Chapter Text
Everything was going awry. It was a quarter to seven on Christmas Eve and the world might as well be ending. Outside the thick walls of St Mary’s, the muffled noise of London suggested nothing out of the ordinary. The low bass of buses trudging along the wet four-lane road, and the slight rattling of stained glass in ancient window frames.
The Reverend Aziraphale Fell stomped towards the vestry, past the nativity scene, which was still missing two sheep, a donkey, and, inexplicably, Melchior. The Bishop had threatened a visit, and he would not be too happy to see only two wise men paying their respects. The rest of them were gathered around the miniature stables, where a miniature manger lay empty waiting for the tiny baby Jesus figurine to be placed there in just a few hours.
‘Fuck all of this,’ he grumbled, to no one in particular, though the Lord was, of course, always listening.
Perhaps he’d be so gracious as to fix everything before service was due to start. One could only hope.
‘Fuck you in particular,’ Aziraphale huffed at the organ and gave it a kick for good measure.
It hadn’t done anything to deserve such violence, really. It wasn’t the poor instrument’s fault the organ player had come down with what Aziraphale strongly suspected was a hangover.
To his credit, the organ was neither old nor valuable. There was a proper pipe organ as well, early Georgian, glorious to look at but defunct for as long as Aziraphale had worked and lived at St Mary’s. It still stood there, getting more rusty with every damp day that passed, with a permanently empty donation box on a little table next to it.
The instrument that was actually used in services was a much more mundane-looking electric thing with too many keys and pedals for Aziraphale to figure out how to play God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen in less than five hours. The kick might have been unfair, but at least it was mildly cathartic.
‘Fuck you, too,’ Aziraphale said to Jesus, who was judging him from a painting that had survived the last two centuries much better than the pipe organ. ‘It’s your birthday, you know. Least you could do is put a bit of effort in.’
A low laugh from behind him echoed in the empty space like bird wings.
‘Usually, it’s the birthday boy’s mates’ responsibility to sort out the party.’
Aziraphale jumped, nearly tripping over the altar steps in his haste to turn around. There, with his back to the dark double doors and his arms crossed, stood Anthony Crowley, looking rather out of place in these shabby surroundings, dressed as he was in a tailored overcoat and shiny snakeskin boots.
For a moment, they stared at each other across the nave of the church, like strangers trying to figure out whether they’d seen each other before.
Aziraphale had seen Crowley, had seen rather a lot of him just eleven days ago, not that anyone was counting. He’d seen him walk towards him on a crowded Soho street, gorgeous and sulking like a runway model. He’d seen him empty his entire wallet into Aziraphale’s guitar case. Then he’d seen a lot more of him in the stuffy cloakroom of a strip club. And it still hadn’t been enough.
‘Anthony Crowley. You’re… you’re here.’
‘You did invite me.’
Crowley’s snakeskin boots clacked all the way down the aisle as he made his way towards the front of the church, where Aziraphale stood with his heart hammering like a bride on her wedding day.
‘Just in time to catch you red-handed, too.’
Crowley broke into a grin that didn’t help the weak-knees-problem Aziraphale had just spontaneously developed.
‘Red-handed?’ he breathed.
‘In the act of blasphemy.’ Crowley tipped his head towards the painting of Jesus. ‘What’s the poor fella done to you?’
‘Never mind. You’re… goodness, it’s good to see you again.’
Crowley let out another one of those bird wing laughs and visibly softened, right there in front of Aziraphale’s eyes. As if he’d been nervous. Anxious that Aziraphale wouldn’t welcome the sight of him.
What a ridiculous thought.
‘What brings you to St. Mary’s?’
‘You, obviously.’
Crowley clamped right up again, which made Aziraphale laugh. Lord, everything about this man made him giddy.
‘Not the eighteenth-century stained glass windows?’
They both raised their gazes towards them, but with the darkness of the evening outside, there wasn’t much to see.
‘I’m sure it’s an excellent church…’ Crowley began.
‘Best one in London, though I’m biased.’
‘But yeah… not really into the whole—’ Crowley waved an arm in the vague direction of the altar. ‘Jesus thing. Not even on his birthday.’
‘How rude. You won’t get any cake then, I’m afraid.’
‘There’s cake?’
Aziraphale was joking, but also not… there was supposed to be cakes. Just like there was supposed to be an organ player, and a tiny ceramic Melchior welcoming the Messiah.
He sighed.
‘You best come through to the back.’
He led Crowley past the altar, through the squeaky door into the vestry, down one corridor, then another, until he arrived at the windowless box room he grandly called his office.
‘Take a seat.’
Crowley did, in the only chair, which left Aziraphale with the edge of the desk to perch on. A pile of bibles toppled over and joined the puddle of books on the floor.
‘How… how are you?’ Aziraphale began, mentally giving himself a kick as hard as the one he had bestowed on the electric organ.
He was supposed to be trained in this sort of thing. Small talk. It made up at least fifty percent of his workload.
‘M’alright, yeah.’
At least Crowley seemed equally as awkward. That was a consolation, if a small one.
Aziraphale tried to bridge the silence by fussing with some papers on the desk, but seeing them just annoyed him more. The order of service for midnight mass, due to start in mere hours. Just the sight of it brought the hot simmer of frustration right up to the surface. He bit his tongue, didn’t want to ruin this moment with his own little annoyances. What could they be to Crowley, who’d shown up here just for him?
But Crowley noticed, anyway.
‘What’s up? You don’t look all that chuffed to— er, I mean, you look sort of rumpled. Everything alright?’
You don’t look all that chuffed to see me. Aziraphale heard it even though Crowley hadn’t finished the sentence.
‘You’re the best thing I’ve seen all day,’ he said, quick to offer reassurance where it was obviously needed.
Crowley frowned, still in doubt.
Fine, Aziraphale thought. This wasn’t the way he’d imagined Crowley’s visit to St Mary’s… and he had imagined it, a indecent number of times between that night in Soho and now. He’d imagined himself as the Hot Priest Crowley thought him to be… sexy and mysterious, giving him a very personal tour through the crypt. He’d wanted it to be magical, damn it. He wanted to be Andrew Scott, wanted to be Crowley’s knight in white vestments.
‘Midnight Mass is going to be… well, let’s say Midnight Mess might be a more appropriate description.’
‘Huh?’
Aziraphale picked up the order of service from the desk and thrust it at Crowley.
‘Half of the promises in there are lies. No songs. No nativity. No cupcakes.’
‘Cupcakes?’
‘I always bring something special for Midnight Mass - not mince pies or gingerbread, everyone’s already fed up of those by now. Last year it was tiny little Bakewell Tarts, very popular indeed, made to order from a bakery just down the road. This year…’
Aziraphale let out a deep sigh. He felt like he’d done nothing but sigh all day.
‘The bakery shut down a couple of weeks ago. So I went and ordered two hundred cupcakes online.’
‘Online? Like on Amazon?’
‘Don’t be silly. I ordered them from another bakery, also here in Southwark, but the order never went through. Which I didn’t realise until I called them earlier to ask about the delivery time.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Fuck, indeed… so I’ve got no cupcakes, no organ, no bloody Melchior, and to top it all off, the intern somehow managed to misspell the word Jesus in the order of service. Wouldn’t have given her the task if I’d known she was dyslexic, but as usual, no one bothered to inform me.’
Crowley bit his lip, and Aziraphale knew he was holding back a laugh.
‘How—’ he croaked before clearing his throat. ‘How did she spell it?’
‘With a G,’ Aziraphale said, deadly serious.
‘With a G?’
‘And two E’s. G-E-E-S-E-S.’
‘That’s three E’s, actually.’
Aziraphale glared at Crowley, then at the order of service, then back at Crowley. They held each other’s gazes for a solid three seconds before they cracked up laughing. Crowley doubled over in the chair, elbows resting on skinny knees as he cackled into his palms. Aziraphale had his head thrown back, hoping that some of this laughter would make its way up to the heavens in a last-ditch attempt to persuade God towards a Christmas miracle.
‘Goodness gracious,’ he sniffed through tears, ‘what sins did I commit to deserve this?’
‘Well…’ Crowley stretched the word like chewing gum. ‘You did get off with a stranger in the cloakroom of a strip club not too long ago.’
That made Aziraphale laugh even harder.
‘Poppycock, our heavenly father doesn’t care about such trivialities.’
‘Trivialities? How dare you.’
Aziraphale leaned forward and swatted Crowley on the arm. It was the first time they’d touched since the aforementioned cloakroom blowjob. He wanted to linger, wanted to creep his fingers up Crowley’s arm to where the muscles were tight and solid. Wanted to curl up between those arms, let himself be surrounded by them.
But alas, he was a priest, it was Christmas Eve, and Crowley’s presence here was miraculous enough.
‘Enough of my woes. How are you, my dear?’
Then, because he’d gone through enough crap today and deserved a little treat, he did let his touch linger on Crowley’s arm, wrapped as it was in the thick sleeve of an expensive looking wool coat. The sort of thing one might buy in Savile Row. Not that Aziraphale had ever been.
He suddenly remembered just how different he and Crowley were. Crowley, with his tailored coats and his wallet stuffed full of porn app money, and Aziraphale, alone in a cold church with no cupcakes. Unfathomable, really, that they should be here together. At least he wasn’t wearing a tacky Christmas jumper underneath an old ladies’ nightgown this time. His shirt was plain white and his cabled cardigan a respectable tan.
It took a while before Crowley answered, and Aziraphale got the distinct impression that he was deciding whether to tell the truth or not.
‘Eh.. Still much the same, to be honest.’
‘Work?’
‘Yeah, work. I mean, you’ve met work… Shax is still a nightmare. Keeps asking me what my surgeon boyfriend’s up to, why I haven’t put up a picture of him on my desk, what we’re doing for Christmas. Luke…’ He swallowed. ‘Luke’s been ignoring me.’
Luke. Crowley’s boss. Crowley’s ex. Aziraphale was not supposed to harbour ill will against his fellow man but as he’d found out just the week before last, he managed to harbour quite a bit in this case.
‘Isn’t that good? That he’s not making your life hell?’
Crowley shrugged, but it was the shrug of someone who didn’t want to show the real depth of his worries.
‘Still don’t know if I’m getting the sack or not. Got a two week notice period but that’s not a lot to find a new job in this economy.’
‘Oh, Crowley.’
‘I’ve got savings, obviously. Fixed up my CV as well, gonna send it out after the holidays… doubt I’ll get a great reference from Luke in any case.’
‘That’s not— he can’t do that! Crowley, he can’t!’
Aziraphale realised even as he was blustering, that blustering was not going to help Crowley.
Then he nearly fell off the desk when the doorbell rang.
‘HALLELUJAH,’ rang out in a tinny chorus over the intercom.
Crowley looked around frantically, as if he was expecting a whole choir to materialise in Aziraphale’s office.
‘What the hell was that?’
‘Handel,’ Aziraphale said, already halfway out the door. ‘Be right back.’
Two large cardboard boxes were stacked up outside the back door of the church. The sight of them made Aziraphale smile. First Crowley, now this. Perhaps the Almighty was finally getting fed up of his whining and sent a miracle simply to put a stop to it. Well, he’d take it.
He bent down to pick the boxes up and immediately dropped them again. Blimey, they were heavy. He opened the door and stuck his head inside the hall.
‘Crowley, could you be a dear and give me a hand, please?’
From deep within the maze of corridors, he heard an answering grumble, then footsteps, then doors opening and shutting, and finally Crowley stood there, shuddering against the cold that wafted in from the doorstep. He’d taken off his woollen overcoat, and underneath it he wore a silky black button-up that was shiny and sexy and much too flimsy for the unheated mass of stone that was St Mary’s church.
‘What the hell’s that?’
Aziraphale couldn’t help but beam at him.
‘Coco pops. Sixty boxes, family sized. Only, they’re a bit heavier than I thought, considering they’re mostly air and sugar. Can you take one?’
Crowley furrowed his brows, but crouched down to pick up a box. Aziraphale took the other, which was still bloody heavy, but Crowley didn’t need to know just how out of shape he was.
He guided Crowley through the back of the church, but instead of turning right towards Aziraphale’s office, they took a left, which led them to the library.
Well, it had once been a library, and in Aziraphale’s mind it still was. Except that the shelves that had once been stocked with bibles and prayer books and mountains of sheet music for the defunct pipe organ, now held stacks of cans and bottles of squash and boxes upon boxes of pasta and spices and instant mash. Just a single bookcase remained filled with books. Picture books on the bottom two shelves, more exciting reading for older children above. Detective mysteries and fantasy books, and then on the top shelf, thick novels for teenagers, bound in gloomy colours with suggestive titles that Aziraphale would probably find inappropriate if he ever bothered to read them.
‘Just here in the corner. I’ll log and stack them properly tomorrow.’
Aziraphale cleared some empty bags away with his foot and lowered the cardboard box onto the floor. Other than the shelves, there wasn’t much furniture in this room. The armchairs that had once occupied the alcove had made space for a wooden table that functioned as till, desk, and packing counter. A basket filled with toys, dolls, and action figures perched on top of it.
‘Fuck.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
He turned around to find Crowley still standing in the doorway, still clutching the box of Kellogg’s as if it was grounding him to reality itself.
‘It’s your fucking food bank.’
‘I know it’s quite small, and I have written to the Bishop to request more space, though I have no idea where he’s supposed to find that, but it does well enough with a bit of organisation.’
Crowley bent down to drop his cardboard box on the floor, right in front of his feet. Something about the motion made Aziraphale nervous, and he could not stop talking.
‘We’ve got this clever little ticketing system, to make sure it doesn’t get too cramped, though unfortunately that does mean a lot of waiting in the hall during the busy times. But we make do.’
Crowley stepped over the box on the floor with long legs and approached with an absolutely unreadable expression in his eyes. Electric, like grey clouds drawing just before a thunderstorm.
‘You literally bought coco pops for the literal food bank you literally run in your church.’
‘Well, yes. I did say I was going to. Two hundred pounds buys a lot of cereal. I hope the children love it as much as you said they would.’
Aziraphale held his breath and waited for the first lightning bolt to hit. But when Crowley pulled him closer, pressed their mouths together, it wasn’t like a thunderstorm at all. It was like summer rain, bathing his whole world in comforting warmth.
Aziraphale melted into it, finally finding himself wrapped up in those arms, silk over skin, hot and solid and just what he needed.
Fuck Melchior. Fuck the Bishop. Fuck Jesus Christ himself on the night before his birthday. This was what it was all about.