When Aziraphale and his friends pulled up outside the venue that Friday, the place looked packed to capacity. He supposed anyone from school who was done with finals was here to celebrate the brief reprieve before grades were posted, and anyone who wasn't (like him) was here to take a much-needed break from studying. Or had given up on it altogether.

Aziraphale fiddled with a safety pin on his outfit while they waited in line, trying to get it to sit just so. He'd borrowed Brian's boots again, a pair of jeans with ripped knees and rolled cuffs that fit almost too snugly around the curves of his thighs, and a red kerchief tied around his neck. A pair of black suspenders from his own closet that contrasted sharply with his white Oxford shirt, its cuffs rolled to his elbows, completed the outfit. And he'd been more than happy to sit patiently while Heather coiffed his hair and drew on eyeliner. It wasn't a look that he'd ever take to wearing regularly, but he was pleased to look like he belonged in this sea of smoke and leather.

They'd arrived well after the show was underway, as The Doomsday Option wasn't scheduled to go onstage until an hour or so after the first competitor. Inside was a whirlwind of sticky beer, stale cigarette smoke, and sweaty bodies pressed close. When Dave bought them all a round of drinks, Aziraphale hesitated, then took a cup; as he suspected, the drink tasted like water that wanted to be alcoholic but couldn't quite muster the strength.

Even at his slow pace of a sip or two every couple of minutes, Aziraphale managed to finish his drink by the time the next two bands finished their sets. After each song, Aziraphale and his friends debated, giving each band their own score out of ten. Most of the time they agreed, with a few exceptions: Heather and Brian both rated the second band highly—a group of women who scream-sang a bluntly sexual song called "Peaches 'n' Cream"—while Dave and Aziraphale rolled their eyes at each other good-naturedly at their friends' poor taste.

While each band set up or took down their equipment, a pale, dark haired woman with blue-tipped hair and a thick layer of dark eyeshadow stomped onto the stage.

"Hey you out there, still alive and kicking?" she yelled into the microphone, and the crowd roared and screamed, waving hands with chipped-paint black nails holding sloshing plastic cups of beer. Every so often, she'd reiterate the judging process: Each of the twelve bands featured tonight had won in semifinal competitions held throughout the year to make it here. They'd each get one chance only to win over the judges, who would announce the third, second, and first place winners at the end of the night.

The fifth band was decent, but they seemed far too smug to Aziraphale, as if they'd already won the competition with their song about restrictive parents. Not that I don't relate a bit, but just you wait, he thought with a sniff of disdain. Crowley will knock you down a peg.

Finally, the emcee announced The Doomsday Option, and Aziraphale and his friends cheered riotously as Chuck, Steve, and Kyle made their way onstage to set up their equipment. Apparently, Crowley's late entrance was a routine part of their performances. The flair for the dramatic didn't surprise Aziraphale at all.

The band began a song with harsh yet peppy guitar, the tsp of cymbals, and a heavy, thudding drumbeat—then Crowley slid onstage to a roar from the crowd. He'd traded leather for black jeans with ripped-out knees that still managed to cling to every part of him and an equally form-fitting red tank top. He grabbed the microphone from its stand and threw up a fist, shouting, "Hellllloooo, loves, we are The Doomsday Option and we've prepared a little medley for you. A little old, a little new, and part of our latest, Monster Hospital! So let's get on with it!" He flashed a wide grin at the crowd.

As Crowley began singing, Aziraphale could not look away. Crowley seemed utterly at home on stage, singing his heart out to the writhing, dancing masses of strangers that filled the auditorium. He sang the words to one song like syrup one minute, then snarled a harsh shout for another the next:

"So come on honey, blow yourself to pieces
Come on honey, give yourself completely
And do it all although you can't believe it
Youth knows no pain ..."

He flung his head back, exposing the pale column of his neck as he dragged a hand through his long, loose hair, and the crowd roared, just as captivated as Aziraphale. Up there on the stage Crowley shone like the sun, and they were gladly dazzled.

It reminded Aziraphale of a passage from Job that his father often quoted, especially when someone questioned divine will during one of the scripture discussion groups that met in the evenings at the church: "The morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy". Blasphemous though the thought might have been, he could find nothing but joy in that moment—jumping and laughing and sweating carefree beside his friends in a sea of people, listening to Crowley belt out words proclaiming the joy of anarchy and freedom and things forbidden. Later, he'd assuage his guilt with a bout of fervent prayer, but there would be time for that after this bright moment had ended.

"Monster hospital, can you please release me?
You hold my arms down, I've been bad,
I've been bad, I've been bad!
I fought the war
I fought the war
I fought the war
But the war won!"

They'd barely finished the final note when the crowd went wild, hooting and whistling and clapping as Crowley bowed with a ridiculous flourish.

Two songs later, Aziraphale was still grinning like an idiot—a grin that spread when he spotted a familiar red mop of hair making its way towards him through the crowd, slowing to return fond shoulder slaps and fist bumps from those who recognized him.

"So, what'dja think?" Crowley shouted as he and the rest of the band finally made it to them, accepting sweating plastic cups of beer from Dave and gulping them down.

"That was...you were fantastic!" Aziraphale yelled back earnestly.

"Oh, don't feed their egos," Heather shouted with a good-natured laugh and roll of her eyes. "He knows they killed it, he just wants to hear us say it." Steve and Dave tapped their cups in a mock toast, but Crowley just grinned and winked at her before downing the rest of his beer.

Apparently the last band was quite well-known, because everyone began dancing to their set. His second watery beer having apparently gone to his head, Aziraphale hardly even cared if Crowley saw his awkward attempts at dancing. Heather grabbed his hands and swung him round, and he twisted his hips to the music, and everything was a blur of color and sound.

They caught their breath as the final band hauled their equipment offstage and the judges followed the emcee back to the spotlight. The competitors stayed scattered within the crowd, the stage being far too small to fit all of them.

After spieling through closing remarks thanking the judges, the audience, the bands, and the sponsors, finally the lead judge cleared her throat and began:

"In third place, Ophelia!" The female band with the raunchy song. They'd been decent, even if their song was a bit… prurient for Aziraphale's taste.

His heart pounded as a band they'd missed won second place (not the smug fifth band, he was pleased to note.) There was only one award left, and what if … but what if it wasn't … Tensions seized him, and he and his friends gripped each others' hands in a cluster of anticipation. Beside him, he snuck a glance at Crowley and saw him biting his lip, any anxiety in his eyes hidden by his glasses. The judge cleared her throat again and then ...

"And the winner of this year's Battle of the Bands is … The Doomsday Option!"

The words were barely out of her mouth when the crowd let out a cacophony, and he and his friends added their shouting to the sound of victory, and a pair of arms wrapped around Aziraphale. He hugged back fiercely before he even realized it was Crowley hugging him. Then Crowley was gone, he and the band hauled on the shoulders of the mass of people and hoisted onto the stage to be presented with their award.

Crowley had hugged him, and the rising house lights were like flares in his eyes, dazzling him with wonder at this small miracle.


Heather and Dave spent the night at their dorm, nestled on the floor in a massive pile of spare blankets and coats and relaxed from a strong joint smoked on the ride back—a clear violation of policies that no one could be bothered to enforce with only a few days left before the semester break.

They all woke late that morning, or rather early that afternoon. Aziraphale's head felt fuzzy and achy, and his mouth was dry as sandpaper. He'd managed to fall asleep fairly quickly, but when he blinked awake around one o'clock, his mind instantly shuffled through the previous night, and he lay cocooned in his comforter, listening to the light snores from the others and thinking of the tight grip of Crowley's thin, muscled arms around him, a fleeting instant of pressure that he imagined he could still feel half a day later.

Once his friends finally woke, they all trudged to the dining hall for strong coffee (and tea) and greasy eggs. Far too many calories later, Aziraphale finally began to feel himself again. For the umpteenth time, both Brian and Heather offered to let him spend the holiday break with them and their families, but Aziraphale begged off their invitations as he had before. Following a long-honored family tradition, he'd already planned to volunteer odd hours at the local soup kitchen.

"But aren't you going to miss your family?" Brian asked with a frown. "I mean, of course you will, but you won't be too bummed to be here alone for so long?"

"Well, to be honest, it's going to be, er, nice and quiet for a change. I mean, not that you aren't all wonderful to be around—" He smiled gently at their feigned offense. "—but I'm looking forward to catching up on some reading. Or maybe revisiting the art gallery, there was so much I didn't get to see last time."

When Dave got up to get more coffee, Brian and Heather shared a glance and then Heather leaned in. "So, um, last night at the show, d'you, y'know, are you and Cr—" But as Dave sat back down, she fell silent, suddenly very attentive to the fresh cup he'd set in front of her.

Aziraphale blinked, eyes darting from Heather to Brian and back, but neither said more. "Can I—" he began, but Brian cut him off by plopping a small present on the table and shoving it over to him.

"Here, dude. Was gonna wait to give you this, but I know Heather and Dave have gotta get going soon. It's from all of us. You can wait to open it if you want, though."

"Oh! I didn't bring your presents, but we can go grab them after this? Then we can all open them together."

They made their way back to the dorm, and piled into the dorm room for an impromptu Christmas before his friends finally left for home. He apologized profusely to Dave for not getting him anything, but Dave just shook his head and waved him off.

Brian and Heather both loved their tapes. Brian had laughed when he opened his; he understood why when he opened the package Brian had handed him to see a cassette as well, a hard-to-find album of classical rerecordings by contemporary virtuosos. On their way out, Heather also tucked a twenty-dollar bill into his pocket, kissed his cheek, and told him to buy himself something nice with a wink, refusing to take the money back and leaping away from his attempts to return the bill. He hugged her tightly and told her to have a very merry Christmas, and then his room was quiet but for the late-afternoon serenades of birds outside and the gurgling of ancient pipes somewhere in the walls.

By the next morning, the dorms were empty, and only a skeleton staff remained to run meal services and the like for the few students like him who had stayed. He slept in late, dressed in his most comfortable, worn trousers and spent the day reading, curled up in a tatty armchair in the dorm common room in the gloomy brightness of a light snowfall.

Occasionally his thoughts wandered, and he stared unseeing at the pages on his lap. There was a particularly raw ache in his chest at spending his first Christmas ever away from his family. He'd written lengthy, cheerful messages to everyone in the cards he'd posted the week before, having been warned that international post was especially slow during the holiday season. The Christmas season was especially busy at home, with more frequent and more crowded services, coffee receptions and dinners, and even the beginning of marriage counseling for couples newly engaged over the holiday.

He pictured Michael, Judith, Luke, and Ruth with their father at the table for Christmas Day dinner, always after the final service in the early evening. The spread would rival even Brian's mother's Thanksgiving feast, the one meal of the year other than Easter that Gabriel forewent lectures on gluttony and indulged. He would carve the ham, and Michael's wife would help serve, taking the role of Aziraphale's mother since her death. The combination of rich food with the exhausting, non-stop activity of the day made everyone sleepy afterwards—except Ruth, who seemed to have boundless energy at all times.

He would give anything to be there, spending the holiday season with his family, but he knew the expense would stretch his father's already tight funds. Besides, he thought as he wiped a few stray tears from his face, he'd already arranged to call them on Christmas Day, right before their meal, and Pastor Honeycutt had invited him to help with the Christmas Eve service at the campus chapel after he'd finished his volunteer shift at the soup kitchen. He would be far too busy to be lonely so far away from his family. Yes, far too busy.


The next day, he and Anathema met downtown for an impromptu tea before she headed to the countryside with Newt. Once they'd found a place to sit and sip from their steaming mugs, he handed her the gift bag with the Christmas present he'd planned to give her after the break. She exclaimed in delight when she pulled the tissue and spotted her new plant.

"I absolutely love it! What should I call her? Virginia? Circe? Hmm, yes, I think Circe. She seems pretty fierce. Pretty, but fierce."

"Circe is perfect. I'm glad you like it," Aziraphale murmured, eyes crinkling in delight as he took a sip of chai. For all that the adults in his life made it seem like life after school was utterly serious, he could always count on Anathema to be exactly who she wanted to be. (If he was being honest with himself, he envied her that carefree nature. He'd need to add envy to his growing list of repentance.)

"I hope you don't mind that I got you a little something as well," Anathema said as she handed him a small, rectangular box topped with a rather frilly bow. "I know I probably shouldn't have, since I'm staff and all, but who's telling?"

"Oh?" He blinked in surprise and opened the box to reveal a gorgeous fountain pen, with a filigreed silver nib and an onyx barrel—the kind he'd always wanted to own. Tucked into the bottom of the box was a faceted glass jar of ink and a small dropper. "My goodness… Anathema, this is lovely. Are you sure… well, who am I to refuse such a thoughtful gift. Thank you."

She patted his shoulder in reply, and they sat in comfortable silence for a few cozy minutes, as they sipped their drinks and watched the light fall of snow outside the steamy-warm cafe.

"So, I don't mean to pry, but… any developments on the ah, boy front?" She spoke softly, her eyes owlishly large as she peered at him from over her mug.

The question startled him out of his reverie badly enough that he sloshed (thankfully tepid) tea onto his sleeve. He grabbed a napkin and began blotting at the liquid, blinking and blushing furiously at her simple question.

"Well, I, er, that is…"

"I don't know if I should take that as a no or a yes. You seem awful flustered if it's a no." She grinned at him, and he couldn't help but give a small smile back, reassured by the remembrance of her hands holding his as he fought through panic. Wary of being overheard, he leaned in and recounted the Battle of the Bands to her in a hushed tone. She squealed in delight.

"He sounds dreamy. You should bring him by the library some time so I can judge for myself."

"It was just a hug," he replied. "We aren't… together… or anything."

"I know, I know. It's just… I know it's a big risk, but I just want you to be happy. You deserve that, Aziraphale."

She meant well, but talking to her about the other night only made his chest ache. If it were a woman he was talking about, he wouldn't have to whisper, wouldn't have to hide how he felt…

"Will you see him over the holiday?"

"Well, I-I did get him a present, so I suppose I'll need to see him at some point. I hadn't really thought about it."

"I'm sure you'll figure something out. If it helps, I don't think it would be strange to meet up for coffee, just like this. But, y'know, different."

Or he could hide in his room and spend his break reading and pretending he didn't have unchaste feelings for a man with fire-bright hair and hips like razors. It would be much easier.

He told Anathema he would keep that in mind, and they passed the rest of their tea talking of family holidays and whether Newt would ever be brave enough to propose.


Aziraphale was still mostly asleep when the phone rang late the next morning. He blinked awake in the snowy gloom from the window at the piercing ring and lunged across the room for the receiver.

"'Lo?"

"Aha, I knew it! You're still on campus!"

Crowley sounded far too chipper for the hour, but his voice shocked Aziraphale into awareness.

"Crowley?"

"'Course. I was calling because I knew you'd be too polite to infringe on your friends' little family gatherings. Meanwhile, I have a whole house practically to myself and no one to watch cheesy movies with."

"Um…"

"So d'you, er, wanna come spend the holiday at my place?"

Aziraphale blinked, pulled the receiver away from his ear to stare down at it like it would offer some clarity, then put it back to his ear. "You want me to c-come stay with you?"

"I mean, I dunno, I just figured 'tis the season and all that…"

"I-I have some volunteer shifts at the soup kitchen downtown and here at the chapel on Christmas Day, and it's nice of you to offer—"

"C'mon, I can drive you!"

Aziraphale suddenly realized that Crowley's invitation might be about more than just helping him. He remembered the dismissive air of Crowley's mother, and the article about his father, and imagined Crowley eating Christmas dinner by himself in the large, sterile kitchen.

"If it's no trouble, then I'd be happy to."

After they settled that Crowley would pick him up the next morning, Aziraphale hung up the phone, the brief spark of fierce certainty burning in his chest snuffed out by the realization that he was about to spend two weeks with Crowley. At his house.

He hopped out of bed and began packing.


Song lyrics: "Youth Knows No Pain" by Lykke Li, "Monster Hospital" by Metric
Bible verse: Job 38:7