A Midnight Clear
It’s Christmas Eve, 1896, and all Aziraphale wants is to read his book in peace. His plans are thwarted when he receives a special assignment, but a long-missed demonic visitor appears and sidesteps the Arrangement to grant Aziraphale’s wish. In the end, the angel finds that all he wants is his demon back at his side, but where is Crowley?
Aziraphale/Crowley Rated: Teen & up 4k words
Many thanks to my beta readers, @chiaroscuroverse and @wordsintimeandspace, for making this story so much better than it would have been. I’ve made a number of changes since they’ve seen it, and any errors of style or substance are my own.
Part of the @go-july-celebration
London, Soho, 1896
A knock came at the door of A.Z. Fell & Co. for the thirteenth time that evening. It was Christmas Eve — a night for peace and goodwill towards men — but after his reading had been interrupted by twelve groups of carolers, each increasingly intoxicated and off-key, even an angel might lose his temper, and this one had. The sign on the door clearly indicated that the bookshop was closed for the night.
Aziraphale leapt to his feet and stormed to the door, unlocked it and yanked it open, seething, intending to give this latest batch of warbling merry-makers a large and vivid piece of his mind.
“Now, see here!” he began, but his next words came to a sudden, guttural stop.
“Gabriel!” he choked as his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “And Sandalphon … what a lovely surprise!” Aziraphale stepped back abruptly and flung an arm out to invite them inside. He tried to wring the venom from his planned anti-caroling tirade and inject a bit of enthusiasm in his greeting to the Archangel and his underling, rather than the unmitigated panic he was feeling. He hadn’t seen either of them for decades, and his mind raced trying to puzzle out why they were here in his bookshop now.
Gabriel smirked at him as he unwrapped the scarf from around his neck and handed it to Sandalphon, whose metallic teeth glinted as he smiled insincerely at the Principality.
“Calm down, Aziraphale!” boomed Gabriel, as if speaking to an audience in a large hall rather than the bookshop. “It’s Christmas Eve! You should be celebrating the occasion, not shouting at people. What kind of angel are you?” he said, throwing up his arms in scornful emphasis.
At this, Sandalphon let out a chortle that spoke more of schadenfreude than good cheer. Gabriel smiled at him indulgently, making Aziraphale feel slightly ill.
“I do apologize,” Aziraphale said, trying to resist the sarcastic tone he felt like interjecting. “It won’t happen again. But, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"
At this, Gabriel sobered, and he clasped his shoulder firmly. "Aziraphale, I have a special assignment for you.”
“Oh?” The angel raised his brow and pasted on a smile, doing his best to look intrigued rather than indisposed.
Gabriel continued as if he hadn’t noticed Aziraphale at all, which he probably hadn’t. (Sandalphon had noticed, however, and shot his fellow angel a rather nasty grimace.) “You’re aware, of course, that Frederick Temple was recently nominated Archbishop of Canterbury?"
"Ye-es, I thought I’d heard something to that effect.”
“Well? Temple’s participation in Essays and Reviews was nothing short of heresy! And here he is being rewarded for it with the highest religious office in England!"
"Yes, yes. Terrible,” said Aziraphale, furrowing his brow. He’d thought the essays rather funny, but he didn’t want to appear to disagree with the Archangel.
“Aziraphale….” Gabriel intoned deliberately and with more than a hint of condescension. “Did you even read the essays? Denying that true prophecies exist — refusing the very possibility of miracles — even questioning the eternal nature of damnation!” he scoffed, shaking his head.
Sandalphon glared at Aziraphale as if he were personally responsible for writing and publishing the heretical texts, and nodded slowly.
Aziraphale winced. “Yes, of course I’ve read them,” he said, hoping fervently his irritation with Gabriel didn’t show. “I can’t say I find much to agree with in them.”
“Duh!” said Gabriel. “And Temple’s little writer friends hold too much sway with him. He’s starting to have doubts of his own. That’s why I want you to prepare a visitation for him, before he’s officially installed as Archbishop. Remind the old boy of the divine power of Heaven.”
“You mean….”
“Yes. The halo, the wings, the heavenly vestments — the whole nine yards.”
“But…on Christmas Eve?” Aziraphale asked, thinking longingly of his abandoned reading.
“What better time?” said Gabriel.
“I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale said as agreeably as he could manage, under the circumstances.
“Of course I am! Now, hop to it, Aziraphale,” Gabriel smiled, exchanging a toothy grin with Sandalphon. “I look forward to reading your report.”
“Er, yes, quite,” Aziraphale said as he showed the two angels to the door, and bolted it shut behind them as soon as he dared.
His shoulders slumped as he resigned himself to a ruined evening. He went to his section on religion in England to locate the book with Temple’s essay, in order to refresh his memory before he confronted the man.
* * *
A few minutes later, there came another knock. Beyond frustrated with the way his evening was going, and frazzled by the Archangel’s visit, Aziraphale stomped to the door, unbarred it, and flung it open.
“I’m not interested!” he started to shout at the fourteenth interruption of the night. The words died in his throat as he recognized the interloper.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale said with a swirling mix of shock, relief, and something he couldn’t quite identify. Something that hollowed out his chest and filled his stomach with butterflies.
“Aziraphale,” said Crowley quietly. “I know it’s been a while,” he started, but stopped abruptly as he found himself being hauled bodily into the bookshop.
