#mckiwiwrites

“You know it comes in June. It comes every year around the middle of June.” Wong shook his head in exasperation. 

Stephen all but fell into the couch cushions, even with Wong’s assistance. “I know, Wong, I just–” he stifled a groan as he shifted, “forgot, I guess.”

“You seem to be doing that a lot these past few days,” Wong commented, but let the topic go. He chuckled abruptly, “That poor kid. No one is going to believe him.” 

Stephen joined him. “Yeah, no one ever believed me when I was his age, either.”

“You saw cryptids as a child?”

“Oh, yeah. Lived in Nebraska in the middle of nowhere. Was practically inviting trouble. My dad never believed me when I told him I saw a dog staring at me from the woodline.” Stephen turned to face his friend, “We didn’t have a dog.”

“Knock, knock,” Geneviève announced as she cracked open the door.

Stephen turned around and faced the other sorcerer, “Oh, hey! Wasn’t expecting you to stop by today.”

She gave Stephen a scrutinizing look. “We agreed to do your French music trivia challenge today. Remember?”

“Not really, no,” Stephen admitted. 

Unbeknownst to Stephen, Wong was also warily observing his friend, “Why don’t we get cleaned up first.” He turned to Geneviève. “We just returned from a mission, you see. Nasty business.” 

Geneviève nodded in understanding, “I was wondering why the two of you smelled so strongly of burnt something. Stephen, I’ll see you this time next week?”

Stephen shrugged, “I suppose.” It’d give him time to figure out what she wanted him for at least. With that, she bid Wong goodbye and left the two of them to clean themselves up, eat, and get some sleep. 

—————

He found a recipe for runzas and experimented with the measurements until he got it to be just like how his mom made it when he was a kid. Having made roughly two dozen runzas in his pursuit of perfection, he invited the Kamar-Taj students over if they were interested. It turned out to be a hit. 

“Since when can you cook?” Wong asked, walking up to stand beside his friend. 

“Good morning to you too,” Stephen said, noticing the bed sheet wrinkles still pressed into Wong’s face. He used the flat end of the spatula to break apart a clump of the ground beef. “I’ve always been able to cook, I just normally don’t.” 

Wong eyed the concoction in the pan. He was loathe to admit it did smell rather good. “Why now?” The other simply shrugged, which prompted him to ask, “Where’s the Cloak?”

“The cloak?” Stephen asked, earning a nod. He wasn’t sure what Wong would need a cloak for, but answered honestly, “I’m not sure. I didn’t see anything earlier when I was dusting.” 

“That’s strange.”

Stephen cracked a smile, “Indeed.”

Wong didn’t dignify that answer with a response. He did, however, make a mental note of Stephen’s blasé behavior toward his most loyal companion.

Once everyone had finished their food, Stephen cleaned up the kitchen and put the scarce food remains in the fridge. His eye caught a piece of paper pinned to the door with a magnet. 

GARRET AND SONYA ROBINSON

ARE PROUD TO ANNOUNCE THE

GRADUATION OF THEIR DAUGHTER

LAUREN CLAIRE ROBINSON

FROM 

COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY

PLEASE SHARE IN THEIR HAPPINESS

ON SATURDAY, JUNE 17, 2023

AT 8 IN THE MORNING

Stephen’s breath caught in his throat as he checked his watch. 

7:18

He still had time. 

—————

Being Sorcerer Supreme was beyond a stressful job. Some days it felt like Wong had the weight of worlds on his shoulders, this belief only compounded by its legitimacy. On the rare occasion that no one was possessed or rouges weren’t planning the downfall of life as he knew it, he liked to sit in the library. Head Librarian was far from the only title Wong had ever been given, but he liked to think of it as his favorite. It felt like him. The role of Sorcerer Supreme was the highest honor he could ever imagine, of course, but some part of him would remain with the ancient tomes. 

As it were, no one was actively dying, so he took the opportunity to relax in the library, only to be stopped short by the sight of a destroyed book. 

Wong rushed over to the tormented pages, haphazardly thrown into a pile of torn paper, and half of a leather-bound cover. He gingerly picked up the cover and looked for the title. 

The Book of Dhakira

Scraping sounds emanated from inside the nearby storage closet. Thumping noises. A knock. Carefully, Wong turned the knob and dismantled the poorly done sealing spell. He was met with a wooden chest practically doing summersaults as the thing inside it frantically flailed around. 

“What are you?” Wong asked aloud, unknowing if the thing inside could understand his words. The jerking only grew more pronounced as it tried to shuffle it’s way toward the door. He stepped out in front of it to block it’s path. The chest went still save for a soft rustling sound from inside. Wong looked around the room to see if anyone else was present, then slowly opened the chest. 

The Cloak of Levitation sprang from it’s confines and shook like a man who’d forgotten what it was like to breathe. “Cloak?” Wong asked, bewildered. “What were you doing in there?” The Cloak drifted over to where the book remains laid and provided the other half. 

Wong watched cluelessly as the Cloak shifted through the pile of papers, letting discarded pieces fly into the air and drift down to the floor. Eventually, it found what it was apparently looking for, and attempted to smooth out the crumpled paper. The Cloak looked at Wong expectantly, tapping the papers. 

He approached the layout. It appeared to be a Spell, specifically one of memory eradication. Wong noted with a growing sense of horror that it was still active, glowing a faint orange. Next to it lay a sheet of messy notes in handwriting Wong knew well. Suddenly, the reason for his friend’s odd behavior clicked. He gasped in dismay.

“Oh, Stephen. What have you done?”

—————

Stephen slid into the taxi. “Get me to Columbia University, please. Quickly.”

The driver nodded and pulled out into traffic. Being a Saturday morning in New York, it didn’t take long before traffic became backed up and eventually came to a complete standstill. The driver apologized for the delay and continued humming along to whatever 70’s song was playing on the radio. Some distant part of his mind recognized it as Pink Floyd.

They hadn’t even made it two minutes into the car ride before Stephen’s chest felt like it was tight. He told himself he was just anxious to get to the graduation on time. 

Seven minutes in, he started flexing his fingers. He rubbed at the curious scars on the back of his hands, not having realized he had them until now. When he tried to recall how he’d ended up with them, he came up short.

He was just nervous, that was all. It didn’t explain why his hands felt like they were simultaneously on fire and plunged into ice water all at once, but how would he know any better? It wasn’t as if he were a doctor or something. 

Ten minutes into the ride found him fidgeting with a weird two-fingered ring he’d found in his pocket. Running his thumb across the designs on the back was comforting in some way. “Could you go a little slower, please?” Stephen asked once they were free from a backup. 

“I thought you wanted to get there quickly?” the driver asked. 

Stephen pressed a hand to his chest, “I know what I said, but please, just go a little slower. Thank you.”

The driver looked at the paling complexion of his passenger through the rear-view mirror. “You alright, man?”

“No, I–” Stephen shakily inhaled. “Pull over.”

“I can turn back. We’re not that far from–”

“Please, I need out, now!” 

The taxi wasn’t even at a full stop before Stephen was pulling at the door handle. The driver twisted around in his seat, “My payment?”

Stephen grabbed blindly for his wallet and just tossed the whole thing up to the front. “Take what you need.” He stumbled out of the car and sat on the nearest curb. His eyes stung with unshed tears and his hands trembled where he clasped them tightly together. 

A few moments later, the driver got out of the car and handed the wallet back to Stephen. None of the cash was missing. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” Stephen answered. “I don’t know why that happened. I’ve never gotten… car sick like that before.”

The driver sniffed, “It happens sometimes. Not a big deal. You want me to hang around for a minute?”

Stephen shook his head, “I don’t think I can get back in the car. Thank you though, really.”

“Need me to call anyone for you?”

“I’m alright. Just need a minute to catch my breath.” He rubbed at his eyes tiredly.

The driver looked ready to argue the point, but left it alone. “I’ll be in the area for a little while if you decide you need a ride.”

“Thanks,” Stephen mumbled into his palms. He watched through his fingers as the taxi drove away, taking with it any knowledge of where he currently was. He didn’t recognize this part of the city, and didn’t know how long they’d been in the car for. Now that he thought about it, he didn’t really remember where he was trying to go. After a long while of looking around, dazed, he stood and walked into the nearest deli. It looked nice and vaguely familiar, at least. 

A cashier greeted him as he walked through the door, “Hey, Dr. Strange! Surprised to see you here. The ceremony can’t be done already, can it?” She looked at a watch on her wrist, “It’s barely even nine.”

Startled, he turned to face the girl, Sophie, according to her nametag, and pointed to himself questioningly. 

“We do know you’re not actually called ‘Dr. Pastrami,” she laughed, “despite what Jeremiah says. But seriously, why aren’t you at Lauren’s graduation?”

“Uhh–”

“Did she forget to tell you? Oh my God, she’s going to be devastated!” Sophie raised a hand to her mouth in shock. “She didn’t call you?”

The briefest spark of recognition and a sense of urgency crossed through his mind’s eye. Like grasping at sand, it slipped through his fingers before the thought could fully form. He had hoped this deli would give him a moment of clarity, but it only served to cause the unknown feeling to spike uncomfortably in his chest. “Forgot my phone at home,” he said, hoping it was a satiable answer. “I’m gonna go now.”

Sophie tilted her head at him, “You don’t want to order?”

“No, I just remembered I’ve got somewhere to be. Thanks.” He shoved aside another patron entering the store and stumbled out onto the sidewalk. There was somewhere he was meant to be, of that much he was sure. Sophie had mentioned something about a graduation. Could that be it? He didn’t remember a Lauren or why he’d be going to her graduation, though. 

He wanted to go home. He’d never felt so much like a child who’d lost track of his mother in a store. He hated this feeling of not knowing where he was or where to go. He hated not knowing where home was.

—————

He’d been walking down the street aimlessly when hurried footsteps caught up to him. “Mr. Dr. Strange, sir! Finally! There you are!” A teenage boy bounded up beside him. “Wong’s been worried sick about you!”

He couldn’t help but notice this was the second time someone had seemingly referred to him by that name. He blinked at the boy, “Do I know you?”

The boy blinked at him in return. “It’s Peter. You know…” he leaned in closer and said in a hushed tone, “Spider-Man.”

“Sorry?”

“Wong said you might be like this,” Peter said, looking more and more distraught. “Something about a crazy Spell you did. Like speed-running Alzheimer's kind of thing. Do you really not remember me?”

That uncomfortable feeling was back, and it brought friends. “Alright, look kid, I’m–” Peter’s eyes widened, “You do know me!”

“Do I?”

“You just called me ‘kid.’”

“Because that’s what you are.”

“I’m seventeen.”

“A child,” he retorted. “Why am I even talking to you? Who are you?”

The teenager smiled, “We just gotta get you home so Wong can–”

“Home?”

“Yeah?”

“You know where I live?”

Peter shook his head, “I know this sounds crazy to you, especially if what Wong said is true, but there’s a Spell taking your memories. And I mean, like, right now. As we speak. Wong called me up and was like ‘You need to find Stephen before he does something stupid’ – his words, not mine – and gave me this awesome-looking gadget thing. Brought me straight to you. But anyway, I gotta take you back to the Sanctum.”

“I don’t know you, I’m not going with you anywhere,” he scoffed and continued walking. What the boy said made an awful lot of sense, though. In some places. What did he mean a Spell was taking his memories? Magic didn’t exist. He was just some crazy kid who probably wanted to prank him and show his friends.

A hand latched onto his shoulder, “Wong told me to get you back by whatever means necessary.”

He spun around and tried to shrug the hand off. The kid’s grip was deceivably strong. “Okay, fine. Where? Where are you taking me?”

“The Sanctum Sanctorum.”

“That sounds made up.”

“It might be, I don’t know. I kinda thought the same, too, not gonna lie.” Peter pulled out his phone, “Let’s go.” 

“Oh, for the love of– go where?”

“You’ll see.”

—————

“Do you know what a mess you’ve caused!” The Asian man once again paced in front of him. Somehow he got the impression the man wasn’t looking for answers anymore. “Can’t you see how bad it is? You’re struggling to live in even the shadow of your former self.”

“What is it that you want to hear? You’ve been preaching at me for the past half hour, trying to shove this stupid book in my face, and supposedly if I just say the magic words everything will go back to normal?” He spat, or so he hoped. It sounded brittle even to his own ears. “You know what? I hate this damned book. I hate this room. And most of all, I hate you, and I don’t even know who you are!” 

The man stopped short of his next tangent. “Wong. My name is Wong.”

“Just Wong?” he scoffed.

A brief flicker of a smile. “Just Wong,” he confirmed. “I apologize if I came on too strong, but your former self was a friend of mine, whether you believe me or not. I’d very much like to have him back now.”

“You keep saying that. ‘Former self.’ I am me.”

“Yes, but you’re not him.”

“What’s the difference?” He was definitely on the verge of sobbing now.

“It’s all the difference, Stephen.” 

Stephen. Stephen Strange. When had he forgotten his own name?

The realization must’ve shown on Stephen’s face. Wong took a deep breath. “I was a fool. I thought that maybe you were doing better when your nightmares had stopped. I should’ve known you’d started dealing with the memories yourself instead of seeking help, and look how well that turned out.”

“I’m so tired of this,” Stephen confessed. “There’s this feeling in my chest that I can’t make go away. I can’t even remember the name of that kid that just brought me here.”

“You can stop this. Stop the Spell. I’ll show you how. The Cloak pieced the Spell back together, but only you can stop it because you’re the one who started it. Please, do this now before it goes too far. The process has already increased exponentially when you left your Sanctum. It was a familiar place. Your home.” Wong laid a hand on his forearm.

“And everything will go back to normal?”

Wong sighed, “No. You’ll stop the Spell, but the memories you’ve lost will stay lost. The Book has other Spells of memory restoration. Perhaps we may be able to retrieve some of the more recently lost ones.” He went to speak, stopped himself, then decided to speak his mind anyway. “I can share my memories with you. The ones of us together. We could get the other Masters to share some of theirs as well. I’m sure Peter can show you some of what happened on Titan. We could contact Christine to show you about your life before sorcery. It’d be a start.”

Soho, London, England - 2019

“I look stupid,” Crowley deadpanned. 

Aziraphale placed a hand on his shoulder as he appeared behind him in the mirror, “I think you look rather endearing, myself.”

Crowley nodded enthusiastically, staring bitterly at his reflection, “That’s my point! ‘M not supposed to look endearing.” Aziraphale studied his handiwork, manually turning Crowley around while the Demon rattled on. “When I agreed to wear a red jumper you’d made, I thought you meant a dark red, nice jumper. Not this… child’s rejected art piece. No offense. And I did not agree to green!”

“It’s meant to be ugly. It’s an Ugly Christmas Jumper competition. Mine is just as bad.” Aziraphale countered. “And red and green are festive!” He did one more glance over Crowley's jumper and was satisfied with the results. 

“It’s got snakes on it, angel! Snakes aren’t very festive!” 

“Maybe not, but they’re very you.”

“Exactly, I’m a snake. The snake. And snakes sleep during the winter, which is what I’d much rather be doing instead of attending this party you’re dragging me to.”

“I’m not dragging you anywhere. You’re driving us.”

“Eugh!” Crowley groaned dramatically, throwing his head back and willing himself to not melt into a puddle on the floor like Ligur had. 

Aziraphale tutted, “You’ve been to other Christmas parties with me over the years. Why is this one any different?”

“Because,” Crowley explained, “I actually see these people on a somewhat regular basis. I don’t need them to see me like this. I have an image to maintain.”

“We’ve already told Anathema and Newt we would come. We can’t back out again like what we did with their Engagement party.” Aziraphale reasoned. 

“Fine,” Crowley sighed. “Gimme a minute. Need to move the plants to the back seat.” 

Aziraphale hummed in acknowledgement, “That’s quite alright. I need to fetch the tray of mince pies anyway.”

—————

Tadfield, England

A relatively short drive later (thanks to Crowley’s speeding) found the Bentley pulling up to a cottage that was the very embodiment of ‘deck the halls’. 

“If a single person so much as looks at this jumper, I’m leaving,” Crowley muttered as the door swung open. 

Madame Tracy opened the door and smiled warmly at them. “Mr Fell! I’m so glad you were able to make it. And I see you brought Mr Crowley with you! I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear anything that’s not black. Red and green look so fetching on him!”

Crowley wordlessly turned around and made it two steps towards the car before Aziraphale grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him back into the conversation. He laughed nervously, “It’s very good to see you, Madame Tracy. Would you mind showing us where the events are being held?”

“Of course!” Tracy opened the door further for them to enter and showed them to the dining room. Several people stood around with drinks in their hands, talking amongst themselves. “You can put your tray beside the Figgy Pudding Mr Shadwell brought.”

Crowley could feel the fingers still around his wrist tighten minutely. He smirked and spoke into Aziraphale’s ear, “Eager to leave so soon, angel?”

Aziraphale faltered. For a moment, Crowley thought he had gotten his way, until the Angel set his shoulders determinedly. “No. We need to do this. It was very kind of them to invite us to this party. We need to at least pretend to like it… and its participants.”

“‘Aye, it’s the Southern Pansy!” Mr Shadwell shouted from across the room. 

Aziraphale’s jaw clenched. 

“Change of heart?” Crowley asked with a lopsided grin. 

Aziraphale pursed his lips and shot Crowley a Look. Something mischievous flashed in his face. “Hello, Mr Shadwell! What do you think of the snakes on Crowley’s jumper?” Aziraphale was met with a look of utter shock and betrayal by the Demon. 

Mr Shadwell observed Crowley’s jumper, “Oh, well, it’s surely–”

“Aziraphale keeps books written by witches because he thinks they’re funny.” Crowley snapped. 

Aziraphale gasped, appalled. “He’s lying!”

“Am I?” Crowley challenged with a Look of his own, knowing Aziraphale kept a comedically inaccurate book of prophecies on the end table in case he ever needed a good laugh. 

“Those witches spread only lies and trickery!” Mr Shadwell jumped at the opportunity to share his area of ‘expertise’. Aziraphale and Crowley both sat through the proceeding lecture. Aziraphale chimed in with the occasional ‘oh nice’ or ‘mhm’ while Crowley didn’t even bother to mask his disinterest. 

—————

The Them attempted to get Aziraphale to Miracle them a brand new PS4, which Aziraphale withstood gallantly. Crowley watched the entire debacle with clinical interest, giving Adam pointers on how to properly perform a Temptation. The boy may have renounced his Unholy Father, but some of the Hellish power still flowed in his veins. 

Aziraphale ended up Miracling a chess board for them to play with, just so they would leave him alone. 

—————

“This roast is simply delicious, dear girl. Absolutely scrumptious!” Aziraphale complimented.

Anathema smiled, “Thank you! I found the recipe in one of my mother’s books.”

Crowley, mouth burning and teary-eyed, took several sips of water and exhaled heavily. “I didn’t think you liked spicy food, angel.”

Aziraphale looked at the Demon curiously, “This isn’t spicy.”

“Wot? Yes, it is.” Crowley argued and looked to Anathema, “What all is in this?”

The witch looked puzzled, “Nothing out of the ordinary, I wouldn’t think? It’s just a roast with some garlic, oregano, sage, and rosemary.”

Crowley promptly choked and spit up into his napkin. 

“He’s allergic,” Aziraphale explained in response to Anathema’s concerned expression. He’d rather tell a little white lie than make the poor girl feel guilty about unintentionally giving his Demonic counterpart purifying herbs. 

—————

London, England- 1843

“Brings back memories, doesn’t it?” Crowley asked, glancing over at the Angel. 

The two of them sat side by side to watch the first-ever showing of A Christmas Carol. Aziraphale was an avid fan of Charles Dickens, so of course he took up the opportunity to see it performed live on stage. If Crowley just so happened to go to the same theatre and sit in the same row as Aziraphale, then that was pure coincidence. The fact they had gotten a late lunch together before the showing was completely unrelated, obviously. 

Aziraphale turned away from the closed curtains, “What was that?”

“I said this brings back memories, doesn’t it?” Crowley asked again, a little louder. 

“With Hamlet, you mean? Well, yes. It does. A much livelier audience this time, thankfully.”

Crowley had to strain to hear Aziraphale’s words over the chatter of the other patrons. “You could say that.”

“And much more comfortable,” Aziraphale added. “Have you gotten the chance to read the book yet?”

“It just came out a few weeks ago, angel. No. Though I’d bet you’ve read it four times by now.” 

“Not at all, actually. I haven’t even gotten the chance to buy the book,” Aziraphale answered so sadly that Crowley had to suppress his smile. He self-consciously patted his jacket pocket. “I go shopping for books at the beginning of every month, except I was in Yorkshire so I couldn’t go this time.”

“Oh, your poor thing,” Crowley teased. His comment was lost on the Angel, however, as the curtains opened and Aziraphale squirmed happily in his seat. 

Cheers rang out as the theatre’s manager crossed to centre stage. “Merry Christmas! And welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to A Christmas Carol!” More cheers echoed through the room. “We are so glad you decided to join us on this thrilling show of Ebenezer Scrooge and his haunting encounters with the ghosts of Christmas! Keeping in line with the Christmas spirit, I have an exciting announcement to make. We have a very special guest here with us tonight.” Everyone waited with baited breath. “Make sure to stick around after the show to see who it is.”

Disappointment and frustration surged from the audience so forcibly Crowley couldn’t help but laugh. The Demon may take credit for some of humanity’s cruelty at times, but he let Dickens take it all when it came to the invention of the cliffhanger. 

For the most part, the play continued like any other they’d seen together. Aziraphale oohed and awed at the appropriate times while Crowley considered the Hellish logistics of Marley’s chains. Eventually, the curtains closed. The actors bowed. The audience clapped. And the manager came back out a short while later with the much-awaited news. 

“Please welcome Mr Charles Dickens!”

Aziraphale’s hand latched onto Crowley’s arm. Crowley looked over in alarm, fearing something might be wrong, but only found Aziraphale completely and utterly captivated by the stage. His eyes were wide and his mouth slightly open in a silent gasp even as the crowd roared around them. 

Possibly the most famous author of their time crossed the stage to stand beside the manager. They shook hands before Dickens began, “Hello, everyone! It is an honor to stand before you all and I’m so glad you enjoyed the play! I am looking forward to meeting some of you!” 

Before anyone could question what that meant, the manager spoke up, “Those of you who donated to the theatre were also enrolled in a raffle. Five of you will be randomly selected to meet Mr Dickens and get an autograph! You will find a number on your ticket. If your number is called out, please make your way to the stage.”

Aziraphale perked up considerably and scrambled to find his ticket. 

“First we have Ticket 157!”

A woman yelped with joy somewhere behind them. 

“Ticket 023!”

A man held up his ticket with pride. 

“144!”

Another man stood from his seat. 

“079!”

Aziraphale looked at his ticket with growing dread as a woman cheered. 

“And finally Ticket 191!”

The audience began to gather their things as Aziraphale remained still, staring longingly at the stage. Crowley stood to smooth out his jacket when his ticket fell out of his pocket. He picked it up and went to stick it back in his jacket when he noticed. 

191. 

“Hey, angel! Look!” Crowley immediately shoved the ticket into Aziraphale’s hands. 

Aziraphale’s face did brighten just a smidge upon seeing the winning numbers, but his smile didn’t quite beam like it ought to. He handed the ticket back to the Demon. “Oh, that’s great, Crowley! Tell him hello for me.”

Crowley shook his head, “What? No. Here. Take it.” He extended the ticket out again. 

“That’s really kind of you, but I shouldn’t.”

“Why not? You love his stuff. Here. Take it.”

“You can’t just give away your ticket.”

“You’re one to talk! I’m not giving away my ticket, I’m giving it to you.”

“But then you won’t have a ticket.”

“I’ll trade with yours if it makes you feel any better.”

“But they mi–”

“Aziraphale.” The Angel stopped arguing and looked up at his companion. “Take it.” Crowley pressed the ticket into Aziraphale’s hand and didn’t pull back until he felt the other’s fingers tighten around the paper. “I’ll meet you at the exit once you’re done.”

“I don’t even have anything for him to sign,” Aziraphale tried weakly. 

Crowley chuckled softly, “Yeah, about that. You remember 40 years ago when you gave me a gift? I thought I should return the favour.” He pulled a book out from his coat’s inner pocket and gave it to Aziraphale. “I was going to give it to you later tonight, but it looks like you’ll be needing it now. Sorry, I didn’t have time to wrap it.”

Aziraphale gasped at seeing A Christmas Carol written in gold across the cover. “There was no need for that, my dear. There was no favour to be returned.” 

“People exchange gifts, angel. You were due one. Now go get your autograph before they close things down.” Crowley nudged Aziraphale towards the stage. 

Filled with renewed vigour, Aziraphale nodded enthusiastically, “Okay, I will. I’ll meet you in a few. Thank you so much!”

Winfield House, London, England - 2013

“But how does Santa get down the chimney? We don’t even have a chimney,” Warlock wondered. 

Nanny Ashtoreth shook her head cluelessly and finished tucking the boy into bed, “I don’t know, dear. Magic, I suppose.”

Warlock wasn’t convinced, “And how does he know when you’re sleeping or awake? Does he watch us?” 

“I don’t know,” Ashtoreth said for the twentieth time that evening. Maybe this is why She didn’t like my questions, she thought tiredly. “You can kidnap him and torture the information out of him when you’re older.” 

The little hellion turned onto his side and pulled the blanket up to his chin, “But then Santa wouldn’t be able to give any other kids gifts. We need to share what we have with those less fortunate.”

Ashtoreth raised a brow, “Did Brother Francis teach you that?”

“Mmhm,” Warlock confirmed. “So really, Santa doesn’t even need to come here. He can just take my gifts to some other kids.”

“You don’t want to hold Santa hostage and keep all the gifts for yourself? Everything you could ever want?” She Tempted half-heartedly. 

Warlock thought for a moment, “Not really. My parents always buy me stuff. Like last week, my dad said he would come to my Spelling Bee, but he forgot. Then he bought me a new computer.”

Ashtoreth remembered all too well the Spelling Bee. She had been there to watch Warlock, but neither of his parents had. His father had gone to play golf with his colleagues while his mother went out with her friends. Warlock, of course, tried to act like it didn’t bother him, but what kind of a Demon couldn’t sense feelings like disappointment and a desire for things unobtainable? What kind of child doesn’t seek parental validation and attention? The two of them had gotten ice cream afterwards and sneakily displayed his gold medal beside Thaddeus’s golf trophies. 

She decided to change the topic, “You need to go to sleep so Santa can come tonight.”

“Is Santa even real?”

This was definitely outside of her pay range. “Ask your parents in the morning, darling.” She pulled her coat a little tighter around herself and walked towards the door. “Get some rest, tomorrow is a busy day for you.”

“Alright. Good night, Nanny. I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll be back on Monday. Sleep well, Hellspawn. Dream of the death of your enemies.”

Ashtoreth closed the door behind her softly and sighed. The sun had long since set over the Dowling’s home, with only the scarce light of the stars to guide her way through the path. She didn’t need the light to know where she was going, anyway. She knew the way to the Gardener’s abode like the back of a certain bookshop. 

Knock… knock knock… knock

“Good evening, dear. How was your day?” Aziraphale, who had been off duty as Brother Francis for the past two days, asked as he opened the door wide enough for her to slip through. 

Crowley began kicking off her heels and letting go of her Ashtoreth disguise as soon as the door had closed. “Jolly,” she replied in her usual, bored tone. Not the soft, slightly Scottish one she reserved for her ward. “Warlock’s been interrogating me about Santa Claus all night. Stupid Americans with their stupid American traditions.” She pinched the bridge of her brow. “A chimney. They’ve got Santa going down a chimney, Aziraphale. A chimney!”

Aziraphale passed Crowley a glass of wine, “So I gather.”

“And you haven’t helped either!” Crowley accused. “You’ve got Warlock thinking Santa doesn’t even need to come here 'cause he gets everything he wants anyway.”

The Angel smirked, “Oh, so he was listening after all.”

Crowley downed the entire glass in less than four seconds, “He’s a kid. Kids are always listening, even when you don’t want them to. Ask any parent, they’ll agree.” She held out her glass for Aziraphale to refill, to which he complied. She sipped at this one much slower. “I kinda feel bad for him.”

“He’s not just a child, he’s the Antichrist. We have to remember that,” Aziraphale reminded, though his heart wasn’t in it. 

“Yeah, I know. I know.” Crowley slumped further into her seat. 

Aziraphale draped a blanket over the Demon’s shoulders and sat next to her on the large couch. “Do you have to work tomorrow?”

“No, they’ve given me the rest of the week off to go be with my ‘family.’ They also gave me a £50 gift card and a Christmas Spice scented candle. So thoughtful of dear ol’ Thaddeus.” Crowley answered, every word dripping with sarcasm. 

“You think he picked out the candle himself?” Aziraphale asked insincerely. 

Crowley laughed, “Oh yeah. He spent hours in the shops picking out a candle that reminded him of me. It was picked out with love and careful thought, I’m sure.” 

“You know,” Aziraphale began, “If you’ve got nowhere to be, and they’re expecting you to be gone anyway, well then… perhaps we could go somewhere?”

Crowley recognized her own Temptation being thrown back at her from all those hundreds of years ago. She smiled sadly. “Where?”

Aziraphale shrugged, “I was thinking somewhere warmer. Perhaps coastal?”

“You mean go south?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, that’s a splendid idea!” Aziraphale agreed excitedly, buying more and more into the idea. Crowley’s heart seized painfully. “We’ll rent out a little cottage for the weekend! What do you say?”

Crowley nodded, “I’d say that would be great. I wish we could.”

Aziraphale visibly deflated, “What? You wish? Why can’t we?”

“Angel, Heaven and Hell are watching us now more closely than ever. The end of the world is in just six years, in case you forgot.” Crowley said. 

“Of course I remember the world is ending, it’s all I can ever think about these days!” Aziraphale bristled. “Every time I see that boy running around in the flower beds or, or trying to feed the squirrels, I get reminded of the fact he’s meant to destroy the world, and yet… I can’t picture it.” 

Crowley, for once in her very long life, let her questions go unasked. 

Aziraphale continued, “I have to constantly remind myself not to get too attached. He’s not human, no matter how much I may want to think of him as one. He’s here to destroy everything we love. Everything we’re fighting to protect. We’ve spent the past four thousand years knowing the Prince of Darkness is coming, but as it currently stands, the Prince of Darkness is sleeping under a tartan blanket and glowing stars on his ceiling. We’ve not had a moment’s rest in several millennia. The world will continue spinning if we take one sodding weekend off for a holiday.” 

The Angel’s racing thoughts were cut off by slow clapping. “Alright,” Crowley stated. “I’m sold. We’ll make a Tempter out of you yet.” 

“So you’ll do it?” Aziraphale asked hopefully. 

“After getting preached at like that I’d be hard-pressed to disagree,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale clasped his hands together joyfully, “Oh, wonderful! I won’t have to cancel the reservation, then.”

Crowley baulked, “The what?”

“I rented a cottage in the South Downs for the weekend,” Aziraphale answered. 

“… When?”

“Yesterday.”

“Yesterday?! I hadn’t even agreed yet.”

“Oh, I know. But I convinced the Dowlings to let you be off this week, so I knew you would be free. I also know how hard these past few months have been for you, and you’d be more likely to entertain the idea of a holiday.” Aziraphale said smugly. 

Crowley stared, “You’re a right bastard, you know that?”