Happy Holidays, b_c_draygon!

[vulgarweed.livejournal.com]

Fic: With Joyful Accord
For: b_c_draygon
From: seularen
Rating: G
Prompt: A/C: Something set in the past, maybe around Christmas time? Or maybe just something to do with winter, snow and being cold. "There is a privacy about it which no other season gives you.... In spring, summer and fall people sort of have an open season on each other; only in the winter, in the country, can you have longer, quiet stretches when you can savor belonging to yourself." (Ruth Stout)



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"There is a privacy about it which no other season gives you.... In spring, summer and fall people sort of have an open season on each other; only in the winter, in the country, can you have longer, quiet stretches when you can savor belonging to yourself." ~Ruth Stout


December 22nd

He looked up and down the abandoned street, nearly turning to leave again. However, as with the other times he attempted to stumble tiredly back home, he remembered no one was waiting for his return. His flat echoed with chill emptiness. If he were honest, Crowley knew he'd rather freeze waiting for the shops to open than surround himself with that stark loneliness.

As he stood, shuffling from side to side to keep his feet from gaining frostbite, Crowley thought about the angel. The last time he stopped by his book shop was right after the 19th. He had hoped to find the angel looking as miserable as the demon felt; he wasn't disappointed, though the victory left a sour taste on his tongue. Through the window he saw Aziraphale standing behind the counter, book in hand but eyes glazed staring into nothingness. His countenance spoke of guilt, and some flittering emotion Crowley feared to name. Despite himself, Crowley had felt like running in, taking the angel's hand in his, and convincing him everything was alright.

'Nonsense,' Crowley had thought, shaking his head to banish such ridiculous notions. The cold then started seeping past his gloves, and his cold blood chilled further. Shivering, he had forced himself ignore the angel and look for the book he carried in his pocket (indeed had with him at all times). Some luck had been on his side, as Crowley had not seen it.

Thinking back on the scene, Crowley knew the plan would be worth the momentary guilt from walking away. The problem was convincing these new feelings of that. Pain in humans was his job, something at which his brilliance knew no bounds; causing pain in-- in... an angel? No, he cared little for the stuffed shirts Up There. Aziraphale was different. A friend? Surely not, friends were easy enough to come by; Aziraphale was, for lack of a better word, precious.

"Ugh," Crowley said, disgusted with himself for thinking such a thing. 'All this Christmas spirit must be getting to me,' he thought.

The demon was shaken out of his thoughts by the chime of the shop door bell.

"About ruddy time," he growled, and followed the man inside. Throughout the store lay some nightmarish wonderland of winter joy; the sight made Crowley wince. Lavish greeting cards were festooned with cut-outs, gilt, decorative flowers, butterflies, birds, ribbons and bows. Fairytale ships of good fortune, Victorian homes set for a holiday dinner or scenic visions of far off ancestral lands helped to greet the New Year in grand, high Victorian style.

"All the pleasures of the season indeed," the shop keep murmured excitedly, still hovering near him. Crowley made a mental note, adding the man to his list of people to spend a little personal time with.

He hated himself for indulging in such sentimentalities, but the smile he would provoke across the angel's face made the cost palatable. He closed his eyes, card in hand, imagining the slow smile turning into a grin and-- if this damned holiday was at all as blessed as it was meant to be-- an unrestrained hug for the surly demon. Crowley preferred death over admitting missing Aziraphale's arms pulling him close. Not that it mattered, lately; hugs had been increasingly rare between them, and Crowley had no idea why. Not that he truly cared, of course, but if the enemy started slacking, it made his job significantly less fun.

'Yes, that's the reason,' he tried to tell himself. 'That's why I find myself standing in this blasted art shop in the dead cold morning so I can buy the first ever Christmas card for a ruddy angel. A whole shilling! Bastard isn't worth ha'pence.' He made a grunting noise in the back of his throat, thrust the shilling into the man's gloved hands, and stalked out with as much haughtiness as he could muster.

***
December 31st

The wet snow showed no signs of letting up. To make matters worse, Crowley was alone on New Year's for the first time in a long while.

It was his own fault, really, but he'd be dam—he'd be bles—he'd be buggered before admitting anything. His mind wandered back to the first of the month, a bitterly cold Friday night, when this whole damned thing began. Crowley may or may not have had a bit too much to drink, and despite himself began tempting Aziraphale into conversations best left untouched. He sensed eyes throughout the club staring, and could not help loving the attention knowing it made the angel nervous.

"--Angel, if you didn't want to be tempted, if you didn't love what I stand for, you wouldn't be so anxious to sit here arguing with me. So explain, that, angel, explain why you love debating me, love letting me win, love--"

"Crowley, shut up!"

...Silence. Crowley's mouth hung open, in the middle of an abandoned word. It had been decades since he last heard the angel raise his voice, and only then with good reason.Aziraphale got up, threw some coins on the table, and made to leave.

"Really, Crowley, if you didn't want me here all you had to do was ask." With that he left Crowley alone.

And alone he'd been, for the rest of the month. They usually spent an afternoon together, Crowley helping Aziraphale wrap presents in exchange for a good vintage. Yet Aziraphale had not come 'round with his bags of knick-knacks and garish paper. It was customary, over ribbons and wine, to plan when they would next see each other, and for centuries now they'd always decided on New Year's Eve. It was tradition,damnit. Over Christmas they split up, 'Zira's responsibilities keeping him further away than Crowley liked. But New Year's was their time.

Crowley knew it had been time for desperate measures. He patted his overcoat pocket, feeling for the tenth time to make absolutely sure the present still lay inside. The card he sent before Christmas to secure its arrival.Aziraphale had to have read it by now. Crowley would go over, be welcomed with open arms, and everything would be back to normal. The demon congratulated himself. This year wouldn't end so badly after all.

***

Aziraphale always felt especially thankful for December. The Christmas miracles were another department entirely, and he viewed the month as a little break with which he could relax and focus on the shop. 'Zira had spent most of his time this month pouring over manuscripts and new arrivals in the back room. He examined them for quality only after reading them with the absorbed seriousness of the most devoted reader. He simply did not feel proper giving the author less than full attention.

Now, five days after Christmas, finally back from Heaven with all their fanfare and endless pleasantries, he scooped up the pile of letters and took them upstairs. Royal Mail had yet to go to the dogs, but few could afford to send letters. It had been nearly two weeks since he'd bothered to check it, though, as the man usually left it on the counter. 'Might as well settle down,' he thought, putting the kettle on. Bills, the top three, which he brushed aside... then picked back up to read. His nature refused to let him procrastinate, which made all the tax collectors quite nervous. Aziraphale dropped some tea leaves in the pot and let them sit while he gathered his ledger, quill, and ink pot (he prayed daily for the patent on the fountain pen, making the slow passage of time between him and Poenaru).

The stack dwindled as he opened more bills and became more frustrated. Finally, with three or four unopened letters and the pot sadly empty, 'Zira stood-- back and knees cracking in relief-- and decided to save the rest for tomorrow. 'Perfect ledger be dam-- be... be blasted,' he thought wearily, giving himself the smallest of respites. The fire dwindled, casting small, sad shadows on his cream-colored walls. He knew he should cherish the quiet time uncluttered with appointments or customers. Solitude was the gateway to purification, he knew, but did not tradition give weight to perseverance? For the first time since he had returned, Aziraphale let himself think about Crowley.

New Year's Eve was, after all, their time, after 'Zira came back from Heaven and Crowley was finally tired of holiday wickedness. They shared a bottle of the best wine, reviewed the year, let their guards down without allowing the tentacles of mistrust to grip their hearts. And, truth be told, as he looked around his silent flat, he knew he longed for the demon's company. Weeks of holy jubilee was enough for even the most heavenly of hosts to tire just a little. Crowley, with his low voice and soft laugh, was welcome reprieve, a needed release. 'Zira could say things around the demon he dare not think otherwise; somehow Crowley's presence made it all alright.

Yet their fight-- or rather his abrupt exit--had ruined chances of that. 'Zira knew what had come over him, but admitting it took more than a little courage. All the demon's talk of love twisted a knife Aziraphale would rather not admit existed. It was his nature, completely right, but how could it? And then, after stalking so immaturely away, he found he could not approach the demon again. Crowley would just push and prod until he found the answer, and then be so horrified Aziraphale would be alone, not just for the holidays. Sighing, he roughly pushed the papers aside and walked away from the desk.

He stopped in the middle of the room. There was nowhere to go. The walls of the room angled down on him, pushing against his mind. He paced to the side, then to the other side, and back to the middle-- useless. New Year's was ticking closer, and for the first time in over three centuries, one and a half decades, and six years give or take (not that he kept track, he was just good with numbers) Aziraphale would have to celebrate alone.

At that moment, a loud knock shook the house. "Good Lord!" the angel exclaimed, then bit his lip guiltily. The knock came again, louder, sending dust billowing from all corners.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming," the angel yelled, bounding down the stairs. 'Company,' he thought, 'is exactly what I need to pick up my spirits. I should not have doub-- well, anyway, company. Fantastic.' A smile graced his features as he headed towards the door. Throwing it open, he... stopped dead to find Crowley standing on the other side.

"Evening, angel. Hope the holidays treated you well." Aziraphale stood silent, then after a moment of rapid contemplation, smiled and welcomed the demon inside.

"Oh Crowley, I am ever so glad to see you."

"You forgive me, then, do you angel? Who says I want your forgiveness? I certainly don't need it." Crowley had no idea why he was being so contrary. Hadn't he wanted to see Aziraphale? Hadn't he gone against all his worse judgment? Thankfully, the angel seemed to see right through his words.

"Of course you don't, dear, but I give it all the same. Think of it as a gift for the New Year."

"We still have a couple of hours before that, you know. It is only..." he pulled out his pocket watch, "quarter past Ten."

"How shall we pass the time?" Aziraphale asked, trying his hardest not to make his question sound anything but innocent.

"Oh, I can think of a few ways," Crowley returned, eyes suddenly adding a yellow glint to the space between them.

"Erm. Ahem, well, yes, I'd rather than not avoid those things, Crowley. Best not test my patience, you are still in the outs after all." Crowley's grin wilted instantly, and he ducked his head.

"Angel, I know you're supposed to be made of forgiveness, but if you still feel slighted even after what I wrote--"

"You wrote?" Crowley stared at the angel, trying to gage whether he was attempting poor humor. It didn't seem quite like an angel to tease like that, and he could tell by 'Zira's expression he was in earnest. A myriad of confused emotion filled him, and he didn't know which to feel first. Anger won out initially, and he swore vicious revenge against Royal Mail. Then he realized the angel was still unaware of his attempted repentance. Not bothering to think, Crowley stood quickly and grabbed the angel's hand. He pulled 'Zira, despite his spluttering protests, up the tiny staircase to where he knew the mail sat unread. Aziraphale tried very hard not to focus on the cold hand clutching his and how perfectly they fit together. Such thoughts were not becoming of a holy being.

"Angel, you'll be so proud of me, I stood in the cold and didn't curse any of the shop keeps, and pulled in a favor, and broke a few laws (and maybe windows), but you had to spoil it all, didn't you? I mean honestly, you pick now of all times not to go through your mail. What happened to..." they reached the top of the stairs and towards the table where papers still lay scattered. "Ah! Messiness doesn't become you, angel. This is worse than I thought." Crowley searched haphazardly through the pile, brushing aside letters and letting them tumble to the floor. "Hah, here it is. I did write." Unceremoniously, he thrust a small envelope towards Aziraphale, eyes fixed to the floor. "Please read it," he said, voice laced with an unspoken plea.

"If you insist," the angel murmured, and took the letter. "Let me just find my letter opener..."

"Don't bother," Crowley said, then, remembering he mustn't look that eager, added, "it really isn't that important." Aziraphale smiled indulgently, and slid a nail under the fold. A scene of Christmas joy met his eyes; mother, father, and children sat around a table filled with expensive-looking food. Their faces shone with delight. "Happy Christmas and a Bright New Year!" the text read, in garish redcalligraphy.

"Flip it over," the demon said impatiently. 'Zira complied, finding Crowley's cramped writing.

'This is one of the first Christmas cards ever made, angel, and I bought it for you. Thought you'd want one, as it's your people's holiday. About the other night (something was crossed out here) what I mean to say is that the family on the front of this ugly card, well, it reminded me of us. Of a sort. We have traditions, and, well, you're about as close to family as I'm ever going to have. So. Yes. That's it, really. Come find me and we'll do New Year's.
Yours, if you'll have me,
Crowley'

Aziraphale looked up to find Crowley still staring intently at the carpet, looking quite nervous. The angel took pity on him.

"You bought me a present? I thought you were morally against them," the angel teased gently.

"I caused significant havoc obtaining it, I'll have you know," Crowley objected. "But... well, here it is." He handed him a package. It looked like a piece of very awkward meat.

"Brown paper, Crowley? Really?"

"Best I could come up with. I'm a bloody demon, what did you expect, rainbows and puppies?" His rakish grin, though more tentative than usual, still warmed the room. "Well, open it then." The angel delicately picked at the paper, making sure not to tear any of it. The demon rolled his eyes. Finally, the book lay exposed. A Christmas Carol, the worn cover read, By Charles Dickens.

"I stole his only copy," Crowley said, pride evident in his voice. "It was supposed to be published on the 10th but it came out on the 19th instead. Turns out the publisher had one as well, but this one has all his notes and such. You book people are supposed to love that kind of thing. This book is going to define your holiday for years to come, angel. People will be reading it for centuries." He took a breath, watching the angel, who had not moved. "Well? What do you think? I suppose you already have a copy. Of course you do, it's your daft holiday. I can't exactly return it if you don't like it, but, well, I can--"

"I love it." Aziraphale's voice cut through Crowley's rambling.

"Really? Brilliant! Forgiven, then?" The angel laughed.

"Of course. You were a long time ago. It's in my nature, after all."

"Good," the demon shuffled his feet. "I was... it was quite lonely without you. I never understood why the humans acted so differently in winter. But there are these long, quiet stretches, I found, and... without you..." the demon looked up, yellow eyes meeting blue, and he fell silent.

"It's alright, m'dear, no need to explain. I understand." Aizraphale took a deep breath, feeling the ineffability of the moment in his veins. "I love you too."

"But-- I-- no, I--"

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale murmured, "you silly thing. Come here." And before either of them realized, Aziraphale had crossed the room and planted a snow cold kiss on the demon's cheek. Crowley, more to cover his utter confusion than anything else, awkwardly pulled him into an embrace.

"Awful cold in here, angel," he choked out, breath tickling 'Zira's ear, "mind if I borrow some of your warmth?"

"Any time, my dear, any time at all."

***

"It all worked out for the best," the demon slurred into the silent room. He had forgotten to whom he was talking, as the only other in the room lay curled up next to him on the couch, head resting on the demon's leg. He had long since covered them both with a blanket, not wanting to catch cold. "Bad things, colds," he informed the room. Absently running his hands through the mess of blond curls on his lap, he thought about the past year.

"Eighteen Forty-Three," he said, "Quite the year after all." And, raising his glass in silent salute, he smiled over his sleeping angel and poured himself another glass of wine.

~end~



Happy Holidays, b_c_draygon, from your Secret Writer!

Comments

[waxbean.livejournal.com]

that was really quite lovely - I do like how you've written all of their awkward emotions here.

Good job, Secret Author!

[secret-kracken.livejournal.com]

Cheers. Awkward is win with these two.

[sticktothestory.livejournal.com]

Aziraphale would love that present, stolen or not. ;-)

[secret-kracken.livejournal.com]

I know, right? Hopefully no one upstairs will confiscate it.

[aviss.livejournal.com]

Oh, that was beautiful. Even when giving a present Crowley has to do something bad, I love it!

[secret-kracken.livejournal.com]

It's his nature, really, and that's why we love him so.

[b-c-draygon.livejournal.com]

Oh, I love it! Words cannot express my absolute delight, this is just perfect and - well, perfect sums it up, really.

Thank you so, so much!

I love how you've written Crowley, and the awkwardness of both of their emotions. I especially love when Aziraphale finally says 'I love you', and Crowley just splutters and doesn't know what to say - it's adorable, and I can actually imaging him doing it.

I'm very jealous of Aziraphale's Christmas present! It's the perfect present for him (stolen or not), and I love how Crowley goes to the trouble of stealing it - was that how he broke the windows? *giggles* - just for Aziraphale. It's adorable!

I'd mention other parts that I really loved, but I'm afraid I'd have to reference the whole thing if I did that - it's just all so perfect and wonderful, and I really can't thank you enough. It's exactly the sort of thing I was hoping for. Thank you.

[secret-kracken.livejournal.com]

*huge sigh of relief* I'm so glad you like it; I was quite worried. Your prompt was very fun to work with, though. The quote, and the historical... it all sort of fit together.

Happy Christmas, joyful new year, all that nonsense. :D