Chapter Text
Log Entry #123
Date: 15 November, 2037
Crowley and Aziraphale have been extra couple-y lately. They’ve got a double date thing with some old “friends from work” up in Edinburgh next week and it’s turning into a sort of mini-holiday, at least as far as Aziraphale’s concerned. He keeps trying to pack more and Crowley keeps unpacking it, and then they bicker about dinner reservations and which museums they should visit and whether the Royal Scottish National Orchestra is rubbish now that they’ve replaced their first chair violinist. And so forth.
Weather’s turned too foul for drinks out on the porch, and Crowley and I are both banned from the village pub for the foreseeable, so tonight in place of dinner we just brought out the wine glasses early. Also a couple cans of lager for me and hot cocoa for Muriel.
“So there we are, standing opposite one another on the grand stage in the West End, both of us with our powers sealed – and Crowley and I have but one chance to pull off our show-stopping, and highly lethal, bullet-catch trick–”
“Angel, no,” Crowley groaned, cheek resting on the dinner table. “Not the bloody zombiessstory again.”
“That’s nothing anyway,” I said. “Tell ‘em ‘bout how you nearly got all three of us buried in Pompeii cos you wanted Pliny the Elder to sign your copies of Naturalis Historia.”
“They were first editions!”
“He was a prat,” Crowley said. “‘Fortune favors the bold’? More like… like ‘fortune favors… favors the…’”
“He has a fun name, anyway,” Muriel piped up. “Plinn-ee Theeyelldor.”
“…’favors the prats what don’t wear pillows on their heads and try to outrun a volcano,’” Crowley concluded, sounding very accomplished.
“But your hair looked so lovely that last night,” Aziraphale said wistfully. “The fires from the eruption made it especially radiant.”
“Didn’t do curls for a while after that,” Crowley reflected. “And Versailles doesn’t count, because as far as anyone knows that was a wig…”
“You always wore your beauty marks in the wrong place when you went to court, you silly snake. ‘Flirtatious’ moles are on the cheek; you always wore yours near the eye…”
“Wasn’t wrong. That’s where it’s meant to go.”
“No, no, a beauty mark near the eye means you’re in love, my dear. That’s not proper temptation ettiq–” Aziraphale finally caught up to the words that were leaving his mouth. “Oh.”
“Yes, angel. ‘Oh.’”
Log Entry #124
Date: 20 November, 2037
Just Muriel and me today. A&C are up in Scotland having their “double date”/weekend holiday thingy. And I definitely did not invite Suvi and Tom down to crash at my “parents’” place while they’re out of town.
Suvi absolutely did not shriek with excitement upon meeting Muriel for the first time, nor did she at any point wrap her arms around them, give them her patented hug of death, or tell them how cute they are.
Tom 100% did not dare me into showing him some black magic, or lose his complete marbles when I did, and he in no way uploaded any sort of video to social media. Everyone said it was shopped anyway.
We totally, definitely did not invoke Eric the demon on the Ouija board and play a protracted game of 20 Questions all night, nor learn that the imps have just called for a general strike.
Yep. Just a normal day with just me and Muriel.
From the confidential journals of A.Z. Fell
Volume 702
20 November, 2037
Dear diary,
Crowley and I find ourselves once more in the lovely city of Edinburgh to meet “on deep background” with Gabriel and Lord Beelzebub – for whom we’ve been making quite a bit of trouble, it appears.
I thanked them profusely for their assistance in suppressing Rezathaniel’s mishap with the British tabloids earlier this year. I’ve also learned of the results of the so-called “internal review” Mitzrael performed for Raguel, which did not translate to even token punishment, of course. Gabriel, naturally, is more concerned with maintaining the status quo than reaching a proper resolution, whilst Lord Beelzebub is facing something of a labor uprising and cannot afford further news of unrest reaching Downstairs. However, we find more common ground where it concerns Muriel’s situation.
‘If you’re willing to drop the matter about the espionage, I can guarantee Muriel can get back to work with no problem,’ Gabriel assured me. ‘No punishment, full immunity, we can just… forget this.’
‘I’m not so certain they want to return to work at this juncture,’ I replied, ‘although I will inquire as to their wishes. And Rezathaniel?’
‘Has a job Downstairs when they’re ready,’ Lord Beelzebub said, with the very same sing-song voice that Crowley uses when he’s been forced to budge on something he swore he’d never budge on. ‘Sounds like they’re turning into quite the little incubus, even without Hell’s influence.’
‘Our Rezathaniel?’ I asked in disbelief. ‘Why, they’re an angel! Fallen, maybe, but it’s still in the name. Grigori or not, I assure you they’re much too pure-hearted to ever–’
‘People contain multitudes, angel,’ Crowley interrupted. ‘It’s always the ones you least expect.’
We resolved to adjourn to our regular meeting place and continue our discussion over drinks. Gabriel and Lord Beelzebub do not consume “gross matter”, but still they looked appreciatively at the pints Crowley ordered for them. It’s the gesture that matters.
‘Honestly? I don’t get what your whole deal is,’ Gabriel said, after Crowley and I had introduced a touch of alcohol into our bloodstreams. ‘Fomenting dissent, now? You’re playing with fire. But,’ he laughed, ‘guess that’s nothing new for you.’
Crowley seethed at this joke. He has not forgiven Gabriel for his attempt to execute “me”. I certainly have found it more challenging than usual to forgive She Who Must Not Be Named for similar threats upon my beloved’s life. Even though Gabriel and Lord Beelzebub are our allies now, and perhaps even friends after a fashion, we have not disclosed the secret to Crowley’s and my little “switcheroo” to them, nor will we ever. Trust is a rare and precious commodity when dealing with our old sides, quickly lost and not soon regained.
‘My desire to protect Muriel has not mitigated my wish to see actual justice done,’ I said. ‘And sending Raguel into the field, to stage a kidnapping no less, is unacceptable.’
‘Completely not authorized,’ Gabriel averred, turning serious now. ‘It may be time to start instilling the fear of God into some members of the Order, because I don’t think they fear me anymore.’
‘Because you’re a big softie colluding with the forces of darkness,’ Lord Beelzebub said fondly, resting their head on Gabriel’s shoulder.
‘All for the Greater Good,’ Gabriel said, wrapping his arm around his partner. Then he perked up, his ears catching a familiar tune. ‘Oh! Babe! They’re playing our song!’
‘Do we have a song?’ Crowley asked me whilst Gabriel and Beelzebub indulged in a little public dancing.
‘“A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square”, I should think,’ I answered. ‘Or that song Rezathaniel inspired for us in the Nineties, but you know my feelings concerning bebop.’
‘“Nightingale” for sure,’ Crowley said, when faced with the two options. ‘Do you remember when we first heard it? In Casablanca?’
It was one of our more romantic encounters, although I hadn’t been nearly as receptive to Crowley’s advances then. It was such a shame to waste all that champagne down the front of my dress, all over one little peck on the cheek.
‘We danced to it, as I recall,’ I said, with an unsubtle glance in Gabriel and Lord Beelzebub’s direction.
Crowley knew immediately what I was driving at, but wearing him down is part of the flirtation, so I tolerated his reflexive, ‘We don’t dance, angel.’
‘We surely do. Several times now, as it happens.’
Boldly as I dared, I placed my hand over his. I felt his pulse jump, his love pouring off him in uncontrollable waves that would stun any hapless human bystander.
‘What are the odds they’ve got the Bublé version on that jukebox?’ Crowley asked, tilting his head in its direction. ‘They can’t all be copies of “Everyday”, right?’
‘I’m sure we’ll find there will always be one pristine copy waiting for us here,’ I said, smiling. Gabriel wouldn’t notice just a minor modification to his miracle. ‘Shall we, my darling?’
It was lovely and, dare I say, made our former bosses absolutely green with envy. They may have come to an understanding much faster than we did, but there is something to be said for six thousand years of (albeit unwitting) courtship. Crowley and I anticipate one another. We trust one another completely. And we’ve had many more centuries than Gabriel and Lord Beelzebub to learn how to compensate for the two left feet and dreadful rhythm it appears all celestial beings suffer from, even the former ones.
We shared a kiss in the Bentley after bidding farewell to our allies. Completely unexpected, and much gentler and easier than our last two attempts.
‘Dare I ask what prompted that?’ I inquired after we had parted, my lips tingling and warm.
Crowley shrugged as he brought the Bentley’s engine to life. ‘Thought that was one of the benefits of marriage, not needing a reason.’
It had not escaped my notice that Crowley has been behaving more affectionately lately, although I couldn’t tell you the reason. I’ve tried twice now to glean some hint from Rezathaniel as to what Crowley meant by “know[ing] what to get [me] for Christmas now”, for surely they have been providing him with ideas just as they have with me, but I have thus far learned not a thing.
I ran my thumb over my lower lip, enjoying the ghost of Crowley’s touch, and smiled to myself. I believe I am more than satisfied to remain in the dark on this one, for I suspect it shall be a lovely surprise.
Log Entry #125
Date: 25 November, 2037
Anonymous asks…
In your last post you mentioned a big art commission. 6.6 Care to share any details?
Sorry, not yet! I’ll have more to say about it soon.
Log Entry #126
Date: 25 November, 2037
reza_is_my_poor_little_meow_meow asks…
Hi there! Sorry if this has been asked before, but what brushes do you use?
WHAT IS THIS USERNAME
Log Entry #127
Date: 27 November, 2037
Drinks at the pub tonight. My worst enemy Phil is back in fighting form and ready to “hard lad it” on any weekend of my choosing, he says.
I took him aside to ask, as delicately as I could, whether this was a sex thing. He got flustered and called me a few rude names that I’m not going to repeat here. Needless to say, he is back in hospital and we are still worst enemies. I’m a little broken up about it TBH.
Log Entry #128
Date: 10 December, 2037
If you thought Aziraphale had gone overboard with the holiday baking once he had one helper, imagine what he’s like with two. The cottage has smelled like gingerbread for days now.
This is Muriel’s first Christmas, and they’re taking to it with just as much childlike wonder as you’d expect them to. We did have to clarify early on that Father Christmas was not an earthly manifestation of the Metatron and that it wasn’t actually the Son’s birthday, and they’re forbidden from drinking hot toddies unsupervised now. But overall I’d say Muriel Crowley-Fell is having the time of their existence.
Salamander Lancelot is still a professed atheist (which is the funniest but also possibly saddest thing ever) and his partner Blessing regards angels and demons as pests more than anything,* so Christmastime at their house is rather secular, just like ours. Salamander isn’t quite the baker that Aziraphale is, but there’s been a steady exchange of biscuits and mince pies for over a week now and it shows no signs of stopping. At least he sends me home with the ones less caught around the edges.
*It doesn’t help that she caught me rummaging through their bins last month. I’m going to be her “stray cat” forever now.
Log Entry #129
Date: 17 December, 2037
Muriel just found out about how the little matchstick girl story really ends. They’re inconsolable.
Log Entry #130
Date: 25 December, 2037
Nice to be able to head into Christmas this year not fearing for my life. Although until the moment Crowley and I unwrapped his gift, I hadn’t completely ruled out the possibility Aziraphale might cast me out or worse.
I’ll get to that further down in this post. First let’s set the scene. A nice cozy cottage with a roaring, safely-contained fireplace; the scent of confectionaries wafting through the air; mulled wine all around; and a dead German bloke on the gramophone… and hand-knit, wonderfully ugly Christmas jumpers for both me and Muriel. Mine has reindeer on and Muriel’s is covered in snowflakes.
“Is it meant to be all itchy?” Muriel asked, scratching at the nape of their neck where the neckline was irritating their skin.
“You get used to it,” I said because I will not besmirch Aziraphale’s knitting, not ever. “It’s traditional.”
“Oh, that’s all right, then,” Muriel said, nodding.
Crowley got them a gift as well: the latest Ann Leckie novel. Technically it hasn’t been released yet, but Crowley has his methods.
“Here, Rezathaniel!” Muriel held out a smartly-wrapped box. “Happy Christmas!”
I blinked down at it in surprise for a moment, then silently accepted it, holding it in my hands in blank incomprehension.
“It’s a gift,” Muriel said, looking anxious beneath their normal sunny smile. “From me! Well, Aziraphale helped me pick it out, but.”
I peeled off the wrapping paper and the tape sealing the box. Inside was a little novelty snowglobe, of the type you find in any tourist trap. This one was a tiny reproduction of the boardwalk of Unnamed Resort Town, including a microsized version of the very ice cream shop where I’d treated Muriel after the haunted house fiasco (see archive).
I was speechless. Well, more speechless than before. I took the small snowglobe in my hand and shook it, sending swirls of silver glitter “snow” dancing over the miniaturized buildings.
“I love it,” I said, too stunned to say anything but the unvarnished truth. “Erm, actually…”
With my free hand, I dug into my trouser pocket where I had stashed my gift for Muriel. It wasn’t as pretty to look at, crumpled and messily taped together, and the gift inside was just as shameful. I felt bad even presenting it to them, but their eyes lit up like a dry Christmas tree at the sight of it, balancing it in both palms as though receiving some kind of holy writ.
“It’s not as smart as yours, but,” I began, only to find Muriel had already begun to open it.
“‘Cadbury Chocolate Eclairs’?” they read off the label.
“It’s family size,” I said pathetically, “but you don’t actually have to share it. You can keep them in our room and just have one whenever.”
“These are… sweets?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh, thank you!” Muriel enthused, practically bouncing on their feet. “I think I rather like sweets, you know. Will you have one with me?”
I found myself smiling. Leave it to Muriel to make even a rubbish Christmas gift seem like gold. “All right…”
Next came Aziraphale’s gift for Crowley, which, yes, I had had a hand in picking again. This year’s is a shirt.
Now, you may be thinking, Isn’t this too simple for a Christmas gift? Surely Aziraphale and Rezathaniel put more effort into it than that?
WELL LET ME TELL YOU. Crowley’s infuriatingly picky about his clothes. Much as he teases Aziraphale for being tacky and stuck in the past, he’s still wearing the same suit jacket and waistcoat he did in ‘08 and he’s got exactly two shirts in rotation, one of them a turtleneck he only wears when he wants to ~mix things up~ Even Muriel’s got a more diverse wardrobe than he does.
So yes, it’s a gorgeous dark-red button down from the fanciest-pantsiest clothier in Londontown. It pairs well with everything he has and has the added benefit of being from the current decade. And I know it’s a color that looks good on him because it’s the exact same shade he wore as Ashtoreth.
At that point it was time for Crowley and I to unveil our gift. Now, attentive readers will recall that I said I had the “art commission of a lifetime” a couple months back. This was the “commission”: an all-new portrait of Crowley, the first time he’s sat for one since Alexandre Cabanel – but in this one he appears as himself, not an exaggerated and idealized vision of Satan. He is depicted reclining in bed with his wings spread beneath him and wearing nothing but a tasteful bit of red silk between his legs for “modesty.”
If you think being charged to paint something like this would give me a heart attack, well, you’re not far off. I wish I was able to share updates while I was working on it, but Aziraphale would have found out right away. Somewhere on a server somewhere sits a load of unpublished draft entries about the whole experience, but for a variety of reasons they are not going to see the light of day. Ever.
Anyway, Aziraphale was overwhelmed. He hugged me and told me he loved it, crying with happiness for reasons far beyond the portrait itself.
Muriel took one look at it and said, “Oh! Mister Crowley’s in another pornography!”
I think all three of us blushed from that one TTATT
Then we all got drunk and watched Lars von Trier’s Antichrist, which was a terrible mistake for all concerned. Happy Christmas, readers!