Aziraphale woke early, despite staying up to read Jane Eyre, one of his guilty favorites from the classic English canon. (It really was so glumly melodramatic, and the relationship between Jane and Rochester was unhealthy at best, but he reread it every year during the dark, bleak winter days nonetheless.)

After pulling on a sweater and khakis, he stepped into the hall, stopping for a moment outside Crowley's room, but it was quiet. He continued softly to the stairs and made his way to the kitchen, where the sound of tense voices brought him to a halt just outside the door.

"—don't give a shit what he wants, I—"

"Anthony!" Crowley's mother's voice, so blandly polite and composed when she'd spoken to Aziraphale, was hard. "You know your father has to work, and you know we do this every year. I'm sure your friend won't mind."

"Yeah, well, maybe I do."

"It's final. Just let him know, all right?"

Blinking, Aziraphale realized he was eavesdropping and startled back from the wall. He shuffled into the room, a blandly neutral smile on his face. "Good morning, Mrs. Crowley."

"Good morning...Aziraphale, right?" She frowned slightly. "I don't know if you heard any of that, but my son would like to let you know about our plans for this year's family Christmas, the four of us. Wouldn't you, Anthony?"

Crowley sighed and stalked over to the percolator, grabbing a mug from the cupboard. "Yeah, yeah, all right, I'll ask him. Happy?"

"Of course. I'm off to my planning meeting, but you two have fun today." She nodded to Aziraphale and made her way out.

"Um, I—" Aziraphale began, just as Crowley said, "Sorry, I—"

They both fell silent. "Go ahead," Aziraphale prompted, accepting a mug of steaming coffee from Crowley and taking a seat at the island.

"Ugh, hsk, it's just—so, every year, my dad works on Christmas, either the night before or Christmas Day, and every year my mother insists on having a family dinner with just the three of us. As you might guess, it's not exactly fun. I have to listen to him ramble on about some acquisition or other to my mom, and then I get a nice scolding about, well, me, and it's a whole...thing." He paused, blinking. "I'm really not selling this, am I?"

"No?" Aziraphale replied innocently.

Crowley scoffed and flicked a sugar packet at him. "Anyway, you're invited this year, of course. If you feel like running the Crowley family gauntlet. I mean, I'll have to do it, one way or another, but I can always tell them you're ill or you've run away or caught fire or something."

"I'm, ah, sure it will be fine." Given what he knew about Crowley's father, he'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit he was a little curious about the man, but whether or not satisfying his curiosity was worth what promised to be a tense, awkward evening remained to be seen. "Christmas Eve service isn't until eleven, anyway, so I should have plenty of time between dinner and when I need to be there. That is, if you want me there?"

"I mean, I don't want to be there, but if I have to be, I guess it would be better to have an ally for once, right?"

There were cinnamon buns on the counter, and Aziraphale made quick work of one. Crowley picked his apart with dextrous fingers, then nibbled restlessly on the bits. "Think I'll wait to give 'em their presents. Not sure any of us will be in the mood for hilarity at the end of the meal," he grumbled.

"Well, it can't be as bad as the year three of us had chickenpox over the Christmas holiday," Aziraphale said. He sipped his coffee, but set down his mug when he realized Crowley was waiting for him to continue.

"Luke, Ruth, and I all came down with it right before the break. In fact, most of the students at our school ended up with it that year, mostly the younger ones but Luke and I hadn't had it as children. My poor father…" he said with a laugh. "He and Michael tried their best to power through the season, all the services and receptions and blessings, while the three of us did our best to run them absolutely ragged. I can scarcely smell oatmeal without remembering. I still have a few scars, in fact—" Aziraphale pulled aside an errant wave of hair near his temple and turned to show Crowley the small cluster of indented skin.

"Oh yeah, I remember getting chickenpox. Itchiest two weeks of my life," Crowley agreed. "We went through about thirty bottles of calamine lotion."

Aziraphale grabbed another cinnamon bun.

"By the way," Aziraphale asked, "would you mind if I do a load of laundry?"

They refilled their mugs and made a detour upstairs for Aziraphale to get his laundry bag, then Crowley led him through the labyrinth of hallways to a room somewhere near the basement recording studio.

As Aziraphale began sorting his wash, Crowley peeked at his watch. "Shit, I promised I'd finish those lyrics before the band gets here. See you after practice? Help yourself to whatever you want from the kitchen and whatnot. Hell, make a few long-distance calls to say hi to the family."

"I will, and no, of course I won't. If you need me, send up a smoke signal or flare or something, will you? I won't hear you from the other end of the house otherwise."

Crowley snorted, then disappeared to the studio, leaving Aziraphale to finish sorting his clothes, load the washer, and turn it on. By the time that was done, he had...far too much time left to fill. Almost an hour before the wash was done. He meandered upstairs to grab Jane Eyre and the velour throw blanket from his bed, then settled with the book, blanket, and a fresh cup of tea (peppermint, in honor of the season) in the library, where he could enjoy the fire's warmth while admiring the snow.

He was close to the end of Jane Eyre, despite his efforts to savor it. Jane had just discovered Rochester to be already married, and Rochester had tried his (dishonest) best to convince her to stay:

"For it was astonishing to see how quickly a certain pleasant ease tranquillized your manner…you showed no surprise, fear, annoyance, or displeasure, at my moroseness; you watched me, and now and then smiled at me with a simple yet sagacious grace I cannot describe…"

At the end, he sighed happily, running his fingers absently over the cover as his eyes wandered over the scenery outside.

It was blissfully quiet, only the muted tick of the grandfather clock and the occasional crackle of the fire breaking the silence. He nestled further into his blanket for a moment before sighing again and setting book, blanket, and mug aside to go change out his laundry.


"Well, here I am," Aziraphale murmured to his reflection, checking every angle and straightening his bowtie. He was only going downstairs for dinner, but his nerves had him lingering on every detail. But this inspection was at least taking up time he'd have spent waiting. There was nothing worse than putting on one's best clothes and having to sit around and wait in them.

It was the same outfit he'd worn for the last few Christmases—and the one he'd planned to wear to the holiday service later before he'd been surprised with this dinner invitation. Christmas was the biggest holiday of the year for the family business, and Gabriel had spared little expense compared to usual. It was one of Aziraphale's favorite outfits: A Black Stewart tartan waistcoat, bengal stripe Panama weave button-down shirt, and classic navy blazer with bright gold buttons, accented with red pocket square, and charcoal-colored trousers—and, of course, a silky green bowtie.

Crowley had shown him the dining room earlier, close to the front of the house so he had a vague idea of where to go; they'd peeked in for a moment and Aziraphale had been introduced briefly to the cook and housekeeper. Maude and Brenda had been friendly, if curious, as they shook hands. Maude in particular had warmed to him after he'd complimented her cooking.

He fiddled with his waistcoat, pulling it down over his stomach when it rode up a bit as he started downstairs. By the time he made it to the correct hall, he was dreadfully warm. Thankfully he wasn't a nervous sweater, or he might have needed to tuck another handkerchief into his pocket.

Only Mrs. Crowley waited, wine flute in hand. Based on her attire, Aziraphale was glad he'd taken care with his appearance; her floor-length gown, a champagne number with creamy velvet sleeves, seemed like it would have been appropriate for a society fundraising dinner (or a reception for their sponsored art he'd seen at the museum).

"Oh, good evening, Mrs. Cro—uh, Helene."

"Well, don't you look like a little gentleman," she said, giving him a visual inspection that lingered on every detail of his outfit. "A shame we can't get Anthony to dress appropriately for this—or ever, really. He could learn a thing or two from you."

'Little gentleman'? Well, she had been drinking already, and more than the glass in her hand by the flush on face. He cleared this throat and ducked his head modestly."I do have to wear church clothes every week, but I guess I've always liked dressing this way, since I was young. So I suppose things worked out."

Shortly after Aziraphale declined her offer of a drink, the thud of footsteps sounded from nearby. But instead of Crowley, his father strode in, adjusting his cufflinks.

Lucian Crowley looked almost identical to his picture in Anathema's magazine: blond waves slicked back from a sharp part, suit a grey pinstripe with every line sharp as a knife, and piercing blue eyes that glanced from his wife to the stranger standing beside her.

"Ah, you must be our guest, Aziraphale." His mouth was softer than Crowley's, and his face was broader, but the mischievousness that lurked behind his eyes was the same. He gave Aziraphale a large, sharp-toothed grin as he held out his hand to shake. "Nice to meet you."

"It's lovely to meet you as well. And thank you for letting me intrude on your family holiday. Your son has been a very good friend to me," Aziraphale said, meeting the handshake with what he hoped was a confident grip.

"Good to hear. Tony's running late then?" He turned to Helene, who rolled her eyes and took a sip of her drink, as if to say Well, obviously. "Maybe this year we won't have to go drag him out of his room, though, hm?" Lucien's grin widened, and Aziraphale smiled back politely, hoping Crowley would make an appearance soon or—despite Mr. Crowley's friendliness—this might be the most nerve-wracking Christmas dinner he'd had since Michael had brought his girlfriend Jenni. (It had been one of the few times Aziraphale could remember Michael and his father arguing, shouting at each other in fact. He didn't quite remember what had been so objectionable about Jenni, but something about her hadn't rubbed his father the right way, and all of them had heard about it. Jenni had left in tears, and they'd broken up shortly afterward.)

What sounded like an entire pack of dogs bumbling their way to the dining room met their ears, and Crowley appeared, slightly out of breath, as though he'd run all the way from his room. Even slightly dishevelled, the sight of him made Aziraphale's mouth go dry. Clearly his father's tailor worked with the entire family, because the black suit Crowley wore fit him expertly, the straight pants and fitted jacket screaming wealth in their simplicity—a rebellion against the current fashion towards big, 1920s-style flair like his father's suit. The silver clasp of Crowley's black leather bolero tie was a bat. And most stunning of all, he'd left his glasses behind, his face oddly naked without them and his eyes wary.

"Well, your friend has made a good impression!" Helene let slip in surprise. "You're actually wearing a suit?"

"I agree, son, you look put-together for once. That tie is a bit ridiculous—" He bit back his words at a sharp nudge from his wife. "—but I think we've waited long enough to start dinner. Shall we?"

He gestured to the dining room, and Aziraphale followed Crowley and his mother inside. At each setting was an abundance of cutlery, plates, and glassware, and Aziraphale hoped he could remember which was which. But even his nerves couldn't fully stifle the anticipation of what was sure to be an amazing dinner of what looked to be several courses. They sat, Lucien at the head, with Helene facing Aziraphale and Crowley, as Maude began pouring wine and delivering salads. Crowley silently caught his eye, raising a brow at the glass of wine by Aziraphale and giving him a questioning look, but Aziraphale gave a small shake of his head in reply; he wasn't really in the mood to drink, but he could sip politely.

Aziraphale concentrated on his food, savoring the expertly combined flavors in the salad, then the pickle and cheese plate, as Helene asked Lucien about some business transaction. He couldn't follow most of what they were talking about, but thought it would be rude to interrupt the talk of "dismantling overhead" and "contractual obligations" by beginning a side conversation with Crowley. His friend was picking at his food, eating a bite of cheese or bread or a few radishes between heavy gulps of wine. The latter earned him a frown from across the table, but Crowley shrugged at Aziraphale with a knowing, mischievous grin and finished his glass.

When Lucien finally addressed Aziraphale, somewhere in the middle of the main course, it was benign at first. He asked about Aziraphale's family and hometown. Surprisingly, the man had actually been there, decades before and with a fresh MBA on his resume, on his way to a contract position at one of the city's most prestigious corporations.

"Wasn't much to do there, but we only spent an afternoon and the night on the way to the city."

"That's about as long as most of the natives would like to spend there as well," Aziraphale replied. "Except my family, I suppose. Most of us end up there, or nearby, once we settle down."

"And yet, here you are." That frank, cautious look was in Lucien's eye again, and Aziraphale resisted the urge to squirm like an insect under a microscope. "What made you travel so far from home at such a young age?

"I suppose I just needed to...get away for a while. See a bit more of the world. See where I might do some good."

"What is it you're studying?"

"Oh, er, theology. I plan on entering the family business, so to speak, and go into the ministry."

Lucien snorted, causing his wife to glare at him and nudge a sharp elbow into his side, and even Crowley looked up at his father, whom he'd studiously avoided eye contact with through the meal.

Waving a hand in apology, Lucien continued. "I'm sorry, it's just...you don't really believe in all that, do you? Smart kid like you? Even psychology or something, at least you'll get a paycheck."

An icy knot dropped into the pit of Aziraphale's stomach, and he found himself reaching for his wine glass for the first time since he'd sat down. He should have expected this reaction from the man he'd read about, but somehow it had still surprised him.

"Yes, I do. I...may not always agree completely with the church, but I believe I'm called to service, to help the less fortunate find grace and peace."

"And he's damn good at it too," Crowley broke in, giving Aziraphale a warning glance. "Even got me to help out at the soup kitchen the other day. A hellion like me, must've been a Christmas miracle."

"Excuse me?" Lucien turned to his son, and any trace of warmth that had remained in his eyes was now extinguished. "You don't need to be giving handouts to those lazy welfare queens."

"Honey, I don't think—" Helene cut in, but Lucien cut her off with a slice of his hand through the air, halting her attempt to maintain the peace … but before he could speak, Aziraphale did.

"Mr. Crowley, that's simply not true."

"What Aziraphale means—" Crowley tried to interrupt, but Aziraphale spoke over him, and he fell silent.

"No, allow me. While I admit things may be a bit different here, the general perception of those on assistance and unable to work is grossly untrue. The soup kitchen Crowley and I volunteered at the other day was mostly single people or couples who are down on their luck, but are actively seeking employment. And many of them simply want someone to spend the holidays with."

"Ha! You think anyone in there would pay for their food when they know they can get three hots for free from people like the church? Besides, it might be different for you in your … situation…" He waved a hand dismissively as he stopped to finish his wine and busied himself topping off his and his wife's glasses. "... my son doesn't need to be wasting his time with that."

"I think I can decide for myself what to 'waste' my time doing, daddy dearest." Crowley snapped, glaring at his father.

"Don't even get me started, Tony. If you spent half as much time learning something instead of messing around with that music shit, you might actually make something of yourself."

"What, like you? Pull myself up by the bootstraps and all that?" He scoffed. "What about you, mom? Anything to add?"

"Don't put me in the middle of this," Helene mumbled dismissively, before she continued nonetheless. "Your father's right, you know. We've talked about this over and over. This music hobby, do you really think anything's going to come of it? No. You need to start taking an interest in the family business, or at least something you can make a living from. Your father and I aren't just going to hand over the keys to the kingdom."

Maude slipped into the room to clear the plates, replacing them with a dish of amazingly decadent-looking chocolate mousse adorned with peppermint shavings and whipped marshmallow, but Aziraphale couldn't bring himself to taste it. He felt sick, embarrassed, to be witnessing this family argument, a stranger thrust into this intimate moment and laid out for inspection and derision as everyone else was. Crowley was right, this was awful.

The bickering continued until Crowley threw his chair back with a screech of wood, standing and tossing his napkin next to his plate. "Well, this has been real fun, but now that you've been a complete ass to my best friend, we're going to call it a night. C'mon," he motioned to Aziraphale before striding out. His father made to stand as well, but Helene finally intervened grabbing the sleeve of his suit jacket to keep him seated.

"Oh!" Aziraphale stood, utterly relieved as he folded his napkin and placed it on his chair. "Um, well. Thank you for the lovely meal. Merry Christmas."

"Same to you, kid," Lucien replied. "Look, take my advice: forget the clergy. Find something that'll pay the bills."

"Good night, Mr. Crowley," Aziraphale said as evenly as he could manage. He forced himself to push his chair in and walk steadily to the door, even as his hands clenched into shaking fists at his side and furious tears bloomed in his eyes.

He closed the door behind him, blinking the moisture back, and felt a hand grab his wrist. He spun to see Crowley, naked eyes full of something unreadable as he tugged Aziraphale away.

"C'mon, angel. Let's get the hell out of here."