Chapter Text
Crowley hated winter.
He hated trudging through slushy snow and slipping on slick ice. He hated the biting wind that sliced through his heaviest coat and convinced him he’d never be warm again. He hated the early darkness and the riot of lights that assaulted his already sensitive eyes.
And he hated Christmas.
Oh, how he hated Christmas. The whole bloody thing.
The same seven songs playing in all the shops — he swore Bing Crosby was personally stalking him, crooning Do You Hear What I Hear? every time he ducked into Morrisons for milk or bread or a cheap sandwich.
The saccharine advertisements interrupting his Golden Girls reruns or that new hockey show he’d started watching, all of them trying to sell him chocolate with a heartwarming — read: emotionally manipulative — story.
The overenthusiastic greetings and invasive questions from friends and strangers alike. What’s your favourite tradition? Or worse: Do you have plans with your family?
No. The answer was no. Crowley did not have plans with his family. He barely had a family at all. Just a brother who hadn’t answered his two calls or even his text this year. Maybe he’d finally given up on Crowley, decided to join their parents in writing Crowley off as a bad job.
And his favourite tradition? Spending Christmas Eve in a dingy room with terrible coffee and wearing a headset. After all, if the world was going to be a nightmare anyway, he might as well sit on a phone line and talk strangers through theirs.
Better them than the inside of his own head.
❄️
The television was still on, flickering in the corner of the room while he sat on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table, one sock half off, remote abandoned somewhere between the cushions.
Crowley wasn’t watching it so much as letting it make noise at him — something familiar and decidedly, aggressively not Christmassy. No snow. No carols. No miracles. Not even John McClane yippee-ki-yaying.
Blanche bragged; Dorothy said something sharp and glorious; Rose laughed too loudly; Sophia stole the show. It was comforting.
He glanced at his watch.
“—oh, bollocks.”
He lurched upright. The clock on the mantel confirmed it: 9:18. He should have left already. Hell, he should have been there already, at his station, logged in, headset checked.
Crowley scrubbed a hand over his face. He hadn’t meant to lose track of time. Christmas Eve was the one night of the year he forced himself to abide by a schedule: same dinner (toast, if he remembered), same route, same shift.
“Idiot,” he muttered, hopping on one foot as he tugged the wayward sock back into place.
He crossed the flat in long strides, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair. His hand hovered over his favourite snakeskin boots for half a second before he shook his head and reached instead for the battered Docs that he’d had since finding them in a charity shop ten years ago.
They were sturdy, sensible, and warm — the sort of boots you wore when you needed to keep your feet under you.
He jammed them on without bothering to lace them properly, tugged on his overcoat, and was halfway out the door before he doubled back for his keys.
The Bentley purred to life, smug as ever, headlights cutting through the cold dark as he pulled away from the curb. Tadfield wasn’t large, but Christmas Eve turned it into something else — streets crowded with bundled figures, some funneling toward churches glowing warm and gold, others lugging shopping bags to their cars or homes.
“Come on,” he muttered, fingers drumming on the steering wheel as traffic slowed near the crossroads. He checked the clock again. 9:27.
He swung into the small lot beside the building with minutes to spare, tyres crunching over gravel dusted with snow. The place looked the same as it always did at this time of year — dim windows, a single wreath on the door, lights flickering a little too cheerfully for a building that existed for worst nights and worse thoughts.
Crowley killed the engine and got out.
His foot came down on a patch of ice thin enough to look harmless.
It cracked beneath his weight with a sharp, brittle sound. His heart jumped straight into his throat, his balance pitching just enough that he had to grab the open door to steady himself. He stood there, very still, breath held, bracing for something else to happen.
Nothing did.
The ground stayed steady. After a moment, Crowley let his breath out slowly and stepped clear of the ice, careful now, testing each footfall before committing his weight.
“Right,” he muttered, more to himself than anything else.
He shut the Bentley’s door and headed inside.
The fluorescent lights hummed. The air smelled faintly of coffee and disinfectant. A couple of volunteers were packing up, coats already on.
“Hey, Crowley,” one of them — Doug? Dag? — called.
“Evening, Crowley,” Yuri chimed in, sounding genuinely relieved. “Wasn’t sure you’d be in.”
“Evening,” he replied, shrugging out of his coat and hanging it on the hook by his name. He checked the clock above the noticeboard: 9:36.
Plenty of time.
He logged in, settled into his chair, adjusted the headset until it rested comfortably. The familiar weight of it eased something in his chest. The world narrowed to the desk, the screen, the quiet hum of phones waiting to ring.
Crowley glanced at the clock one last time.
9:39.
He knew who was going to call.
The phone rang.
Crowley glanced at the screen and felt his shoulders ease without quite noticing it. The number was already familiar enough that he didn’t need to read it properly.
He reached for the headset.
“Hello, Muriel.”
There was a brief pause on the other end, then a soft, delighted laugh. “You always know it’s me.”
“Well,” Crowley said, settling back in his chair, “I do have ASP.”
“ASP?” Muriel repeated, amused. “That’s a snake, dear.”
He smiled despite himself. “Yes, well. That too. But I meant the other one. The—” He made a vague gesture with his free hand. “The knowing things one.”
“Oh!” she said. “ESP, dear.”
“Right. That.” He huffed quietly. “That’s what I said.”
Muriel laughed again, warm and fond. “Of course it is.”
They fell into their rhythm as easily as breathing.
Crowley ran through the opening questions by rote, the way he always did, his voice steady and unhurried.
“And are you safe tonight, Muriel?”
“Yes.”
“Any thoughts of hurting yourself, or anyone else?”
“No, dear.”
“Any plans to do so?”
“None at all.”
He ticked the boxes as she answered, fingers moving automatically. Every response came back clean, practiced on both sides by now. This wasn’t her first Christmas Eve, and it certainly wasn’t his.
“Right,” he said. “That’s the official business done, then. What’s on the agenda tonight?”
“Well,” Muriel said, sounding pleased to be asked, “I tried to make biscuits.”
“And?”
“And I burned them.”
Crowley nodded solemnly. “Tragic.”
“I thought I’d taken them out in time,” she went on, “but they’re quite definitely… more charcoal than shortbread.”
“Still,” he said, “excellent for self-defence. Or doorstops.”
“Oh, Sara said the same thing.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “She laughed and told me not to worry, that she’d be out with her friends anyway.”
“Out late?” Crowley asked lightly.
“She said she’d be home around ten,” Muriel replied. “I told her not to rush. It’s Christmas Eve, after all, and they haven’t seen each other in an age.”
Crowley glanced at the clock without really meaning to. 9:47.
They talked about films for a bit — ones Muriel liked, ones Crowley pretended not to but clearly had strong opinions about anyway. Old musicals, things with witty dialogue. She teased him about his taste; he pretended to be deeply offended.
“And I watched that one you mentioned last year,” she added. “The one with the murderous old ladies and that handsome Cary Grant.”
“Ah,” Crowley said. “A cinematic masterpiece.”
They laughed together, the sound easy and familiar.
Eventually the conversation circled, as it often did, to quieter ground.
“It’s been seven years now,” Muriel said, not abruptly, just as a fact. “Sometimes it still catches me by surprise.”
Crowley didn’t rush to fill the space. He never did.
“I miss him,” she went on. “Silly things, mostly. The way he’d fall asleep halfway through a film and insist he was still watching.”
“Classic,” Crowley murmured.
She smiled at that. “I know. I keep expecting him to wake up and complain about the ending.”
He offered no comfort, just the sound of another living being breathing and present. He thought, perhaps, that was all she really wanted.
The clock ticked past 9:59.
Crowley waited for her to say it, to start wrapping things up the way she always did — she’d say she ought to get to bed, he’d tease that she would no doubt dream of him. She’d laugh and say she was sure she would.
There would be goodbyes and well wishes and the quiet click of the line as she hung up.
But Muriel just carried on, telling him about a neighbour’s cat and the decorations down the street that blinked on and off out of time with each other.
10:03.
He shifted in his chair, listening, asking about her relationship with the neighbours, asking whether she’d ever considered getting a cat. Joked that he couldn’t have one because it would ruin his reputation and get cat hair all over his black clothes.
10:07.
She told him about the blanket she was knitting, and he asked if she ever went to the weekly group session at the local yarn shop, told her his neighbour Tracy had made so many friends there.
She said she would give it a shot, but might wait until spring, when it wasn’t so treacherous out. Her voice was still steady, but there was something softer about it now, a faint drag at the edges.
“You doing all right there?” he asked gently.
“Oh, yes,” Muriel said. “I’m fine, dear. Just a bit tired, I suppose. We’ve talked longer than usual.”
“Only a little. You’re allowed.”
She chuckled. “Well. Thank you for keeping me company.”
“Anytime,” he replied, and meant it.
There was a pause, and he heard her take a slow breath.
“I think,” Muriel said, “I think I’ll go to sleep now.”
Crowley glanced at the clock again. 10:15. It made sense, really. They’d talked nearly twice as long as they usually did. She sounded worn, comfortable in the way people did when they were ready to rest.
“All right,” he said softly. “Sleep well, Muriel.”
No teasing this time. No dream of me.
“Good night, dear,” she replied, just as softly.
The line went dead.
Crowley sat there for a moment longer than necessary, headset still on, staring at the blank screen. Then he reached up, disconnected the call, and logged it carefully.
Muriel S. Older female caller; caller is known repeat/annual holiday contact. Reports loneliness related to holidays and grief (loss of spouse, 7 years). Denies SI/HI; denies intent/plan; no access to means disclosed. States she is safe. Coherent and oriented; no confusion noted. Affect calm; engaged throughout call. Reports adult daughter expected home later this evening. Provided emotional support, reflective listening. Encouraged additional supports beyond hotline; offered resources; caller said she would consider. Caller ended call voluntarily, stated intent to sleep. No escalation indicated. Call start: 21:40; call end 22:16.
He leaned back in his chair and let out a slow breath, already turning his attention to the quiet hum of the phones around him, waiting for the next call to come through.
In his peripheral vision, Crowley saw a flash of blue jumper and blonde hair.
“Hey,” Maggie said quietly. “How’s it going over there?”
He swiveled his chair just enough to look at her. She had her cardigan wrapped tight around herself and a paper cup balanced precariously near her keyboard, the steam curling up toward her face. She looked tired in the particular way of people who were running on goodwill and caffeine.
“Quiet enough,” Crowley said. “For now.”
She nodded, accepting that as a complete answer. Maggie was good like that. She never pried. Never asked the wrong questions. Never did the bright So what are you doing for Christmas? thing that made his teeth itch.
Instead, she sighed and said, “My nephew tried to convince my sister today that the dog ate all the candy canes off the tree.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Did the dog corroborate this?”
“Apparently not,” Maggie said gravely. “The dog was asleep under the tree the whole time.”
Crowley snorted before he could stop himself. “Rookie mistake. If you’re going to blame the dog, you’ve got to commit.”
“That’s what I said,” she replied. “I told him next time he needs to scatter evidence.”
She took a sip of her coffee and made a face. “Cold already. Of course.”
“Another holiday casualty,” Crowley said, deadpan.
Maggie smiled at him tiredly. “You surviving?”
“Define surviving,” he said.
She huffed a laugh. “Fair enough.”
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the low hum of the room filling the space between them: phones ringing and being answered, keyboards tapping, the soft shuffle of someone pulling on a coat at the far end of the room, and faint humming from where Eric sat in the far corner.
“I swear,” Maggie said after a moment, “if I hear one more carol tonight, I’m reporting it as a hate crime.”
“Sadly,” Crowley said, “being queer doesn’t automatically turn everything we loathe into a hate crime. I’ve checked.”
Maggie stuck her tongue out at him, and he laughed softly.
She glanced toward his desk, then away again, careful. “You covered the late slot again. Appreciate it.”
“It’s fine,” Crowley said automatically.
“I know,” she said, gently contradicting him. “Still. I appreciate it.”
He shrugged, because that was easier than engaging with the idea. Maggie didn’t push it. She never did. Instead, she launched into a rambling story about her partner, Nina, and a customer who insisted she’d invented a drink for them the last time they’d visited the coffee shop five years previously.
“Turns out it was a latte,” Maggie finished.
“What, like a fancy one?” Crowley asked. “Syrups and extra shots, and toppings and whatnot.”
“No,” Maggie said. “Just a latte.”
Crowley shook his head. “Nina’s a saint.”
Another call came in on Maggie’s line, and she straightened, headset already half in place. “Duty calls,” she said. “Try not to jinx anything while I’m gone.”
“No promises,” Crowley replied.
She grinned at him, then turned back to her screen, voice shifting smoothly into her professional cadence as she answered the phone. She was good at this. Good at helping people, good at listening. Good at finding that sacred balance between taking her job seriously and still being able to joke about dogs and lattes.
Crowley leaned back in his chair, listening to the room breathe around him. He glanced once more at the clock — 10:30 — then settled in, fingers resting lightly on the desk.
Just another Christmas Eve.
The phone rang again — sharp and insistent, cutting through the low murmur of the room.
Crowley’s hand moved on instinct, fingers hovering over his console, ready to answer.
The call didn’t route to him.
Instead, the light blinked red on the supervisor’s line. A callback.
Michaela looked up from her desk immediately. She didn’t hurry, didn’t frown, didn’t ask anyone anything. She simply stood, picked up the phone, and walked toward her office, closing the door behind her — not all the way, but enough.
Crowley stared at the empty space on his screen where the call might have landed. He thought the number that had flashed there briefly might have been Muriel’s, but he wasn’t positive.
He drummed his fingers against the desk. Maggie glanced up, then back down again, still talking gently to the person on the other end of her line.
From behind the door, Michaela’s voice carried — low, even, professional.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, we did receive a call earlier this evening.”
Crowley’s stomach tightened.
“No,” Michaela continued. “We did not contact dispatch. Based on the assessment at the time, there was no indication that emergency services were required.”
A pause. Longer this time.
“I understand that you’re upset,” Michaela said. “I do.”
Another pause, filled with a sound Crowley couldn’t quite make out — crying, maybe.
“Our volunteer followed protocol,” Michaela went on. “Your mother indicated that she was safe.”
Crowley’s hands curled slowly against the edge of his desk.
“Yes,” Michaela said again. “We’ll review the call. We’ll listen carefully for any indication that was missed.”
She took a breath.
“Yes. Of course. We hope she makes it.”
The words landed like something dropped from a height.
Michaela set the phone down gently, as if it were fragile. For a moment, she stood there looking at nothing at all.
Then she opened the door.
“Crowley,” she said, her voice unchanged. “Could you come into my office, please?”
His chair scraped softly as he stood. Maggie was halfway out of her seat now, eyes fixed on him, worry written plainly across her face.
Crowley didn’t meet her gaze. He walked past the desks and into the office.
Michaela closed the door behind them.
“That was a callback from the caller you talked to earlier… Muriel,” she said. “Well, not her. Her daughter, Sara.”
Crowley swallowed. “What happ—”
“When she got home, she heard her mother talking in the bathroom and went to check on her. By the time she got the door open, Muriel was unconscious on the bathroom floor,” Michaela said. “Her phone was still in her hand. The last number she called was ours.”
The room felt suddenly smaller.
“She believes her mother took something,” Michaela continued, “while she was on the call with you.”
Crowley stared at the edge of Michaela’s desk, at a faint coffee ring someone had tried and failed to wipe away.
“She wants to know why we didn’t do more,” Michaela said. “Why we didn’t send help.”
Crowley nodded once. His mouth felt dry.
Michaela studied him for a moment. “Did anything about the call seem off to you?”
“No,” he said immediately.
“Nothing at all?”
“She was the same as always,” Crowley replied. The words came out flat, factual. “She laughed. We talked. She answered all the questions.”
Michaela’s eyebrow lifted slightly.
“As always,” she repeated.
“Yes,” Crowley said. “She calls every year. Christmas Eve. Same time. I talk to her every year.”
Michaela nodded slowly, as if filing the information away.
“And tonight?” she asked.
“She seemed a bit tired,” he said. “But we talked longer than usual. Anyone would be tired.”
“How much longer?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“And during that time,” Michaela said carefully, “did she express any intent to harm herself?”
“No.”
“Did she ask for medical help?”
“No.”
“Did she say she felt unwell?”
“No.”
Michaela exhaled, thoughtful. “So by the letter of the assessment,” she said, “you followed protocol.”
Something loosened in Crowley’s chest, just barely.
“But,” Michaela continued, and her voice remained calm, “you didn’t follow protocol overall.”
He looked up at her.
“You allowed a caller to become familiar,” she said. “You didn’t flag the call. You didn’t pass her to another volunteer.”
“She wasn’t in crisis,” Crowley said, a note of heat slipping into his voice despite himself. “She never has been.”
“Every year,” Michaela said.
“Yes,” he snapped, then stopped. “She calls because she’s lonely. That’s all.”
Michaela didn’t argue. Instead, she said, “When someone becomes familiar, it becomes harder to hear change.”
Crowley shook his head. “She was fine. She sounded like herself.”
“That’s exactly the issue,” Michaela said gently. “You weren’t assessing a caller, Crowley. You were talking to a friend.”
The word hit harder than anything else she’d said.
“You gave her the benefit of the doubt,” Michaela continued. “You assumed continuity. Someone with fresh ears might have noticed something you didn’t — a hesitation, a phrasing, a shift in tone.”
Crowley stared at the floor. He thought of how they’d talked longer than usual, how she’d changed her usual signoff.
“I’m not saying you caused this,” Michaela said. “And I’m not saying you broke protocol during the call itself. But you crossed a boundary long before tonight. People who are fine don’t rely on a crisis line on the same night every year. And yes, people do call year after year. Grief doesn’t go on holiday. But we have to stay vigilant.”
She paused, then said the part she clearly didn’t enjoy saying.
“Her daughter believes we failed her. And because you were the one who spoke to her last — because you were the one she trusted — she believes you failed her.”
Crowley nodded, no words rising above the lump in his throat.
“We’ll review the call,” Michaela said. “That’s standard procedure.”
She hesitated, then added, “For now, I want you to take the rest of the night off.”
“I can keep working,” Crowley said automatically.
“I know you can,” Michaela replied. “But you won’t.”
She opened the door.The noise rushed back in: phones ringing, voices low and steady — and every eye in the room fixed on him.
Maggie was on her feet. “Crowley—”
“Later,” he said quietly, already reaching for his coat.
She stopped, nodded once, and sat down.
Crowley pulled on his coat with hands that didn’t quite feel like his own and walked out into the cold, the door closing behind him with a soft, final click.
He knew he shouldn’t drive.
But one moment he was standing in the cold outside the dingy building, and the next he was behind the wheel of the Bentley, the engine humming as if nothing in the world had shifted. As if this were just another night, another drive.
The road blurred almost immediately.
He blinked hard, jaw tight, forcing his eyes to stay clear. The lights smeared anyway — headlamps stretching into white lines, red brake lights bleeding together. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel.
Not now, he told himself. Not here.
His throat ached with it, the pressure of tears he refused to let fall. Crying would mean slowing down, pulling over, feeling it. He didn’t have room for that. He needed to get away from the building, from the hum of phones and the quiet certainty in Michaela’s voice.
The Bentley slid onto a side road, tyres hissing softly over damp asphalt. The town thinned out here — fewer houses, fewer lights, darkness pressing in closer on either side.
Then the car skidded.
Just a fraction. Barely a thing. The tyres hit a patch of ice hidden beneath a dusting of snow, the back end swinging wide enough to send his heart slamming against his ribs. Another car’s headlights flared suddenly in front of him, too close, much too close.
Crowley wrenched the wheel, breath tearing out of him, and the Bentley lurched back into line. The other car passed in a blur, horn blaring once, angry and frightened all at once.
He pulled over before his hands could start shaking properly.
The Bentley idled at the side of the road, engine ticking softly as it cooled. Crowley leaned forward, resting his forehead briefly against the steering wheel, eyes closed.
“Idiot,” he whispered, though there was no heat in it this time.
When he looked up again, he realized where he was. The bridge loomed ahead, familiar and unavoidable, its dark metal rails etched starkly against the night.
Crowley shut off the engine.
The cold hit him immediately as he stepped out of the car, sharper here, the wind slicing straight through his coat. He walked onto the bridge without thinking too hard about it, boots echoing softly on the concrete. Halfway across, he stopped and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the rail.
The river below was a dull, shifting mass, the surface filmed with ice that caught the light in pale, spiderweb patterns. Beneath the frozen skin, water rushed on, dark and relentless.
For a moment, he could see the river in cold sunlight.
He heard a shout — sharp, high, carried oddly across water.
Saw a flash of red near the shore, a knitted cap bobbing where it shouldn’t be.
Felt the shock of cold stealing the air from his lungs, burning and brutal.
Crowley sucked in a breath and the present rushed back in, harsh and loud in his ears. His heart was pounding now, uneven, his fingers numb where they gripped the rail. He stayed where he was, waiting for the shaking and the nausea to pass.
Not this, then. He would not jump. He never wanted to feel that cold again, even for a moment.
Nevertheless, the world had lined up all the evidence and asked him, gently but insistently, to draw the obvious conclusion.
He had done everything he was supposed to do. He’d asked the questions. He’d listened. He’d stayed calm. He’d believed her when she said she was all right — because she always was.
And still.
This was just one more thing he’d thought he’d gotten right.
Another moment that replayed itself in his head with all the possible corrections laid bare after the fact. Another if only added to the pile. If he’d asked another question. If he’d passed her to someone else. If he’d heard something different in her voice.
It always went like that.
Whatever he thought he should do, however carefully he tried, it still turned out wrong. Someone still got hurt. Someone he cared about.
Crowley stared down at the fractured ice, at the dark water slipping through the breaks without slowing, without changing course.
Maybe the problem wasn’t any single choice. Maybe it was him. The constant in every version of the story.
His breath fogged in front of him, thin and unsteady, as certainty settled behind his ribs.
The world would manage without him. Things would still happen. People would still live and die and make their own choices. But at least he wouldn’t be there to make things worse by trying.
“I wish,” he said quietly, the words barely more than breath lost to the wind, “I’d never been born.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t like that one bit.”