes, well. I just had a creative streak." The angel approached the counter and set two steaming mugs of cocoa on the counter. "What do you think?" he asked with a cheery smile.
As much as Crowley wanted to make a snide remark or, most of all, burst into hysterical laughter, he couldn't bring himself to crush that cheerful expression. "It's... bright," he managed.
Aziraphale's smiled increased exponentially. I knew it! he thought. Everything is working perfectly.
***
"Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la la la la la!"
Crowley jolted upright abruptly, causing the wine he was pouring to splash in bright red droplets all over the table and the plush white carpet. He set the bottle down with a curse and miracled the mess away, inwardly bemoaning the fact that he would always envision those red stains whenever he looked at the spot in the future.
"Don we now our gay apparel, fa la la la la la la la la!"
The television shut off with a decided click. One seriously angry demon stood up, causing the leather couch to squeak in protest. As he approached the window, a row of bright green, excessively healthy leaves shuddered and shook in terror. A stream of curses caused the leaves to turn in on themselves, but they would scarce have been at all relieved had they known that, for once, the demon's wrath was not directed at them.
"What the fuck?" he asked the window. The window did not reply, but instead allowed him to survey a group of smiling people, ranging in age from thirteen to fifty, bundled up against the cold and singing their cheerful little hearts out in the street below. Their cheeks were bright red from the brusque air and their eyes shone with the power of a caroler's delight. Each of them even carried a little songbook, which unpleasantly reminded Crowley of the ridiculous caroler ornament on Aziraphale's equally ridiculous plastic Christmas tree.
"As we sing with yuletide pleasure, fa la la la la la la la la!" One of the carolers spotted him in the window, and the young girl waved a happy hand at him. Before long the entire group was waving as they continued their singing. "Deck the Halls" ended, and promptly another song began.
"We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas, and a happy new year!" they sang.
"I wish you would shut up," Crowley growled angrily, fogging up the glass with the fiery heat of his breath. His neighborhood had never had idiot carolers before. Come to think of it, since he had moved in, his neighborhood had been blessedly free of all things holy. Why on earth would they infiltrate the sanctified place he had created for himself now?
The ridiculous plastic tree flashed in his mind. Wait a minute. The angel wouldn't have... would he?
"Please bring us some figgy pudding, please bring us some figgy pudding!"
Crowley's attention returned to the group below, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at their smiling faces.
"And bring it right-" Suddenly, inexplicably, all thirteen of the carolers began coughing and croaking. Some were bent nearly in half with the force of their hacking coughs. They wrapped their hands around their throats, spit wads of phlegm on the sidewalk, and thumped each other on the back to help clear the passageways. When at last the coughing fits were done, they tried to speak to each other about the mysterious situation. All that came out of each mouth was the softest croaking whisper. It would be known as the most unusual sweeping case of laryngitis that one particular hospital would ever document.
Crowley returned to the couch, poured himself a glass of wine, and turned the television back on. Lost had just begun. Excellent.
***
Knock knock knock.
Between the expensive black satin sheets of a king sized bed, a sleeping demon snuffled, grunted, and turned over.
Knock knock knock.
Said demon grumbled and pressed a slightly drool-dampened - damn those unpredictable human bodies - pillow over his face.
Knock knock knock ding-dong ding-dong knock knock.
Crowley swore. Obviously his caller was a persistent git and Crowley wasn't going to be able to get back to sleep any time soon. He slunk out of bed, ran his hand through his hair, and miracled on some appropriate clothes. In a thoroughly disgruntled fashion, he stomped to the front door and yanked it open.
"What?" he demanded.
A messenger stood in the doorway, flanked by six potted poinsettias of various colors. He gulped as he fidgeted with the clipboard he held, then managed to get his courage together under the assault of a rather powerful aura of evil that was being directed at him. "Er, delivery for a Mr. Anthony Crowley. Would that, er, be you, sir?"
Eyebrows lowered to nearly disappear behind dark sunglasses. "Who the blazes would send me poinsettias?" he growled.
The messenger consulted his clipboard and replied, "Er, a Mr. Fell, sir. I believe there's also a card here somewhere, sir. May I bring them in?"
"Yeah, yeah," Crowley said. He was busy wondering what in the world the angel was up to. Poinsettias? He scratched the back of his neck absently as the memory of those blasted carolers came back to him. Was the angel behind those gits, too?
"I just, er, need you to sign this, sir. With the date, if you don't mind."
Crowley snatched the notebook and scrawled his name* above the "signature" line. He paused, still concentrating on the angel.
"December 21st," the messenger added helpfully.
"I know what bloody date it is," Crowley snapped.
The poor boy paled and stepped quickly to the doorway as soon as Crowley relinquished the clipboard. He paused only a moment to mumble something about having a good day before he bolted to his van outside.
Crowley eyed the poinsettias with a mixture of curiosity and disgust. White, pink, and red - two of each. Grimacing, the demon shuffled among the leaves in search of a card. Sure enough, a small piece of cardboard on a stick was enmeshed in the mass of foliage. The card was white with a border of small printed candy canes. On the outside was printed "Seasons Greetings!" and on the inside a message was written in elegant script that was undoubtedly the angel's.
Crowley,
I thought your plants might like some cheerful companions. They are guaranteed to liven up your flat.
Yours,
AziraphaleThe front door slammed, and on the floor next to the poinsettias was a crumpled up piece of cardboard.
* Or rather, his affected name on Earth. His real name involved a lot of complicated twists and scribbles.
***
"Alright, angel, what the fuck is going on?" Crowley shouted as he slammed open the door to the book shop, causing the bell to tinkle angrily.
A small elderly woman bundled in a hand-knitted scarf and gloves looked at him with wide eyes as she clutched three books to her chest. The wind blowing around Crowley from the open door gave him an unnatural appearance, as that of perhaps a demon. If children had been present, they would have burst into terrified tears.
Aziraphale, who was neither an elderly woman nor a small child, looked at him sternly. "If you don't mind, dear boy, I have customers to attend to. Would you please shut the door?"
Only slightly apologetic, Crowley shut the door and sulked off to the corner next to the supernatural and occult section. He proceeded to scowl angrily at the angel as he tended to his customer and, increasing Crowley's ire, ignored the demon's presence completely. Aziraphale led the woman around the shop, answering her questions in a most helpful way, then led her to the counter and rang up her purchases. He even gave her a discount due to the holiday season - a fact that made Crowley want to toss a plastic Santa at him. Honestly, where did the angel get off?
The woman hurried out, casting a worried glance at Crowley, and as soon as the bell tinkled her departure Crowley was at the counter and in Aziraphale's face. "What the fuck is going on?" he repeated. He was mildly disappointed at the lack of wind and supernatural ambiance this time around.
"What on earth are you going on about, dear boy? And I don't appreciate you barging in here and frightening my customers. I am trying to run a business here, Crowley," the angel said reprovingly.
"I am asking the questions here!" Crowley yelled, slamming a hand down on the counter. Aziraphale looked at him worriedly and began to say something. "No, I don't want any tea!" he continued. "I want answers!"
Aziraphale folded his hands on the counter. "I think perhaps we ought to take this into the back room."
After settling in the back room, Aziraphale on the couch and Crowley pacing before him, Crowley began his questioning. "What is this all about?" he asked.
"I'm afraid you're being a bit too obtuse, my dear."
"You know what I mean!" Crowley shouted. He ran his hands through his hair in a thoroughly agitated fashion. "The carolers, the poinsettias, the decorations, the bloody reindeer with tartan reins... what is this all about, Aziraphale?"
"Oh dear." Aziraphale looked at his neatly folded hands, perplexed. "This is not how I expected you to react at all."
"What are you talking about?"
"Well, I know that the holidays are always tough for you--"
"I'm a demon, Aziraphale," Crowley interrupted, throwing his hands in the air. "Of course the holidays are bloody tough for me!"
Aziraphale looked up, trying to meet the demon's eyes through his sunglasses. "I know," he responded quietly. "I just... I just thought that I could help you enjoy them a bit. I thought that perhaps if I helped you to see the good parts of the holiday season, you wouldn't find it so bad." He looked crushed, like a child who has just been told that Santa Claus isn't real.
Crowley looked at the angel sitting there so forlornly and felt some nameless emotion clutch at his chest. The anger drained away despite his best effort to grasp it, hold onto it, use it... and without another word, he walked away. The only other sounds Aziraphale heard were the tinkling of the bell above the door and the roar of the Bentley taking off down the street.
***
On Christmas morning, Aziraphale went to church. He sang and praised and worshipped like the angel he was, and then he walked back to the bookshop along the snow-dusted sidewalk. Despite the angelic joy he felt for Christmas day, a part of his heart was heavy. He had not heard from Crowley since their confrontation, and Aziraphale was beginning to think that perhaps this would end up being another one of those century or two silences over something that, in all honesty, should not have been a confrontation at all. It wasn't as if he had done anything wrong, after all. He had acted with the best of intentions. However, Aziraphale was beginning to suspect that despite his good intentions, he had yet again gotten things terribly wrong. Following that morose line of thought made him even more melancholy.
The walk passed quickly while he meditated on past grievances between himself and his associate. It seemed as though every century or so they were off speaking to each other again. What was it about them that prompted such fiery reactions?
Your associate is a demon, he thought bitterly. What else do you expect?
By the time he reached the shop, Aziraphale was dying for a cup of cocoa and an evening curled up with his latest purchase, a first edition of Ivanhoe. He closed the door of the shop, taking care that the sign was turned to "Closed," and shrugged out of his coat as he approached the kitchenette. He was just passing the counter when he noticed two unusual things.
There was a package on the counter. A book-shaped package wrapped in tartan wrapping paper, no less.
Secondly, the shop's usual musty smell of dust and old books was muted by the delicious smell of spicy mulled wine.
He miracled his coat into the closet - one instance where such an act was warranted - and approached the counter. There was a small folded card on the front of the present, which the angel picked up and read. "I forgive you. -C." Smiling, the angel ripped open the paper to reveal a 1584 edition of the Tale of King Arthur. His mouth dropped open in a highly unangelic gesture. He had been searching nearly four centuries for this book!
"I think the paper was harder to come by. I half expected it to burn my hands off. Hideous stuff," came an amused voice from the kitchenette. Crowley sauntered over to the counter, two glasses of mulled wine in his hands.
"Where did you find it?" Aziraphale breathed. He handled it with as he would a lover, delicately and softly. "It's beautiful. Thank you."
Crowley, for once slightly uncomfortable with the angel's complimentary tone, shrugged and looked away. "No problem. I figured I owed it to you. I acted like an ass."
The angel looked up in surprise. "Well, yes. You did."
"Thanks. Want to rub it in a little more?" Crowley grumbled.
Aziraphale chuckled. This was the demon he was used to. "Thank you, Crowley. Shall we call peace?"
"Sure. And what better way to celebrate peace and yes, even the holidays, than dinner?" He grinned at the angel as he wished his outer garments into place.
Aziraphale threaded his arm around the crook of Crowley's elbow and patted the demon's forearm. "You know, dear boy," he beamed, "I knew you would come around. Was it the carolers or the poinsettias that did it?"
"You know, you are a right bastard sometimes," Crowley replied. "Now come on, the Ritz is calling. You can pay this time, for once. Christmas spirit and all."
The angel sighed in defeated acceptance and began closing up the shop. As he approached the door, he smiled widely. "Merry Christmas, Crowley."
"Yeah yeah. Now come on, I'm starved."
***