Chapter Text
Aziraphale set his hand very lightly over Crowley’s heart. For an instant, Crowley felt a deep warmth against his chest, then a pulse of something in counterpoint to his heartbeat.
The world shuddered.
He was back where he’d started. The bridge was the same — same rail biting into Crowley’s palms, same river whispering under fractured ice. But something was different, the light maybe, or the moon. Maybe just him.
A hand landed on Crowley’s shoulder, and he whirled. Aziraphale. Unthinking, he threw his arms around the angel.
“Oh!” Aziraphale said, his voice quiet and surprised. “Welcome back properly. Your world. Your people. Your disasters and your small mercies.” He paused and leaned back, looking Crowley in the eye. “What you do with them next is up to you.”
Crowley opened his mouth to answer, only to feel an insistent buzzing from his pocket. He pulled out his mobile and stared at the screen. “Huh.”
“What?” Aziraphale asked.
“Nothing, just… for some reason I thought that would have all been instantaneous. Like we would come back, and it would be the same time.”
“Ah, well,” Aziraphale said haltingly. “Time has never been one of my… fortes, shall we say. I’m afraid I wasn’t able to stop it entirely. Though it is still Christmas Eve.”
“I know,” Crowley said. He held up his mobile. The date and time appeared on the screen. Wed 24 Dec – 11:08 p.m. Below, messages and notifications and missed calls appeared in stacks, proof that Crowley still existed. That the world — even if it was an advertisement from Tesco — was still reaching out to him.
His throat tightened.
Aziraphale didn’t crowd him. He stood nearby but gave Crowley space, as if he understood that this part had to be faced alone.
Crowley tapped the first voicemail without thinking.
“Hey. Crowley. It’s Beez. Beatriz, Gabriel’s partner. Sorry for calling so late. I— listen, don’t panic. Gabriel’s fine. Well. Fine-ish. He’s in the hospital again — pneumonia — but he’s stable.”
A pause. The faint sound of footsteps, an elevator ding. Beez’s voice filled the quiet space between them again, carefully light.
“After all the hubbub died down, he realized he forgot his phone, which I am never going to let him hear the end of,” Beez continued. “But he asked me to call you. Specifically. Because he didn’t want you thinking he’d blown off your Christmas Eve call.”
Crowley swallowed.
“We’re at St. Bart’s, of course,” they said. “Room 314. He’d really like it if you came by. Only if you want to. No pressure. But— yeah. He asked.”
The message ended with a soft huff of breath.
Crowley stared at the screen for a long moment.
“Interesting,” said Aziraphale.
“Shut up,” said Crowley.
Aziraphale turned as if he were looking up at the faint stars, but Crowley could see the way the corner of his lips turned up.
He opened the next notification.
An Instagram story loaded, grainy and loud: a small stage; Christmas lights strung haphazardly behind amplifiers. Adam stood at the mic, sweaty hair in his eyes, grinning like he’d swallowed the sun.
THE THEM blazed across the screen in blocky text.
Crowley watched the cheering crowd, watched Adam throw an arm around Pepper and Brian and… and Wensleydale.
A caption popped up:
$10,000 raised tonight
for queer youth & kids without a place to land
thank you, Tadfield
Crowley let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Oh well done,” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley glanced up to find the angel smiling down at the mobile.
The last message was from Maggie: one line, no punctuation.
I don’t know much yet but they say Muriel made it
Crowley closed his eyes.
For a moment, he stood there on the bridge, mobile pressed to his chest, breath coming unevenly. Not relief exactly. Something deeper. Something that felt like the ground, finally, deciding to hold.
Aziraphale spoke softly beside him.
“You see?” he said. “The world did not, in fact, improve in your absence.”
Crowley laughed — a wet, startled sound that surprised him almost as much as it did Aziraphale.
“God,” he said hoarsely. “You make that sound so reassuring.”
Aziraphale smiled. “It’s a gift.”
Crowley looked down at the screen again. At the names. At the proof, bright and inconvenient and undeniable.
“They were looking for me,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” Aziraphale replied. “They were.”
Crowley dragged a hand through his hair, then squared his shoulders, decision settling in his bones.
“Right,” he said. “Hospital first.”
Aziraphale’s eyes warmed. “Of course.”
They turned together, walking off the bridge and back toward the center of town — toward St. Bartimaeus Hospital, toward rooms with numbers on the doors, toward people who had noticed when Crowley was missing.
Toward a world that, somehow, still wanted him in it.
They didn’t talk much on the walk to the Bentley, but their shoulders brushed from time to time. Their hands once too.
Crowley drove on autopilot, the route to St. Bart’s burned into his muscle memory from too many winters past. The streets were quieter now — churches emptying, shops dark, Christmas Eve folding itself away. Snow dusted the pavement in thin, uneven patches that the Bentley slid through without comment.
Aziraphale watched the town go by with open curiosity, hands folded neatly in his lap.
“You don’t mind hospitals?” Crowley asked, breaking the silence.
“Oh, I do,” Aziraphale said cheerfully. “But I find it’s better to go anyway.”
Crowley snorted and pulled into the car park. He paused to look at Aziraphale. “Will people be able to see you? Not that I mind if they can. Just would rather know if I need to introduce you to my brother and such.”
Aziraphale shook his head. “No, you’ll be the only one who knows I’m there.”
St. Bart’s smelled the way hospitals always did: antiseptic, overheated air, old flowers. A Christmas tree stood in the lobby, its lights blinking half out of sync, a paper angel drooping near the top.
Crowley asked for directions to room 314 and followed them, stepping onto the lift. A man joined him on the second floor and nearly stepped straight into Aziraphale before turning aside at the last moment. Crowley glanced at the angel, who winked.
“Not dangerous for either of us, but it is terribly uncomfortable when someone walks through me. Like wearing an ill-fitting jumper.”
Room 314 was at the end of the corridor.
Crowley hesitated outside the door longer than strictly necessary, hand hovering near the handle. He wasn’t sure what he expected — anger, maybe. Or awkward silence. Or something brittle and unfinished. They might talk every year, but he hadn’t seen Gabriel since they were eighteen.
Aziraphale set a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Take your time. I’ll be here when you get out.”
“You’re not coming in?” Crowley asked.
“I think you need to do this on your own,” Aziraphale said gently.
Crowley nodded, exhaled, and went in.
Gabriel looked up immediately.
“There you are,” he said, and grinned.
He looked… pleased.
Crowley stopped short. “You look like hell.”
“I know,” Gabriel replied. “Usually I’m much more dashing, but pneumonia’s got no respect for holidays.”
Beatriz was perched in the chair by the bed, boots hooked around the legs, arms folded. They looked Crowley over with frank curiosity, then stood and stuck out a hand.
Gabriel glanced between the two of them. “Right. I should probably do this properly.”
Crowley stiffened a fraction.
“Beez,” Gabriel said, gesturing lazily, “this is my brother. Anthony.”
“You’re the only one who calls me that, you know,” Crowley said. “I’ve been Crowley to everyone else for fifteen years.”
Beatriz’s eyebrows rose, sharp with interest. “You look nothing alike,” they said, studying Crowley again, this time with more care.
“And yet,” Gabriel said simply. “He’s my brother.”
Something settled in Crowley’s chest at that.
“And Crowley,” Gabriel said, “this is Beatriz Mosca. Beez. They’re the reason I’m still upright, vaguely hydrated, and not attempting a daring escape from this ward.”
Beez snorted. “I’d like it noted for the record that I did not sign up to be anyone’s keeper.”
“You absolutely did,” Gabriel said. “You just didn’t read the fine print.”
Crowley let out a quiet huff of laughter before he could stop himself.
Beez noticed and nodded with what looked like approval.
“So,” they said, folding their arms loosely, “you’re the Christmas Eve phone call.”
Crowley blinked. “I guess so?”
“He talks about you like clockwork,” Beez said. “Every year. You ring, he pretends he’s not waiting, and then he’s in a better mood for the rest of the night.”
Gabriel scowled faintly. “I do not pretend.”
“You absolutely do,” Beez said. “You’re terrible at it.”
Crowley shifted, warmth creeping up his neck. “It’s just a call.”
Gabriel met his eyes. “It’s not.”
The room settled into a brief, comfortable quiet, broken only by the steady beep of the monitor.
Crowley glanced around then, noticing the absence for the first time. He hesitated, then asked quietly, “Where are Mum and Dad?”
Gabriel’s expression darkened.
“I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “I haven’t spoken to them in years.”
Crowley frowned. “Years?”
Gabriel shrugged, the motion small and careful. Crowley opened his mouth, then closed it again. The old assumptions shifted uneasily.
“They blamed you,” Gabriel added, not unkindly. “For a long time. I told them to stop. They didn’t listen.”
Beez looked on and said nothing.
“First year of med school,” Gabriel said after a moment. “Respiratory module. We’re going through case studies of near-drowning incidents. The lecturer starts talking about long-term sequelae, risk factors, all the fun jazz. And I realize I know that case. Because it’s mine.”
His hand made an involuntary little motion, tugging at the neckline of his gown.
“He’s describing me,” Gabriel said. “That kid. Those lungs. That history. And he says, ‘This patient is alive because his older brother pulled him out of the water before the ambulance arrived.’”
“I went home for the holidays and told Mum and Dad about it.” He looked straight at Crowley. “They told me it didn’t matter. That you could have done something more to prevent it.” He laughed sardonically. “As if you could ever stop me from doing what I wanted.”
Beez made a sound of agreement.
“So,” Gabriel continued, quieter now, “I decided that was that.”
“Huh,” Crowley muttered.
“I built an entire career on trying to stop other kids going through what I did,” Gabriel said. “But you made sure I got the chance. I’m sorry I’ve never told you that.”
Crowley had no idea where to put his hands. He settled for gripping the rail at the end of the bed like it might keep him steady.
“You didn’t have to come tonight,” Gabriel said after a moment.
“I wanted to,” Crowley replied. “Beez called.”
Gabriel nodded, satisfied. “Good.”
Beez checked the clock on the wall. “All right. Visiting time’s nearly up, and if I don’t get him to rest, the nurses will do it for me.”
Crowley stepped back toward the door, reluctant now. “I’ll call tomorrow.”
Gabriel shook his head. “No. Just— come by again. When you can.”
Crowley nodded. “Yeah. I can do that.”
Gabriel watched him for a moment, then said, “Merry Christmas.”
Crowley paused, hand on the door.
“Merry Christmas,” he said back. He meant it.
Crowley slipped out of the room and pulled the door closed behind him as gently as he could. The corridor felt warmer now, or maybe he was just less cold. He took a breath, then turned toward the lifts.
The hospital was in motion around him — orderlies pushing carts, nurses conferring in low voices, the soft chaos of a place that never really slept. Christmas decorations clung stubbornly to the walls, paper snowflakes curling at the edges.
Crowley rounded the corner—
—and nearly collided with a wheelchair.
“Oh, sorry!” he said automatically, stepping back.
The nurse pushing it waved him off. “All right, love. No harm done.”
“Sorry all the same,” Crowley said as he moved around them. “Long night, wasn’t looking where I was going.”
The woman in the chair lifted her head. “I know your voice.”
The words were quiet. Certain.
Crowley froze. He turned back slowly.
Muriel looked smaller than he’d imagined, bundled in a hospital blanket, an oxygen line resting beneath her nose. But her eyes were clear and intent, fixed on him with unmistakable recognition.
“Muriel,” he said.
She smiled. “There you are.”
A woman walking alongside the chair — about Crowley’s age, dark-haired, worn thin by worry — looked up sharply.
“Mum?” she asked.
Muriel tipped her head toward Crowley. “Sara, this is him,” she said simply. “The one I told you about.”
Sara looked at Crowley for a long moment. He felt himself shrinking back. Then he caught movement from the corner of his eye. Aziraphale, standing by the lifts, watching serenely.
“I was angry,” Sara said bluntly. “I was terrified and you were the last person she’d talked to. But,” she hesitated.
Muriel reached out to pat Crowley on the arm. “I took too many of my pills tonight, dear. It wasn’t exactly… on purpose.” She paused. “Or maybe it was. I’ve been feeling—” The gesture she made was vague.
“And then I called you,” she said. “And you were so lovely. You always are.” She squeezed his wrist. “My Christmas angel.”
She said it lightly, fondly, as if naming something obvious.
Crowley huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. “Hardly.”
Muriel’s smile didn’t waver.
Sara cleared her throat. “They said you talked to her longer than usual.”
Crowley nodded. “A bit.”
She swallowed. “Thank you. If she hadn’t been talking to you, I wouldn’t have heard her in the bathroom. If I hadn’t heard her…”
She trailed off, looked up at the fluorescent lights. “Thank you,” she repeated.
Crowley nodded once, unable to trust his voice.
The nurse cleared her throat gently. “We should keep moving, Mrs. Schreiber.”
Muriel tugged on his sleeve until he bent down nearer to her.
“You did just fine, dear,” she said. “I hope you know that.”
Crowley swallowed. “I’m glad you’re still—”
“Here?” Muriel supplied, amused. “Yes. So am I.”
Sara smiled, small but genuine. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” Crowley echoed.
The wheelchair rolled away, Muriel turning just enough to offer him one last, contented smile before the corridor bent out of sight.
Crowley stood there for a moment, heart pounding, eyes stinging, feeling something inside him finally — finally — ease.
Aziraphale was waiting by the lifts, hands folded, expression quietly triumphant.
“Well,” he said gently, “that seems rather conclusive.”
Crowley wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand and snorted.
“Don’t get smug.”
Aziraphale smiled anyway.
They stepped out of the lift and into the lobby, the doors sliding shut behind them with a soft, final sound. The hospital was quieter now, the late-night version of itself — fewer voices, dimmer lights, the Christmas tree blinking on stubbornly with several bulbs out.
Crowley shoved his hands into his coat pockets and exhaled. “Right,” he said. “I think I’ve had my fill of hospitals for one evening.”
“Entirely understandable,” Aziraphale said. “I find them rather draining. Emotionally, I mean. Physically I’m doing splendidly.”
Crowley snorted and pushed through the front doors. Cold air hit them immediately, sharp and clean after the overheated lobby.
“There’s a place I know. Greasy, open all night, serves coffee strong enough to strip paint. You in?”
Aziraphale hesitated.
It was subtle — just a fraction too long, a moment where his smile slipped sideways instead of forward.
Crowley noticed. Of course he did.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Aziraphale said quickly. “Well. Not nothing. I’ve simply… done something.”
Crowley stopped walking. “You’ve done something like blessed someone you weren’t supposed to or done something that’s going to explode later?”
Aziraphale winced. “I was hoping for a more charitable framing.”
Crowley sighed. “All right. What’d you do?”
Aziraphale drew in a breath he didn’t need. “I put in a request.”
Crowley blinked. “A request.”
“Yes.”
“Let me guess,” Crowley said dryly. “New assignment. Off to torment some other poor bugger.”
Aziraphale smiled faintly. “That’s just it.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “What’s just it?”
Aziraphale stopped under the streetlamp, snow drifting lazily through its yellow light. He looked suddenly nervous, and Crowley wondered what on earth an angel could be nervous about.
“It’s you,” Aziraphale said.
Crowley stared at him. “Me.”
“Yes.”
“As in—”
“As in I’ve asked to be assigned to you,” Aziraphale said. “Permanently. As your guardian angel.”
The words hung between them, absurd and impossible.
Crowley barked out a laugh. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
Crowley shook his head, disbelief giving way to something sharper. “Why on earth would you do that?”
Aziraphale met his gaze, steady now. “Because you spend your life looking after everyone else,” he said simply. “You show up. You stay. You keep people going when they don’t think they can.”
Crowley opened his mouth, then stopped.
Aziraphale went on, voice softer. “I think it’s high time you had someone looking after you for a change. If you’ll have me, that is.”
For a long moment, Crowley didn’t speak.
Falling snow melted as it hit his collar — there was heat radiating from his neck.
“Well,” Crowley said finally, voice rough. “That’s a terrible idea.”
Aziraphale’s smile flickered. “I thought you might say that.”
Crowley huffed a quiet laugh. “You’ve got no idea what you’re signing up for.”
“I have a fair notion,” Aziraphale said.
Crowley looked down the street at the diner again, at the promise of heat and coffee and a place to sit down and breathe.
Then he looked back at Aziraphale.
“…All right,” he said. “We’ll talk about it over pancakes.”
Aziraphale’s smile bloomed, bright and unguarded. “Splendid.”
They started walking, the diner’s glow still a little way off — down a block or two, past darkened shopfronts and quiet side streets where the snow had begun to settle properly at last.
Aziraphale kept glancing ahead, as if trying to see through brick and distance by force of optimism alone.
“Do you suppose they have crêpes?” he asked hopefully.
Crowley laughed. “No.”
Aziraphale sighed. “Oh.”
“It’s a diner,” Crowley said. “They’ll have pancakes the size of your head, omelettes that are bigger, and as much coffee and tea as you could possibly want. Crêpes are not on the menu.”
Aziraphale considered this. “That does sound rather good.”
“It’s survivable,” Crowley allowed. “Which is the highest praise I offer at this hour.”
They walked on in companionable quiet for a bit, their breath fogging the air. Snow crunched softly underfoot, the sound steady and grounding. The town felt muted now, as if it had decided to let Christmas Eve wind itself down without further fuss.
Crowley glanced sideways at Aziraphale. “You still haven’t told me what happens if whoever-you-put-that-request-in-with says no.”
Aziraphale hummed. “Then I shall be very disappointed.”
“That’s it?”
“Well,” Aziraphale said mildly, “I might argue.”
Crowley laughed under his breath. “I’d pay to see that.”
He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.
“You’re aware,” he said, not looking at Aziraphale, “that I’m not especially good at being looked after.”
Aziraphale smiled, warm and unoffended. “I’ve noticed.”
“And you’re still volunteering.”
“Yes.”
Crowley shook his head, a small, incredulous smile tugging at his mouth despite himself. “You really are something else.”
Aziraphale preened just a little.
They walked on in silence, the glow of the diner growing nearer with every step.
Crowley broke the quiet first. “I still don’t like Christmas.”
Aziraphale nodded immediately. “Oh, quite.”
Crowley shot him a look. “You’re an angel.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “But I’m not daft. Christmas has a great many expectations attached to it. Most of them deeply unhelpful.”
Crowley huffed a laugh. “That’s one way of putting it.”
Aziraphale clasped his hands together as they walked, expression turning thoughtful. “If it helps,” he said carefully, “if it makes it easier, I can be unobtrusive.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Unobtrusive.”
“I can stay out of sight,” Aziraphale explained. “Not interfere unless absolutely necessary. Not hover. Just… be there. Keep an eye on things. Make sure you know that someone’s looking out for you, if you should need it.”
“That’s one approach,” Crowley said. “What’s the other option?”
Aziraphale blinked. “The— other—?”
“The opposite of unobtrusive,” Crowley said. “What does that look like?”
Aziraphale stopped walking.
“Oh,” he said faintly.
Crowley turned to face him, puzzled. “What?”
Aziraphale’s mouth opened, then closed again. He cleared his throat. “Well. I— one doesn’t generally… assume—”
Crowley waited.
“Well,” Aziraphale said, clearly flustered now, words tripping over one another, “it might involve being… present. More often. Meals, perhaps. Conversations. Walking together. Looking in on you. Ensuring you eat something other than toast.”
“I eat plenty of things that aren’t toast,” Crowley objected.
Aziraphale gave him a Look. “You eat things on toast.”
Crowley smirked. “Still.”
Aziraphale stared at him, then laughed — soft, surprised, a little breathless. “You mean it.”
Crowley shrugged, suddenly shy. “I might.”
They resumed walking.
They passed a dark building set back slightly from the street, stone looming pale in the low light, its spire casting a long shadow over the street.
Then the bells began to ring.
Deep and resonant, the sound rolled out into the night, marking midnight with solemn certainty.
Crowley winced. “There it is. Christmas.”
He elbowed Aziraphale lightly in the ribs — just a nudge — and was momentarily surprised by the solid resistance he met. Earlier the angel had been somewhere between there and not there. He had touched Crowley, held him up even, but Crowley’d had the sense that it took some effort. Now his corporeal presence was undeniable.
“Huh,” he muttered.
Aziraphale laughed. “That’s what happens when you believe in something. It becomes more real.”
Another bell tolled.
“You know,” Crowley said, “there’s that ridiculous saying. Every time a bell rings—”
“—an angel gets his wings,” Aziraphale finished. “Yes. Fascinating theology. Entirely unsupported.”
The bells rang again.
Snow swirled more thickly now, the flakes catching in the streetlight.
Crowley squinted. “Do you see that?”
“See what?” Aziraphale asked.
Another bell.
Something shimmered in the space behind Aziraphale’s shoulders — just a distortion at first, like heat haze in winter air.
Crowley slowed, heart kicking up a notch. “Aziraphale.”
“Yes, dear?”
“Do you… feel different?”
Aziraphale frowned slightly, rolling his shoulders as if checking himself. “Aside from more solid as you noted, no, I don’t think—”
Another bell struck.
Crowley stopped.
The bells continued, each strike clearer, closer, more certain.
The shimmer deepened. Took shape.
Feathers unfurled into being, broad and luminous, white shot through with soft gold at the tips. They stretched outward, magnificent and unmistakably real.
Aziraphale stopped dead.
“Oh,” he said.
The final bell rang.
The wings settled fully into place.
Aziraphale twisted at the waist, eyes going wide as he took them in. He gave them an experimental ruffle, feathers rustling, then laughed — astonished and delighted all at once.
“Well,” he said. “That’s new.”
Crowley stared. “You’re kidding.”
“Apparently not,” Aziraphale said, wonder softening his voice. “I suppose I should have expected—”
Snow gusted suddenly, sharp and cold.
In an instant, Aziraphale had stepped closer and lifted one wing, angling it protectively over Crowley’s shoulders.
Crowley startled — and then realized he was tucked beneath the wing, sheltered, half-hidden. He ducked his head a little, flustered despite himself. It was impossibly warm under there, the air faintly scented of old books and clean wool and something steady and reassuring beneath it all. The feathers brushed his coat, and Crowley couldn’t resist reaching out to brush a finger down the length of a covert. Aziraphale shivered, his cheeks pinking.
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed out, slow and wondering. “That’s… interesting.”
“Huh,” Crowley said again, heat creeping up his chest all the way to his ears.
They stood like that for a moment, the bells still echoing faintly in the distance, snow pattering harmlessly against white feathers instead of Crowley’s shoulders.
“Well,” Aziraphale said eventually. “I suppose I have my response.”
Crowley laughed. “I mean, I don’t know how quickly Heaven usually works, but that did seem… quick.”
“I imagine they felt it was rather overdue,” Aziraphale said, fond and wry all at once. He tilted his head, meeting Crowley’s eyes. “It seems I’m officially assigned.”
Crowley swallowed. “Looks that way.”
They stayed there another heartbeat longer, tucked together under the wing, before Aziraphale reluctantly lifted it from around Crowley’s shoulders to rise above his head instead.
“Snow’s coming down harder,” he said.
Crowley pursed his lips. “Is it?”
Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Right. Pancakes.”
Crowley laughed. “Focused, aren’t you.”
“I’ve had a very eventful evening,” Aziraphale said defensively. “Do you think they have chocolate chips?”
“No.”
Aziraphale sighed. “Drat.”
They started walking again, the diner finally just ahead, its windows glowing warm and gold against the snow.
Crowley glanced sideways at him, then up, then back again. “You know,” he said, “that saying. About bells.”
Aziraphale’s smile deepened, eyes twinkling in a way Crowley was quite certain should not have been physically possible.
“Well,” Aziraphale said. “It’s not entirely nonsense.”