TITLE: The Holidays are Hell
RATING: PG-13
PAIRING: Crowley/Aziraphale
DISCLAIMER: Belongs to Pratchett and Gaiman, etc.
BETAS: The Gratuitous Gemsbok
NOTES: Written for the wonderful Adele Sparks, who requested an A/C with eggnog. I hope you like it! It's a little late, and I'm sorry for that. Um. Also, there are a couple of cameos by some HP characters, because I love them so. Oh, and Carl borrowed my copy of Good Omens, so I couldn't really make sure everything was done quite right, but I did my best. Also, my roommate laughed when I complained that I needed to know more about Hell, and that, from what I'd found, there wasn't anything with enough torture and wailing involved. He suggested, in lieu of 'Where's the love, man?' 'Where's the torture, man?' and I adapted it to fit my needs.
SUMMARY: Crowley is forced to suffer through another one of his own inventions. At least he will not be suffering alone.
The Holidays are Hell
Crowley stared at the small card in his hand, his expression vaguely horrified. This time of year was always rather dreadful, and it had suddenly gotten a whole lot more unpleasant.
Aziraphale, happily humming along with the wireless, was stringing garlands along his bookshelves. When he glanced over and saw the look on the demon's face, he stopped a moment. "You don't like Burl Ives?" he asked innocently.
Crowley ground his teeth. "Of course I don't like Burl Ives. Does anyone enjoy having someone demand you have a HOLLY JOLLY Christmas at the top of his lungs? It's obnoxious," he countered, scowling at the card and flipping it over in his hands. And any man with the poor taste to actually say 'By golly,' aloud deserved to be knocked into a snowbank.
"Hmm. What about something more recent? 'Fairytale of New York?'"
"Only you would count that as more recent."
"Just as well. I don't care for it, anyway. Let's put on something a little subtler, shall we? Something like 'Silent Night,' or the 'Hallelujah Chorus?'"
Crowley sighed. "Only you would count the 'Hallelujah Chorus' as subtle," he grumbled.
"I can't help it; I like the 'Hallelujah Chorus.'" The angel went back and began hanging kitschy baubles from the garland. Crowley shook his head despairingly. "Don't be so grouchy," Aziraphale advised him. "I know you hate this time of year—and there are times that I'm not overly fond of it, either. The mad rushes for material goods, the physical altercations over minor matters such as parking spaces…I admit that it's not as spiritually fulfilling as I'd have it."
Crowley managed a smile at this. "Do you remember the riot at the toy stores two years ago over that obnoxious singing, dancing doll? One of my finest moments."
Aziraphale gave him a reproachful look. "But it's generally got a bright side, too. That anonymous stash of money left at the orphanage last year? And how everyone got together and raised enough money for little Timmy to get a new kidney? Mind you, he got a kidney and quite a bit leftover for more, if needed. I do hope his parents are saving it for higher education. If I find out I went to all that trouble and they went and spent it all on—"
"Angel?"
"Hmmm?" Aziraphale was now going through his record collection—actual LPs—and Crowley could see a decidedly frightening gleam developing as he eyed a smiling Bing Crosby, and held up a winter-tanned Cliff Richard.
"Would you kindly belt up for a few moments so I can think?"
Aziraphale blinked, descending from whatever heavenly cloud his mind was visiting, and turned to the demon. "What's wrong?" he asked, coming over to get a look at the card. It was shiny red satin, and had We cordially invite you… scrawled in elegant gold across the cover.
Crowley dropped the thing on the table, folding himself into a chair. "What's wrong? What's wrong? Hell's having a Christmas party, that's what's wrong! And if we hadn't already had Armageddon, I'd be absolutely certain it was one of the signs!"
The angel looked rather dubious at this. "Hell is having a Christmas party?" he repeated incredulously. He picked up the card and manifested a pair of spectacles, peering at it with horrified fascination. There were mentions of a band, and food, and please bring a guest, as well as dress will be formal.
"Well…a Holiday party, at any rate. There's no way in…Texas…they could actually get away with calling it a Christmas party."
"Texas?" Aziraphale echoed.
"It's hot, it's full of conservatives, and they happen to send us a lot of business via lethal injection. Anyways, it's comparable, and I'm upset enough to be running out of good alternatives for my expletives."
Aziraphale rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the invitation. "You and a guest are invited to spend an evening at the annual office holiday party in the 2nd and ½ pit of hell, the Pit of…Glustfony? What does that mean?"
Crowley rolled his eyes. "It means someone managed to get on the Internet and found it funny the way words get combined. The second level of hell is for the lustful, the third is for gluttons. You know that, I suspect. There's a floor between the two that's for employees only so we can keep up with paperwork. In any case, where better to have an office party with plenty of hors d'oeuvres, people getting wasted, and the possible come-on from a colleague you'll never be able to look in the eye again?"
"Huh," Aziraphale responded slowly, setting the card back down and returning to his Heavenly Mission of Decorating. "Well, I think it sounds…nice," he said firmly. "It's good to know they can get into the spirit of things—it must bode well for their immortal souls, that they can in some small way acknowledge the birth of the Son of God."
Crowley sputtered at this. "What are you talking about? That's not why they're doing it! They're doing it for the same reason I invented office parties!"
Aziraphale gave him a sharp look at that, before retreating behind the sales counter to change LPs and dredge up his plastic nativity set. "You invented office parties? Why would you do that?"
"To make sure everyone had an even more miserable time than they ordinarily would at this time of year, of course! So that they'd all be forced together with a group of people they conventionally dislike, having to wear uncomfortable clothing that bunches up under their armpits, and make horrible small talk with their boss, while the boss is forced to engage in even more horrible small talk with them! It's perfect! Ingenious! I'm not going!"
"Crowley! You planned all that out?"
"Yes! I got a commendation! And now it's got turned against me somehow."
"It usually does," Aziraphale pointed out. "After all, look what happened when you invented insurance salesmen."
Crowley sighed morosely. "I let my fire insurance expire once and Ligur got sent up to torch everything I owned. I hate them all. They think they're so bloody clever. They never come up with anything original! They just steal my ideas—and often use them against me!" He covered his face with his hands as '…everyone telling you,"Be of good CHEEEEEEEEER!"' crooned happily from the angel's ancient speakers. "And good Chri—um. Bush, Angel! I don't deserve this—this appalling music right after thatkind of announcement!"
"Good Bush!?"
"…He thinks he's the Son of God," Crowley muttered sullenly.
The angel merely sighed, and went back to arranging the sheep round the manger as a small, happy smile made its way onto his face. "Oh, stop whinging," he replied, waving a hand in a dismissive, if rather effeminate manner. "After all," he continued, "I'm sure you'll think of something."
The demon stared at his companion a long time, a snake-like smile spreading slowly across his face. "Maybe you're right, Angel. Maybe you're right…"
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
"This isn't going to work, Crowley!" Aziraphale was insisting, adjusting the suit Crowley had insisted he wear. It was silvery-grey, and cut for his slim frame, and far too showy, in the angel's humble opinion.
"Sure it will!" Crowley replied with something like a leer. "What could possibly go wrong?"
"Well," Aziraphale responded after thinking it over for a moment. "Do you want that alphabetically, in order of importance, or just the highlights?"
Crowley shook his head. "Just stop it, would you? You're the one who keeps saying how 'nice' it'll be, and how it'll be 'good' for everyone. Don't be a such big blessed hypocrite about it!"
"I'm not being a hypocrite, I just—I just—wasn't invited, that's all! Plus, I don't understand how we're going to sneak me into Hell, of all places. I can't just stroll in, you know."
"You were invited! Says right on the envelope: Agent Crowley and Guest. And I can sneak you in, no problem." He rummaged round in his pocket a moment and pulled out a small cedar box, and held it aloft triumphantly.
"Crowley!" the angel exclaimed in tones of irritation. "You are not going to stuff me in a box and carry me about in your pocket."
"Oh, come on! It's cedar; that'll shield you until I can get you inside, and by then we should be scot-free. Everyone looks the same in that awful, red-flickering lighting. It's a snap."
"But it's all cramped in there and I'll come out with my suit completely wrinkled and why don't you spend some time with your knees up by your ears if it's so easy?"
Crowley's lips twitched. "Wow. But I'd like to see you that way."
"You are not amusing."
"Think of it this way: you'll be infiltrating the enemies' defences in a way no angel has ever managed before." The demon gave a hopeful smile.
"If that's your best argument, then why don't you invite Michael? He's the one who enjoys 'kicking arse' and 'smiting the enemy' and calling you all 'big girl's blouses.' It's not my style of thing at all! I don't even have a flaming sword anymore."
Crowley gave the angel a penetrating glance. "He's never called me a big girl's blouse, has he?"
The angel reddened and kept his eyes averted. "Er…well…no, not as such." When the expectant silence had dragged out too long, the angel finally rushed out, "He usually calls you an arse bandit and a filthy sodomite. And—you know, things of that nature. I think he called you a hippy once."
"A hippy? I mean…the other…I can at least see how he would have gotten that impression, but a hippy? Where the hell does he get off?"
Aziraphale shrugged discretely. "Well, it was just after the Apocalypse. I think he's under the impression that you're one of those…subversives, who goes around telling everyone to 'Make love, not war.' It's your own fault for always letting him bully you when we were younger. You know men…er…angels like that won't respect you until you throw a punch, even if you end up careening down an alley on your ear afterwards."
Now Crowley was beginning to look sulky. "Huh. A hippy. I'll show him. The next time old Michael pays Terra Firma a visit, I'm going to start his knickers on fire."
Aziraphale rolled his eyes heavenward. "Yes, because aiming for a bloke's pants doesn't sound queer or subversive at all."
"Yeah, well. I'll…I'll do something, I'm sure. Something he doesn't expect. At any rate, we're going to be late, so get in the damn box." Crowley shook the thing at him, lowering his sunglasses just a bit so he could give the angel a look.
Aziraphale gave a put-upon sigh. "You're going to owe me for this."
"What? I'm giving you a glimpse into Hell's fortifications and I'm going to owe you?"
"I've already told you that I've no interest in playing silly war games. It doesn't matter what happens, everyone ends up bloody and dying and miserable. No, if I'm going to Hell with you, then you're giving out food at the shelter after, with me. Understood?"
"What? Angel, don't be daft! If someone from the office sees me like that, I'm straight for purgatory!"
"Well? What's so bad about that?"
"…the other demons will point and laugh at me," he groused.
"Oh, for the love of Richard Simmons! Will you stop being such a big baby? Now I'm tempted to call you a big girl's blouse."
The demon scowled. "Fine, we'll do your sodding….charity work, then," he spat out. "Now, will you just get in the bloody box?"
The angel complied, grumbling a little. "I'd rather have had a handbasket," he muttered grouchily. "At least that way I'd have room to wiggle my toes a little."
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Crowley went straight to the gents' to let the angel loose. "Ouch," the ethereal being complained as he cracked his neck. "That's going to be stiff for days, you know."
"Shut up about it already," Crowley responded tensely. "Come on; we'll do a quick how-d'you-do and have it done."
"What? But we just got here, dear boy…and I wanted to look around a little bit," Aziraphale said, a bit of whine creeping into his voice.
"You didn't even want to come!" the demon shot back heatedly.
"Well, yes…but now that I'm here, I suppose I'd best make the most of it." With that, he left the restroom and began mingling with the minions. "Hello…how nice to meet you. Yes, I'm just here with Crowley. Hello…yes, indeed." He beamed as each hand, paw or claw was introduced to his own well-manicured hand.
"Aziraphale!" Crowley hissed in his ear. "What in blazes do you think you're doing? Stop being so nice, damn you! They're going to suspect something!"
"Quite a to-do, isn't it?" a snide voice said to him, and the demon turned. Ligur was standing before him, stomach straining the buttons of his dress shirt. His tie was crooked and somehow greasy looking.
"Um….what? Er. Yes. Ah…the old man really outdid himself, this time!" Crowley agreed. He was sweating.
"Who's this, then?" Ligur poked at the angel with a knobby finger.
Aziraphale gave him a dazzling smile, and Crowley fought down a sense of panic. "Oh, I'm just…a friend of Crowley's." This had been a bad idea. He'd thought he could get away with it, because Aziraphale was usually so drab and forgettable—but down here, his heavenly light seemed turned up a notch, and it was really showing through. Crowley fought down the urge to yank off his jacket and throw it over the angel's head, as if that would help smother whatever annoying glow the idiot was managing.
"Huh…I came with Hastur. You know how it is; hard to find dates when you're always on the job." He looked harder at the angel. "You don't look right," Ligur said slowly. "You're kind of…righteous looking or…virtuous or something."
"Oh…thank you," Aziraphale replied, patting his hair. "I did have my hair done, although I think the suit's a bit decadent."
Ligur blinked. "But—you look all—holy."
Crowley grabbed hold of Ligur's elbow, or what passed for it, and steered him away. "Priest!" he whispered in his colleague's ear. "I'm corrupting him! Told him it was a Christmas party. Um. He's devout and pious, but he admires the male form, so I've planted…er…the seeds of lust in his heart! Yes! And…ah…by the New Year, we shall have him."
"Ah!" the other demon nodded. "Nice to see you getting back to the old ways, Crowley. A bit of real craftsmanship now and again is never amiss, you know! Well, good luck with him—oh, and I'm sure we'll be able to give you a bit of help."
"Oh! Not necessary!" Crowley choked out. "No, no thank you—I've got it all under control."
"Aw, what are friends for? Here, let me just give him a bit of Abaddon's Eggnog. 'S good stuff—he put in twice the nutmeg this year! Along with about three quarts of 200 proof rum, two litres of brandy, and a whole case of bourbon, of course. And a pinch of his special ingredient, whatever that is." He stalked over to Aziraphale and offered him a glass. "Here, my good friend Abaddon made it," Ligur said.
Crowley shook his head wildly, but the angel didn't see it. "How considerate of you," Aziraphale said with a smile, raising the cup to his lips. Crowley jumped on him, but tripped over Ligur's tail, causing him to bump the angel's elbow and tip the whole glass back.
"Oh, no…." Crowley groaned.
Aziraphale gulped as much of it down as he could, but he still ended up with a great deal of egg—and the other ingredients, on his face. "Oh, dear. Could someone get me a napkin?"
"Crowley," a buzzing voice thundered, and the demon cringed.
"Ah, Beezlebub," he smiled insincerely. "You're looking particularly…vicious and spiny tonight."
"Thank you," his superior intoned dryly.
"Um. You're welcome?"
"You are not dressed according to tradition," he added suspiciously. "Your outfit has a distinct lack of bunching under the armpits, and none of your buttons are strained. Were these not in the handbook you did up on Holiday party attire?"
"Er…I made them optional, actually," he said apologetically. "If you exercise like mad and starve yourself for a few weeks leading up to it, or if you're just really, really fit, you might make it into an outfit that fits comfortably. Er. It's just not likely, is all."
"Well…I don't like that you haven't followed the precepts. And neither you nor your date is wearing the tall, spiky shoes that slip easily on ice, which you detailed in length. And if I'm not much mistaken, your hair is well behaved and did not require hours to arrange."
"Ah, no—but my guest spent hours on his hair, so that's okay. And, um. We're not supposed to wear high heels, because we're both male…er, looking. The humans would suspect something otherwise." Crowley squirmed under that fiery glare.
"Hmph. Very well, but I demand one of you drink too much, sing loudly, and make an idiot of yourself, that I might reprimand you on Monday, and everyone else laugh behind your back."
Crowley sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Oh, all right. I suppose Az—er…my friend is halfway there, anyhow."
"Good. And now if you'll excuse me, I have other guests to greet, and they bring more clients than yourself." He waddled past Crowley on beast's legs, calling, "Lucius! And Voldemort…how good to see you again. You're looking so well these days! And your new eyes are quite a nice shade of red."
Crowley mumbled, something about 'always sucking up to the Evildoer of the Month,' before wandering off to find his angel.
"…Every time a bell rings," one of the demons was saying, waving one about like mad.
Crowley watched as Aziraphale snatched it out of his hand. "Load of bunk, that," he said with the dignity only someone totally sloshed could manage. "Load. Of. Bunk."
"Oh, and how would you know?"
Aziraphale ignored him, trying to put the small bell back on the tree. It took him several tries before he managed to coordinate the movement of his hand, the small hook, and the tree's limb. "Say! Why've you got a Christmas tree down here?" he demanded, looking at it askance.
"It's not a Christmas tree!" Hastur responded in a scandalized tone. "It's a good, pagan symbol, that. Maypoles and such. Pure phallic image, and appropriately evil, thank you very much!"
"Ah," the angel said, nodding. He turned to look at the demon. "You know something? You're awfully nice. Crowley said you were a bunch of devious, back-stabbing bastards, but I don't think you're so bad." He gave a great sniffle. "I never get to make new friends anymore."
The group of demons crowded around him shuffled and looked a bit nervous. Crowley decided that this was enough, and marched forward to take Aziraphale's arm. "That's it. Last call and all that."
"What?" Ligur replied. "You haven't been here a half hour, yet! You can't go now, he was just beginning to stop being such a total bore!"
Crowley ignored him, hauling the angel towards the exit. "Come on, Angel," he said out of the side of his mouth. "We're leaving."
Aziraphale suddenly yanked his arm from Crowley's grip, and the demon turned to stare at him. "No, we're bally well not!" the angel exclaimed, hands on hips. "This is the first time you've taken me out in ages—since, since Babylon, I think—and I intend to enjoy myself!"
Crowley stopped gaping and clapped a hand to his forehead. "Aziraphale," he hissed. "Stop it! That's just the eggnog talking!"
"Is not," the angel retorted. "Now, I want to have a nice sing along with my new friends, L…Lenny—"
"Er, Ligur," the demon supplied helpfully.
"Right, and Squiggy."
"Hastur."
"Whatever. Do you know 'Silver Bells?' It's one of my favourites. No? Well, then, everyone together; Deck the halls with boughs of holly…"
Crowley dropped into a nearby chair and buried his face in his hands.
"Tsk, tsk," a supercilious drawl came from near his shoulder, and he looked up to see a man with long blond hair sitting beside him. "This place is really going to the dogs, isn't it? They're just letting anyone in."
Crowley let his sunglasses slip down his nose. "Oh, go to hell," he said with a tired scowl.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
"…Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind…"
"Oh. Go—er—hel—um. Mother," Crowley whimpered lamely. He was slouched near the group of singing demons, his hair a wreck from having run his hands through it repeatedly. He could have tidied it with a thought, but then who could tell that he was a demon of quiet desperation? It would have ruined his brooding, sexy look. "Are you done yet?" he demanded, glaring at the demons. It was almost two in the morning, and he had people to tempt tomorrow, damn it!
"That—that was beautiful," Hastur said, wiping a tear away with the back of his—for lack of a better word—hand.
"Right," Ligur agreed. "Just like the old days. Remember the gnashing of teeth, the wailing of tortured souls?"
"But you guys can get that any day of the week!" Crowley pointed out. "Just visit the ninth bolgia of the Eighth Circle. For crying out loud, you can walk there from here."
"You just don't understand," Hastur sighed, shaking his head. "Nobody's impressed by any of it, now. It's all been done before. Where's the hate, man? Where's the hate?"&
"Whatever," Crowley told them in exasperation. "Look, I've got to get…my friend here home. If someone goes to pay him a visit and can't find him, there'll be trouble. Happy holidays, or all hail Satan, or whatever it is you guys are saying these days."
"Yeah, hail Satan," Ligur saluted rather half-heartedly. "Good luck turning your priest into a sodomite."
"…wha'?" Aziraphale asked muzzily.
"Nothing, nothing," Crowley said quickly. "Thanks guys. See you around."
Unfortunately, as they were passing by Cerberus, the three-headed dog got a whiff of Aziraphale'sAngel Schlesser Cologne and let out a snarl. It lunged at the beings, who ran for the exit.
"Bugger it all," Crowley panted. "Did you have to smell heavenly, too?"
Aziraphale, who was mostly being hauled along in the manner of a kite by his sleeve, took some offence at that. "Well, if you can't appreciate the fact that I went to a bit of extra trouble on your account—"
"Angel?"
"What?"
"Shut up and run, would you?"
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
"You didn't even dance with me," Aziraphale said petulantly. "And I spent all week practicing my gavotte, too."
"Shut up, Angel," Crowley exhaled.
"That's a week's afternoons wasted. I could have done it blindfolded on the head of a pin."
"Shut up, Angel!"
"Hmph."
"Look, here's the store," Crowley said, pulling the Bentley over. "I'll just drop you off and…" he trailed off as Aziraphale clicked open the door and sort of spilled out onto the walk. "Right. I'll just sort of drag you inside, then, and…" he hauled Aziraphale bodily up to the door of the bookstore. "Where's your key?"
"Sure I've got it somewhere," the angel replied, patting his pockets clumsily. Crowley got fed up and dug around in Aziraphale's pockets, causing the angel to give him a rather arch look.
"Shut up."
"I didn't say anything!" the angel protested.
Crowley fumbled with the keys, trying to keep the swaying Aziraphale from falling over. "Stupid angel," the demon muttered. "Hold still long enough for me to get the damn door open, would you?"
"I don't remember leaving the light on," Aziraphale remarked pensively.
"What?"
The door flew open, a great golden light radiating from inside. "There you are!" boomed a jocular voice. "I'd almost given up! Just stopped by to drop you off a present and wish you a merry…" the voice trailed off as he took in Crowley. "What the devil are you doing here?"
Crowley gaped. "Ngh! Michael!"
"You let go that angel at once!" Michael roared, tugging at Aziraphale's arm. "What have you done to him?"
"Nothing! And you let go!"
"I will NOT!" He yanked on Aziraphale again, and they overbalanced, Michael landing in a heap with Aziraphale atop him.
Crowley looked round for a suitably heavy book. 'The Oxford Encyclopaedia of Prophecies, the Unabridged Edition,' was about the right size. The demon yanked it off the shelf, lifting it as high as he could.
Michael's eyes widened as he took in what Crowley was about to do, and he tried to sit up. "You wouldn't dare! I'll smite you if you try!"
"Not if I smite you first!" Crowley yelled, and brought the book down in a great sweeping arc to connect with the archangel's head. Then he hauled Aziraphale to his feet. "Well, thanks for going with me, here—you just sort this all out, I'll call you sometime," the demon said in a rush, and made to leap for the door.
"Wait!" Aziraphale cried, clutching at Crowley's arm. "I'm coming with you! I don't want to be here when he wakes up."
"Argh. Fine!" the demon responded, towing him back to the car and shoving the angel in. "But if they put out some kind of all points bulletin on me for angelnapping, you're going to be in serious trouble!" Crowley stepped on the gas and made a hard turn. "Stupid militant angels," he muttered. By this time, the Bentley was well on its way to Crowley's flat, and the demon noticed that Aziraphale was snoring lightly, his head on Crowley's shoulder. His mouth was open slightly, and he smelled of nutmeg. "Stupid swotty angels," he added, but with dying rancour.
As they pulled up to the demon's flat, Crowley shook his companion awake. "Wha? Wha?" Aziraphale said, blinking groggily. "Where're we?"
"Outside my flat," Crowley told him curtly. "And now it's time for you to get your do-gooding arse out of my car, and go back to helping souls in need, or smiling vacantly, or whatever it is you do when I'm not around, because I'm going to bed."
"Oh…right," the angel responded, rubbing his eyes a bit. "Here, wait up. I'll walk you to the door."
"Why the hell would you want to do that? It's not as though I'm about to get mugged or anything."
The angel gave him that surprised, rather taken-aback look he was so good at. "Because it's polite, that's why!"
Crowley rolled his eyes, heading for the door. "Yeah, all right."
"Oooooh, look what your landlady must've put up!" Aziraphale was pointing gleefully at the top of the doorframe.
"Huh?" Crowley tilted his head back, and a soft, warm pair of lips descended on his. The demon stood, frozen in shock, and let Aziraphale kiss him. Anthony Crowley raised his hands to the angel's shoulders to push him away, but found he couldn't. Aziraphale tasted of goodness and light and all that was holy…
…and eggnog.
"Thanks for inviting me, Crowley!" Aziraphale said cheerfully, heading down the walk with hands in pockets.
Crowley glanced up at the mistletoe. "What?"
"It was a lot of fun! We'll have to do it again sometime." He was strolling away casually, while the demon watched him in shock. "I'm going to head back to take care of Michael, now. Don't you forget about the shelter tomorrow!"
"I…what? Angel! I thought you were drunk!"
"Oh, don't be silly. I sobered up when we were leaving the party. Wanted to be able to concentrate on my feet when we were running away, you know."
"But—but! What was all that swaying on your feet and falling all over me, then?" Crowley demanded.
The angel didn't answer. "I'll be expecting you bright and early! Don't forget!" he called over his shoulder.
The demon watched as the angel faded into the darkness, a whistled strain of Auld Lang Syne drifting behind him. The demon turned and lowered his sunglasses, giving the mistletoe a look that caused it to burst into flames.
"Ruddy sober angels and their ruddy stupid pranks," he muttered to himself, trudging up the front stairs. A thought occurred to him partway up. I wonder if I have time to track Abaddon down and make him tell me what his secret ingredient is. Feeling far more jovial, the demon turned back around and headed down the stairs. He smiled, wondering if Aziraphale drank tea or coffee in the mornings. Wandering down the dark street, the demon sang softly to himself."And we'll tak a cup o'kindness yet, for auld lang syne."
Fin.