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There were many things Crowley disliked about Christmas.
New York was not one of them.
New York did Christmas properly. It was glitter and glam and spectacle. It was excess — too much of everything — which made it absolutely ripe for demonic mischief. Crowley quite liked New York year-round, honestly. There was always something happening. It was a hotbed of music and art, and no one ever questioned why he wore sunglasses all the time. And on the rare occasions when he took them off, no one ever questioned his eyes either. They just nodded at him with respectful approval, the universal human expression that said, in today’s parlance: Cool, bruh.
There was also the woman in the park who regarded pigeons the same way Crowley did — as perfect vessels for causing all kinds of mayhem — which alone made the city worth visiting.
So while Crowley disliked many parts of Christmas — chief among them that the forces of Heaven and Hell were far more present on Earth than at any other time of year — he didn’t mind spending it in New York. There were plenty of ways to keep himself entertained without attracting undue attention.
The man who abruptly sat down on the subway to play games on his phone — all while a young mother stood beside him and struggled to balance a toddler and a baby — found himself tripping as he got off at the next stop. His overpriced coffee went flying, soaking straight into his overpriced, ill-fitting suit.
A woman whose chief pleasure seemed to be rudeness toward retail workers discovered that every credit card she owned was suddenly being declined, for reasons no one could quite explain.
Crowley considered this public service.
It was on his way back from one such small act of civic-minded mischief, strolling up Fifth Avenue with his hands in his coat pockets, that he felt it:
Something was wrong.
The sensation coursed through him like a chill down his spine — deep and unsettling.
It wasn’t demonic. He could recognise that from a mile away.
It wasn’t heavenly either — there was none of that sickly-sweet cloying sensation, and he couldn’t hear the faint, irritating echo of celestial harmonies anywhere.
It wasn’t even like what he’d felt around the Antichrist boy a few years back — that strange mixture of Heaven, Hell, and Earth all tangled together. Potential, that had been.
No, this was something else entirely.
Something human in origin, perhaps, but supernatural all the same.
This was fear, given form.
He turned slowly, following the tug of it, and found himself facing a department store entrance all glass and brass and forced cheer. A line of families snaked out the door: children bundled in scarves and mittens, parents clutching phones and shopping lists and patience by a thread.
Above the doors, a banner read: SANTA’S GROTTO – BELIEVE IN THE MAGIC!
Crowley narrowed his eyes.
Inside, the store had gone all in. Fake snow drifted from hidden machines. Reindeer cutouts stood frozen mid-prance. A loop of tinny carols played just a bit too loud.
And there, at the centre of it all, sat Santa Claus.
Crowley knew Santa Claus. He knew the story, the accretions, the way centuries of retelling had turned a man into a myth and then into a brand. He didn’t object to Santa impersonators on principle. Humans needed their stories, and this one at least had generosity and kindness at its heart — or it was meant to.
He had known the real Saint Nicholas of Myra, after all.
Not the red suit and the sleigh, obviously. The bishop. The quiet man with sharp eyes and a stubborn streak a mile wide. Nicholas had been kind in the way that mattered — not indulgent, not sentimental, but fiercely protective. He gave what he had, quietly, and he loathed cruelty, especially when it was dressed up as righteousness. Crowley had respected him for that. More than that, if he was honest. Nicholas had never needed fear to make his point.
Crowley had seen how the story changed over time. How a man who gave without asking for anything back became a figure who watched, judged, and kept lists. He’d never liked that part, but he’d tolerated it. Humans did that to everything eventually.
This one, though—
Crowley’s jaw tightened.
This Santa wasn’t just a costume or a tradition that had gone a bit sideways. There was something wrong in the way he sat, in the way he leaned forward, in how his gaze slid past children’s faces and settled instead on the tense set of their shoulders.
This wasn’t Nicholas. It wasn’t one of his jolly impersonators either.
Whatever this was, it had nothing to do with generosity at all.
He watched as a little girl — maybe six, missing one front tooth — climbed onto Santa’s lap and settled, eyes darting towards her caregiver.
“Now then,” Santa said, voice booming just a shade too loud. “Have you been good this year?”
The girl hesitated.
“I— I think so,” she said.
Santa hummed, long and doubtful. “You think so?”
Crowley felt something ugly coil in his chest.
“Well,” Santa continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “Santa has a list, you know. And it tells me everything.”
The girl’s hands twisted in her coat sleeves.
Crowley took a step forward, then stopped himself.
A boy came next, red-cheeked from the cold, eyes bright until Santa leaned in close.
“Are you sure you’ve been kind to your little sister?” Santa asked. “No fighting? No shouting?”
The boy swallowed. “I try. But sometimes she makes me so mad.”
Santa sighed heavily. “Hmm. That’s disappointing.”
Something flickered in the air — too subtle for humans to notice, but Crowley felt it like a knife under the ribs. A thin thread of belief, pulled tight and strained, leached away into the man in red.
Crowley’s hands curled into fists inside his pockets.
This wasn’t playful admonishment. This wasn’t tradition.
This was fear.
And Crowley hated fear when it was aimed at children.
He loved kids. Always had. They were hopeful and they asked questions and they thought they could do anything, be anything. He couldn’t stand the way the world tried to teach them to be smaller, quieter, more deserving. As if being themselves made them wrong somehow.
And he loathed anyone who made them think kindness was transactional.
That decided it.
Crowley turned sharply and stalked toward a quiet corner near the elevators. He didn’t bother with a summoning circle. Just a flick of his wrist and a word that bent space as easily as he might have folded a handkerchief.
“Aziraphale,” he said tightly. “Get over here. Now.”
The air shimmered.
A heartbeat later, Aziraphale appeared, blinking, coat buttoned wrong, clutching a paper-wrapped book.
“Crowley,” he began, mildly reproachful. “I was in the middle of—”
Crowley grabbed his sleeve and hauled him closer.
“Angel,” he said. “Look.”
Aziraphale followed his gaze.
He watched a child’s hopeful smile hesitate, then falter. Watched a parent straighten, shoulders tightening as if bracing for judgement. Watched the subtle shift as belief — warm, tentative, offered in good faith — curdled into anxiety.
Aziraphale’s expression changed.
“Oh,” he said softly.
Crowley let out a breath he hadn’t quite realised he’d been holding. “Yeah. That.”
Aziraphale didn’t speak right away. He simply watched, eyes intent, a register of offences forming behind them. Crowley recognised the look at once. He’d seen it at witch trials, at book burnings, and once — memorable for all the wrong reasons — while Aziraphale listened to a particularly aggressive vicar explain why fear was necessary.
It was the look Aziraphale got when something wasn’t just wrong, but dangerously so. When harm was being done in the name of order. When cruelty dressed itself up as virtue.
“That’s not right,” Aziraphale said at last, very quietly.
“No,” Crowley agreed. “It’s not.”
They stood there for another minute, the crowd shifting around them. A boy slid off Santa’s lap with a face gone pale and uncertain, clutching a candy cane he no longer seemed sure he deserved.
Crowley’s fingers twitched.
“We could just—” he began, lifting one hand slightly. “You know. Quick miracle. Bit of smoke and,” —he put on a posh imitation of Aziraphale’s voice— “‘oh dear, wherever did that gateway to Hell come from?’”
Aziraphale winced. “Crowley! What if one of the children fell in?”
Crowley exhaled. “Right. Yes. Of course.”
“They’re already frightened enough,” Aziraphale said, eyes still fixed on the grotto.
Crowley rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to breathe. He hated this part — the waiting, the restraint. Hell had never required subtlety, and Heaven had lost the knack centuries ago. But Crowley had learned, over time, that sometimes the kindest thing you could do was not make a scene.
“All right,” he said. “We do it quietly.”
Aziraphale nodded. “We observe.”
“And interfere,” Crowley added. “Just… gently.”
Then he glanced down at Aziraphale’s coat, his scarf, the faintly scholarly air that screamed out of place in a department store Santa’s grotto. He looked down at his own clothes, black and tight as always.
“We’ll need to…” Crowley began as he scanned the area around them.
His eyes flicked to the staff bustling around the grotto — elves in felt costumes, pointy hats askew, name tags pinned on at odd angles. Two of them looked particularly exhausted, hovering near the edge of the set.
“Ah,” Crowley murmured. “Perfect.”
He strolled over before Aziraphale could object, flashed a smile that bent perception just enough, and murmured a few quiet words. The two elves blinked, expressions softening into relief.
“Break time,” Crowley told them cheerfully. “Union rules.”
They didn’t question it. Humans rarely did, when Crowley leaned just the right way into suggestion.
Moments later, Crowley and Aziraphale stood behind a rack of oversized elf costumes.
Aziraphale eyed his newly donned green jacket and yellow leggings dubiously. “Crowley.”
“Yes, angel?”
“Isn’t this all a bit… dramatic?”
Crowley grinned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
A minor miracle later, the costumes fit perfectly. Another nudge, and the surrounding staff accepted them as if they’d always been there.
They took their places at the edge of the grotto, blending in easily enough.
Crowley leaned against a candy-cane-striped post, arms folded, green and red elf costume sitting far too sharply on him to ever really pass for felt. He looked, at a glance, like part of the scenery — just another seasonal nuisance — though his attention never strayed far from the bench. Aziraphale stood nearer to it, hands folded neatly in front of him, smiling with the sort of gentle, unhurried warmth that children recognised immediately. They passed him on their way to Santa with tentative glances, and more than one of them smiled back.
For a while, they simply watched.
And then, quietly, they began to interfere.
Crowley flicked the smallest of miracles into place: easing the tension out of parents’ shoulders as they hovered nearby, softening the air around particularly anxious children, taking the sharpest edges off the room without anyone quite noticing. When one little girl’s shoelace came undone at just the right moment, Aziraphale knelt to help her, offering reassurance and a few calm words while Santa’s attention was elsewhere.
Aziraphale did what he always did. He murmured kindness wherever it would take root — a hand resting briefly on a shoulder, a smile that lingered just long enough, a quiet assurance that everything was all right, that they were doing fine. It helped.
But it wasn’t enough.
The feeding continued, subtle and persistent, like a draught no one could quite locate.
Another child climbed onto Santa’s lap — older this time, carefully composed, clearly determined not to show any weakness. Santa leaned forward.
“Are you certain you’ve been good?” he asked.
The child hesitated.
Something in Aziraphale gave way.
He stepped forward before Crowley could stop him, voice carrying across the grotto — not loud, but clear and utterly unmistakable.
“You sit on a throne of lies.”
The grotto fell very, very quiet. Santa turned slowly, eyes narrowing.
“And,” Aziraphale added, with devastating precision, “you smell like wet reindeer.”
Crowley bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Then he clapped his hands once, brisk and authoritative.
“All right!” he announced brightly. “Comfort break for Santa. Just a quick one. We’ll be right back, folks!”
Before anyone could object, Crowley had an arm around Santa’s elbow, steering him firmly toward the staff corridor and then into a restroom.
Crowley flicked the lock shut with a decisive click and leaned back against the door, arms folded, posture loose in a way that meant he was very much on edge. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, flattening the cheer out of the Santa suit until it looked cheap and faintly obscene.
The man in red straightened, the smile sliding off his face.
“You shouldn’t have interfered,” he said. His voice had lost its practiced warmth. It rasped now, dry as winter air scraping bare branches. “This is my season. This is my role.”
Aziraphale regarded him with polite interest, hands folded in front of his elf costume. “Frightening children?” he asked gently. “No, it really isn’t.”
“Oh, but it is,” the man argued, and the glamour began to unravel.
The beard clung, fibrous and wrong, no longer the fluffy white of mall Santas but something closer to animal hair. The candy cane in his hand transformed into a thin birch switch. The red velvet darkened, stiffening into hide.
Crowley wrinkled his nose.
“Oh,” he said. “That explains the smell.”
Aziraphale sighed, long-suffering. “Belsnickel.”
The name settled heavily in the air, and Crowley remembered old stories of gifts given alongside fear and punishment. Lovely. Just lovely. Belsnickel. Of course it was. A relic of fear dressed up as morality. A sack full of switches and justifications.
“You were always a miserable little thing,” Crowley said conversationally. “Never satisfied with a bit of harmless mischief. Always had to make it hurt.”
Belsnickel sneered. “Fear keeps children obedient. They need to believe their actions have consequences. If they’re good, then they have nothing to fear.”
Crowley’s jaw tightened.
“That’s not belief,” he said. “That’s coercion.”
Aziraphale stepped closer, eyes sad and furious all at once. “You took what should have been a season of generosity and turned it into a test,” he said. “You taught children that love is conditional. That kindness must be earned.”
Belsnickel bared his teeth. “Discipline builds character.”
Aziraphale’s voice cooled. “Cruelty builds shame. It forces people into hiding themselves.” He drew up to his full height, hands dropping to straighten the hem of his green jacket in the same prim, self-assured way Crowley had seen him straighten his waistcoat for centuries. “Now you need to leave.”
“You can’t command me,” Belsnickel sneered. “No man can.”
Crowley laughed. “Oh, mate. We are no men.”
Belsnickel recoiled, backing toward the sinks. “I’ve walked this season for centuries,” he snarled. “You can’t banish me.”
“Watch me.” Crowley snapped his fingers.
Space folded — pine-dark and cold — opening a portal to a nowhere without children or belief to feed on.
“Back you go,” Crowley said lightly. “Take your sack and your shame with you.”
Belsnickel screamed once — furious, indignant — and then he was gone.
Silence settled in the small room, sudden and complete. Aziraphale let out a slow breath, some of the tension finally leaving his shoulders. For a moment, neither of them moved.
“Well,” Crowley said at last, rolling his shoulders and letting out a sigh. “That was festive.”
Aziraphale almost smiled, but then his gaze drifted to the locked door and the store behind it, back towards the distant hum of the grotto, the muffled sounds of movement and laughter beyond the walls.
“The children,” he said quietly. “They’re still waiting.”
Crowley followed his look. He knew exactly what Aziraphale was thinking — the sea of colourful hats above rosy cheeks, the small hands tucked into larger ones, the fragile hope that hadn’t quite been extinguished yet.
“They’ll have to get used to disappointment,” Crowley said.
The words hung there for a beat, then a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he tilted his head, eyes flicking back to Aziraphale. “Orrrr…”
Aziraphale closed his eyes, just for a moment, as if bracing himself. “Crowley.”
“C’mon, angel,” Crowley murmured, his voice low and fond.
Aziraphale hesitated. He argued with himself silently — Crowley could see it in the set of his shoulders, the way his hands folded and unfolded once. Then he sighed, resigned but not unhappy.
“Oh dear,” he said as Crowley grinned. “I suppose this is happening.”
Crowley snapped his fingers again, but no portal opened this time.
Instead, Aziraphale’s green jacket melted into red velvet, rich and warm, catching the harsh bathroom light and softening it into something kinder. The yellow leggings darkened, becoming tailored trousers the same deep red. The hat reshaped itself into something dignified, fur-trimmed and unmistakable.
Aziraphale blinked. “Oh,” he said. “Oh my.”
Crowley swallowed.
“I’ll need a beard,” Aziraphale added after a moment, touching his chin. “Traditionally speaking.”
Crowley hesitated. “Didn’t want to mess with your corporation without permission. Felt… rude.”
Aziraphale looked at him, eyes gentle and trusting in a way that still caught Crowley off guard after six thousand years.
“Oh, go on then, dear,” he said.
Crowley reached out and cupped Aziraphale’s cheeks, thumbs warm against skin. The miracle bloomed slowly — white and soft, curling into place like snowfall settling on branches. A proper beard. A magnificent one.
Crowley’s throat went dry.
“You already had the eyes for it,” he murmured. “Always did.”
Aziraphale flushed, beard doing absolutely nothing to hide it.
“Well,” he said, straightening his coat with quiet resolve. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”
The grotto shifted the moment Aziraphale stepped back into it.
Crowley saw it in the small things first.
A mother who had been hovering a little too close took half a step back. A father stopped glancing at his watch. The line didn’t press forward quite so urgently.
Aziraphale lowered himself onto the bench, smoothing the red velvet coat into place with a quick, tidy adjustment. He settled comfortably, boots planted, hands resting loosely on his knees.
The next child approached without prompting.
“Well now,” Aziraphale said warmly, leaning forward just enough to meet her at eye level. “What’s your name?”
“Lila,” the girl said, voice small but steady.
“Lila,” Aziraphale repeated, as though it were the most important thing he’d heard all day. “That’s a very fine name. And what would you like for Christmas?”
She glanced back at her mum, then back at him. “A telescope.”
“Oh, splendid,” Aziraphale said at once, eyes lighting properly. “Do you like looking at the stars?”
She nodded.
“Very good. Stars are terribly useful,” he said gravely. “They help one keep one’s bearings.”
He tilted his head slightly and gestured toward Crowley with one gloved hand. “If you’re serious about it,” he said conspiratorially, “you might speak to my elf there. He’s quite the expert on stars.”
Crowley, who had absolutely not been eavesdropping, went very still.
Lila twisted around on Aziraphale’s knee to peer at him. “Really?”
Crowley pushed off the striped post and sauntered closer, hands in his pockets. “Mm,” he said, as if this were terribly inconvenient knowledge. “Seen a few.”
“Have you been to space?” she asked.
“Once or twice,” Crowley replied airily. “Bit drafty. Wouldn’t recommend without a coat.”
She giggled.
“Don’t let him fool you,” Aziraphale said mildly. “He’s very fond of them.”
Crowley shot him a look that did not, in fact, deny it.
Behind them, one of the parents murmured, “This one’s much better than the last guy.”
Crowley didn’t look over. “You’ve no idea,” he said.
Another child climbed up without needing encouragement, sitting sideways in Aziraphale’s lap. “I was a bit mean to my brother,” he confessed immediately.
Aziraphale nodded solemnly. “Ah. That does happen.”
The boy looked up anxiously. “Is that bad?”
“Well,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully, “did you apologise?”
“…Yes.”
“Then I’d say you’re doing rather well already.”
The boy relaxed at once.
Crowley adjusted a flickering strand of lights with a small, unobtrusive miracle and stepped back into place. The line moved steadily but without pressure. No one seemed particularly inclined to rush.
Aziraphale continued, patient and steady, his eyes twinkling in that way that always reminded Crowley he was part snake — or at least that was what he told himself when his knees went wobbly over a certain angel. Said angel seemed wholly unaware of Crowley’s predicament and simply went on with his current task of treating each child as though they were the most fascinating person he’d ever met.
“What do you enjoy most?” Aziraphale asked.
“That sounds very brave,” Aziraphale said seriously. “Well done.”
“Trying absolutely counts,” Aziraphale said with firm assurance.
When one little girl grew quiet halfway through her list, Aziraphale waited. After a moment, she finished on her own.
Crowley pretended to be deeply invested in straightening a display of plush reindeer that had not required straightening.
From the corner of his eye, he watched Aziraphale shift to accommodate a particularly enthusiastic hug.
Crowley adjusted his sunglasses, just in case anyone was looking too closely.
Eventually the line thinned, then disappeared altogether. The store lights dimmed to their after-hours setting. Somewhere beyond the grotto, a security gate rolled down with a dull clatter.
It was just the two of them now.
“Shall we be off then?” Aziraphale asked. “There’s a little bistro a few streets over that I wouldn’t mind trying if you’d be interested.”
“Course I am, angel,” Crowley said. Then he tilted his head, eyes bright with mischief. “Although, you know,” he said, “I might like to sit on Santa’s lap too.”
Aziraphale startled, blinking at him. “Crowley!”
Then he hesitated. His hands rested briefly on his knees, fingers curling in on themselves, before he looked back up again. “Well,” he said, a touch breathless, “Go on then.”
Crowley didn’t waste the invitation.
He stepped forward and sat, settling himself carefully but without any real attempt at restraint. Aziraphale shifted instinctively to accommodate him, the movement practiced and familiar, one arm coming around Crowley’s back to steady him.
Crowley leaned in, comfortable and unapologetic, his shoulder fitting neatly against Aziraphale’s chest. He could feel the warmth of him through the velvet, solid and reassuring. Aziraphale’s hand rested at Crowley’s side, thumb pressing gently as if to remind him he was there.
Snap.
Mistletoe appeared above them.
Aziraphale glanced up, then back down again, lips twitching despite himself. “What would you like for Christmas?” he asked.
Crowley looked down at him from where he sat, close enough now that he could see the fine lines at the corners of Aziraphale’s eyes, the way his beard shifted slightly when he smiled. “Just a kiss.”
Aziraphale’s smile softened, something warm and indulgent settling into it. He lifted one hand to Crowley’s jaw, fingers feathering along the line of it, thumb resting just below his cheekbone.
“Well,” he said quietly, “I suppose it is traditional.”
He leaned in.
The kiss was slow and deliberate. Aziraphale’s beard rasped against Crowley’s cheek as their mouths met, warm and gentle. Crowley pressed into the kiss immediately, one hand sliding up to grip the front of Aziraphale’s coat, fingers curling into the velvet as he shifted closer. Aziraphale responded in kind, his free hand coming up to cradle the back of Crowley’s neck, thumb brushing lightly along his hairline.
They stayed like that for a moment, unhurried, content to let the closeness speak for itself.
When they finally drew back, Crowley rested his forehead briefly against Aziraphale’s, smiling.
“Oh,” he said. “One more thing.”
“Yes, darling?” Aziraphale asked, voice warm.
Crowley lifted a hand and smoothed his fingertips over the white-gold hair at Aziraphale’s chin. “Maybe keep the beard.”
Aziraphale laughed, soft and entirely unguarded. “I think that can be arranged.”
Crowley made no move to stand, perfectly content to stay right where he was.