Happy Holidays, dragonfire42!

[goe_mod]

TITLE: running through the halls of your haunted home

RATING: T / Teen and Up

SUMMARY: In the late hours of the first Christmas Eve after Aziraphale's promotion, Crowley's body refuses to sleep. He promptly gets wrapped up in Muriel's extremely last minute Christmas decorating of the bookshop, and ends up finding an old memento that stirs up memories of a time before the Apocalypse and amnesiac Archangels.

----

Soho, December 2024 A.D

It is 11:26 P.M., and Crowley's face is currently plastered against the wall furthest from the window in A. Z. Fell & Co. above the bookshop. His silk pyjamas are damp with sweat, his limbs are restless as he tosses and turns on the hard surface uneasily, and his corporation refuses to shut down and rest.

Crowley has an impeccable track record of being able to sleep. The longest nap he's ever taken was back in the late 1300s, when he was sleeping off the effects of the Black Death so as to avoid the pertinent discomfort of having boils all over your body for a prolonged amount of time. It lasted for about sixteen years, which just so happened to mean he slept through the rest of the miserable century that was the 14th. At the time, Crowley was very happy about that indeed.

The point is, Crowley is no stranger to sleeping his problems away. It's one of his most foolproof methods of repression, actually. He's been using this method for the last year strategically, mostly so he didn't have to deal with the new angel in his angel's bookshop faffing around like they owned the place, which they most certainly did not, no matter what the Metatron decreed.

Muriel was trying their best, that Crowley knew. Just because they're trying to be kind doesn't mean he has to reciprocate, though. He just needs another nap, and then he'll be ready. Yes. That’s what he needs.

Crowley folds his pillow to cover his exposed ear as yet another crash echoes from downstairs, groaning with annoyance. Insomnia has never been an issue of the demon's, for which he’s grateful. Tiredness tugs at his eyelids and his tossing and turning becomes slower and slower, but for some reason, his corporation has yet to shut down. No matter how many layers he puts on his ears or attempts to imagine himself anywhere but here, there's no sleep to be had.

It’s probably the noise. That's what must be keeping Crowley up, obviously.* If he went down there and gave Muriel a piece of his mind, maybe they'd finally leave him alone and let him wallow in peace. Perhaps even leave the bookshop, in a perfect world.

Or, no, not a perfect world. In a perfect world Muriel would never need to stay in the bookshop in the first place.

Crowley groans as he detaches himself from the wall, tussling his flattened hair as he slides to the floor gracelessly. The flat is dark, the only light coming from the crack underneath the door and the moonlight beaming in from between the slats in the blinds. Crowley forces his way through the stacks of books and cosy furniture in his path as he stumbles towards the door, almost irritated at how soft everything in his living quarters has become. He's been living here for well over a year now, but that is something he‘ll never get used to.

"Muriel?" Crowley snaps as he makes his way down the black spiral staircase towards the bookshop, not having had time to figure out a nickname for them yet. He blows a tuft of red hair away from his face, a minor distraction from the discomfort as his bare feet touch the cool wooden floor. "What in the Hell are you—"

"I'm in here, Mr Crowley! I'll be just a—oh, no, please don't—!"

Crowley rolls his eyes as he makes his way towards the noise, which is coming from Aziraphale's office. He's able to tell because the electric candles are only lit in that direction, creating a clear goal to head towards. His march slows to a shuffle, almost tip toeing as he gets closer to the light.

As Crowley rounds the corner, he is assaulted by a barrage of colours and glitter. He shields his eyes from the attack as his face twists into an expression of both disgust and confusion. Mostly confusion, because there is one key piece in the office that was not there before; the giant Christmas tree in the middle of it, decorated to the nines with bright and garish ornaments and other decor that it's almost difficult to look away from. Christmas lights are hung all along the walls messily, all attached to the tree in some way or another.

Muriel themself is darting around in the chaos frantically, trying to prevent the tree from toppling over with said Christmas lights, muttering to themself about the structural integrity of the pine tree and the weakness of its trunk. They’ve swapped out their usually light beige and tartan uniform for a more festive woollen sweater and green skirt that falls to their knees, brown loafers just peeking out. They stop in their tracks as they finally realise Crowley is watching them, his mouth now parted slightly in awe and disbelief at the scene before him.

"What is that?" Crowley cries, gesturing wildly towards the—Satan, he hates to use the word—jolly office, almost mortified at the new angel's actions. "S'all—oh, you've done it now. You've gone and disrespected the Supreme Archangel very deeply. You've ruined his office."

"What?" Muriel basically squeaks, the first bit of genuine alarm appearing. They back away from the tree hurriedly. "N-no, I'm sure the Supreme Archangel won't mind if I dressed up his bookshop for the holidays. It's a human tradition! I've seen the humans out on the street start decorating their shops as well."

As Muriel rapidly fires off their excuse to a very disgruntled demon, Crowley circles the tree without holding back his judgement. He squints as he examines the sparkly red balls hung between pine needles, and purses his lips at the silver tinsel draped around the branches. It's a rather poor attempt at a 'classy' Christmas tree, but a genuine one nonetheless. Crowley could see that, even in the sea of contempt he held for this clueless angel. It isn’t their fault, not at all, but just the fact they aren’t the right angel is enough for him.

Well, not completely clueless—after enough time together, Muriel has learned when to move on from a certain subject when it hits too close to home. They press their lips into a thin line as they turn away from Crowley's stony expression, bending down to pick up a discarded blue ornament shaped like a snowflake.

"I was trying to make the shop festive," Muriel says quietly, but firmly. "Pardon me for saying this, Mr Crowley, but you've been very grumpy lately, and I don't think that's good for you. About seventy percent grumpier than usual, I've found. I wanted to surprise you."

Crowley scoffs, kicking another sparkly ball away as he marches towards the leather sofa and collapses onto it with as much disdain as possible. "Not sure why'd you think this was a good surprise. You're defiling his bookshop, that's what you're doing."

Muriel stomps their foot, likely trying to be intimidating, but it just looks odd. "The Supreme Archangel said—"

"Oh, like you've really heard from him." Crowley sinks deeper into the cushions, staring stubbornly at the ceiling. "You keep saying that you have, I know, but I don't believe you. Not one bit."

Muriel sighs, turning the blue snowflake in their hand as they rub mindlessly at its edges. After being in Heaven for so long—their entire existence until last year—they still have yet to fully get used to the infinite human textures Earth has to offer.

But one good thing about being in the same job for so long is that you know when to quit. And when you work for Heaven, that 'when' tends to be 'never'.

"It's alright if you don't believe me," Muriel says kindly, hanging the snowflake on a barren branch. "But I’d like to carry on. Unless you want me to stop! I can, if you'd like, if you think it would really bother the Sup—"

"Who cares what I think?" Crowley asks, more to himself than anything. "I mean, at this point, s'kind of—"

"I do, I think. If you don't mind, Mr Crowley." Muriel nods for good measure. "I will ask you again. Do you want me to stop?"

Crowley bites the inside of his cheek, contemplating for a moment whether it'd be worth it if he ruined the new angel's fun. Muriel's eyes are hopeful, their hands clasped together almost pleadingly as he scrutinises them harshly.

"Just do it," Crowley concedes, reaching down and grabbing the nearest ornament from the floor that he can reach and dropping it onto his lap. "See what happens."

Muriel grins, their smile almost as bright as the Christmas lights twinkling above them. "Then I will continue. Thank you!"

"Don’t—fine." He sighs heavily. "You're welcome."

Muriel is quick to return to their work, now onto the task of using up the last of their sparkly balls on the tree so that it is a beacon of light and hope.

Crowley brings the ornament up to his line of vision, black string hanging from the tip of his finger loosely. The figure is a small man, dressed in colourful robes and nearly white curls underneath a holly wreath. His grin is bright, and he holds a cup of mead high as if in toast. He stands on a pile of snow as if conquering a mountain, bits of holly and mistletoe at his feet.

The little label is under the caricature's platform, which is a barcode and a line of text dubbing the ornament; 3'' Father Christmas Miniature (Red).** Under it, there is a little symbol carved in messily, which has eroded enough to just barely reveal the little 'C'.

Oh. That's why it was so familiar.

"Is that yours?" Muriel asks chirpily, startling Crowley out of his lamentation by nearly flinching himself off the sofa. They've gathered in close, eyes now fixed on the ornament. "It's very pretty."

Crowley's hand closes on the miniature of Father Christmas, unable to tear his eyes away from its small, rosy face. "Nah, not mine. These are all the an—Supreme Archangel's things. I remember where he got it, though."

"Oh!" Muriel kneels down to get a better look at the ornament. "That's very interesting. Why?"

"Why did he get it or why was I there?"

"Whichever you think is best."

Crowley huffs, absentmindedly running his finger over the figure's jolly red hat. "Gave it to him. Found it in a gift shop, thought it looked like him. Which is the first time either of us have seen humans ever get it right, so, had to get it. He thought it was funny."

Muriel contemplates the decoration with genuine effort, putting their hand up to their chin, as they have read what other humans do when thinking. "Are these types of ornaments meant to look like Mr Aziraphale?"

"Sort of? He never did like taking credit for his deeds, but the humans ran with it anyway. Keep preaching about the importance of the holidays and freedom of religious practice and you’ve got yourself a legend." Crowley points at Father Christmas' chin. "See? No beard. That's him. They've always got beards. He never did like them."

Muriel nods in understanding. "That's very nice, Mr Crowley. Can I…?"

Crowley pulls the ornament away from the new angel's hands before they can take it, bringing it to his chest on impulse. Muriel lets their hands hover awkwardly, making the whole situation a tad more strange in the process. Eventually they find the sense to back away, and their expression has faded into something a bit more…sad.

"I’ll put it up later," Muriel says, determinedly chipper. "Do you want to watch me finish decorating Mr Aziraphale's bookshop? I can fetch a cup of coffee from across the road!"

"She's not open now," Crowley mutters, turning on his side to face the office properly. "But sure. Hang away."

"Then I’ll make us coffee. I'm sure I can find a book about that somewhere…"

Before Crowley can bluntly remind the scrivener that the bookshop would definitely not have the ingredients to make coffee from scratch, Muriel hurries away in search of whatever they apparently think is needed to make a cup of coffee. Crowley snuggles deeper into the leather cushions, its age making for a rather squishy resting place. It would have to make do.

Crowley looks down to his chest, where the little ornament sits shielded by his fingers. The longer he stares at the ornament the less it looks like the angel he knew, which could really just be his own tired mind playing tricks on itself. The remark about it looking more like Aziraphale is still true, though. Aziraphale never had a beard in this time period.

Or maybe he really did have a beard in the 1600s. The day when the whispers of Father Christmas began Crowley was feeling very out of it, considering the circumstances. ‘Circumstances’ involved smuggling Christmas decorations out from alleyways covered in snow and writhing on consecrated ground, to be more specific. There are only so many places a demon can hide from pursuing soldiers because you have a bag of holly on you. 

So maybe he’s just misremembering that bit. Maybe Crowley didn't know the Supreme Archangel as well as he thought he did.

Crowley puts the ornament on the ground, careful not to break the delicate porcelain. He curls in on himself, knees up to his chest and left arm draped loosely over the rest of him. The Christmas tree continues to twinkle stubbornly even in Muriel's noisy absence, and he doesn't have the heart to move.

When Crowley drifts away, he dreams of burning skin and thick snow.

— — — — —

* - Ignoring the fact that he once slept through the Bentley blasting Was it All Worth It from her radio when he was still sleeping inside her back in the early days of the Covid-19 pandemic. He's a very heavy sleeper, though he won't admit that any time soon.

** - Not Saint Nicholas, not Santa Claus, but Father Christmas. There are distinct differences between the three folktales, though most will mix the three names up like they didn't mean anything. Saint Nicholas was a 4th century saint who had a merry habit of secret gift-gifting and miracles, which gave him the nickname of 'Nicholas the Wonderworker'. Santa Claus is a North American legend who delivers gifts to kind children with the help of his elves, and loves cookies. Father Christmas is the name the English use for the personification of the holiday, a bright figure emerging from the mid 17th century in midst of Puritan tyranny. Clearly, there are key differences from each other.

Comments

Lovely!

[holrose]

What a lovely little melancholy tale. I really like the notion that Aziraphale was the first Father Christmas, preaching goodwill and religious tolerance during the interregnum. I feel sad for Crowley here, but it’s a lovely piece.

Lovely and sad.

[may_hawk]

Lovely and sad. I like that Crowley doesn't ruin Muriel's fun. Poor Crowley! (Maybe there will be a Christmas miracle for him?)

Footnotes were great, and I love the note this ends on.

Festive Sorrow

[scullyphile]

Oh, this is both festive and sad.

"Sort of? He never did like taking credit for his deeds, but the humans ran with it anyway. Keep preaching about the importance of the holidays and freedom of religious practice and you’ve got yourself a legend." Crowley points at Father Christmas' chin. "See? No beard. That's him. They've always got beards. He never did like them."

Aziraphale as Santa! Awww...

So maybe he’s just misremembering that bit. Maybe Crowley didn't know the Supreme Archangel as well as he thought he did.

Ooof. 💔

[a_candle_for_sherlock]

Oh, sweet sad grumpy snake. The sense of loss at the last when the ornament stops looking like Aziraphale— that’s visceral. I’m very glad Muriel is there, though. They’re the second-biggest mistake Metatron’s made. They’re exactly what the bookshop needs now, and Crowley, in spite of his mood.

[maniacalmole]

Interesting reason for Crowley to have slept through the 14th century! Makes sense, but oof, poor demon XD
I love Muriel being interested in textures on Earth!
And Aziraphale as Father Christmas! Spreading cheer as best he can...hopefully he will in the future, too!