Disclaimer: NONE of the characters that participate in the events that follow belong, in any way, shape, form or parallel universe, to me. Crowley and Aziraphale belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, authors of Good Omens. Other, minor characters do not belong to anybody in particular, and therefore must be said to be their own masters/mistresses. Again, I own none of these characters. I just write about them. Full credits/ references are given at the end.

Yet In Thy Dark Streets Shineth, The Everlasting Light

The pale snow lay thickly, punctured only by the naked grace of dark trees. Their slender twigs were encrusted with a light layer of ice, every minute detail- every knot or ripple in their thin bark- emphasized and beautified. A few lonely, dead leaves still clung to the branches onto which, almost a year ago, they had been born. They were as skeletal as spider webs, and, like the twigs, had been laced by frost into little pieces of exquisite silver filigree.

The fluffy snow crunched and squeaked beneath Crowley's shoes as he wandered through the small wood, waiting.

The trees, thin as they were, thinned out still further, and melted away, revealing a gently sloping expanse of snow. The graveyard on top of the hill opened up before him, full of stone crosses and gravestones, their engraved names and dates and eternal messages of love and longing picked out in a silver glaze, along with all the cracks and imperfections in the stone. In a few places, a bunch of wilted and frozen flowers sagged onto the snow. Crowley's footsteps, dark shadows on the white ground, meandered around the graves, taking unusual care not to step on any of them. Even he drew the line somewhere. Especially tonight.

Suddenly, the scene lightened, as a gibbous moon floated out from behind thick, pale clouds in the dark sky. He stopped to watch its passage. "The moon was a ghostly galleon, tossed upon cloudy seas". Thank you, Alfred Noyes, he thought.

A thin, cold breeze shivered through the empty wood, ruffling his long, dark coat. His shoulders shook, but he enjoyed the sensation. Crowley loved being cold, even though his body could not stand it for long. It was so different to what he was used to. It made Hell seem further away than it actually was.

The moon retreated behind a cloud, withdrawing most of its chilly light from the graveyard. He looked at the lighted dial of his watch. Quarter past eleven. He resumed his aimless ramble. He started to read the names and dates and epitaphs on the gravestones. Anything to pass the time. Anything, rather than sit and look at the-. He focused on the graves.

'Mary Ellen Samuelson/ 1855- 1918/ Beloved wife and mother/ Much missed' and 'John Stoakes/ 1901-1943/ May God Be Merciful' and 'Theodore and Amy Shipton/ 1893/ Died aged 7 and 9 months/ Of a low fever'. A few had images etched into them- a willow tree, a skull, a winged skull, something that could have been a vase, another skull.

Crowley's wandering feet brought him over the crest of the hill, and he looked down at the scene below him. A narrow, gravelled drive appeared from the wood, leading to a car park. There were at least twenty cars in it, including the large, lithe patch of polished darkness that was his beloved Bentley. There was a small path leading from the car park. It was paved with worn stone slabs, and the snow on it had been trampled away. The path led up to…up to the church. He tried to look away, to read the short poem inscribed on a nearby grave, but the shadowed letters had no meaning behind them. His eyes were drawn irresistibly to the building, the focus of the scene, the whole point, the whole meaning of everything.

The simple spire rose, black against the dark grey sky. The stonework, and the small, humble buttresses were black, as was the neatly carved stone cross on the roof. It was the windows that drew his attention. Light poured from them, light and joy and the sound of voices and the resounding, majestic vibrations of the organ. They poured into the windows, and the windows poured them into the night, glowing with the incandescent colours of saints, and miracles and journeys and winged angels. Colour flooded into the darkness and the darkness collapsed beneath it, leaving the stained-glass windows and the solid light around them standing, strong and pure and victorious.

The door of the building stood open- Crowley could see the simple, golden light spilling onto the worn flagstones. It was open, welcoming everyone to have a share in the joy. Everyone. He had already seen a young couple, wrapped in scarves and jackets and each other's arms, take up the offer, and vanish into the light and rapture beyond the silhouetted threshold.

Everyone. Everyone-except him. He tried to laugh at how melodramatic he made it sound, but it did not come out. There was no laughter in him. The only place for laughter was behind those gloriously tinted panes of light, and that was the one place in the world where he could not go. The door was wide open to everyone, but somehow its warmth and beaming welcome managed to shut him out at the same time.

The music of the organ changed, slowed down, became more stately, but lost none of its effervescing happiness. The voices radiated through the coloured windows, low and soft, but full of power and passion. The notes shifted from syllable to syllable, sliding the words up and down. He could just make out a few lines here and there.

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep/ The silent stars go by…

He imagined Aziraphale singing those beautiful words, every note, every syllable, every curl of his hair outlined in angelic love and glory.

Vaguely, somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind, the recesses he had long since locked because opening them caused him so much pain, he remembered…something similar to that. Light that now seemed blinding, but then had seemed so ordinary. Golden light. Singing too, singing that was so beautiful that he wondered why it hurt so much to remember it.

Yet in thy dark streets shineth/ The everlasting light…

It was boring, remember? Crowley told himself firmly. It was completely, utterly monotonous. It only had about five notes in it. And all that Rapture- what had been the point? No-body actually loved anyone else, they just went around doing the things that supposedly constituted the word. There was never any real 'charity'or 'joy'or 'glad tidings' involved, just running off and saying that there were. He was far better off without that sort of thing.

The hopes and fears of all the years/ Are met in thee tonight…
Wasn't he? He was. Right? He didn't need all that pretend lovey-dovey nonsense. He didn't. Not at all. He had…. He had…. He had…the Bentley. Queen? Sushi?

But even he knew that they were no substitutes for everything he had lost.

'You haven't lost anything, Crowley,' something inside was telling him.

'Haven't I though?', something else asked.

While mortals sleep, the angels keep/Their watch of wond'ring love…

And, despite half an eternity of denial and constant, stern reminders from Senior Demonic/Occult Executives, Crowley began to wish. He opened the floodgates in his heart- and the tide rushed in.

Longing filled him, the desperate desire to go back a few thousand years, to retrace all the thousands of footsteps through the millennia, to go all the way back, and all the way forwards so that he could run down the hill, slipping and sliding on the creaking snow and cross the threshold into the welcoming arms of the music and light and the open door.

But the organ kept on churning out its beautiful vibrations and the voices steamrollered their way through the song, and no-body cared that he was out there, alone in the darkness, trying to wish his way back.

The song ended. The service continued. The hands on Crowley's watch ticked themselves closer to midnight.

Another song started, shone, glowed through the darkness and then ended with a final flourish of chords.

Why could he not find that joy again? For humans there was a way back…but for him there was nothing. There was no such thing as 'repentance for demons'. Once you Fell, your wings broke and turned black and there was nothing that could get the black off. He knew that for a fact. He had tried.

He looked at his watch again. Midnight was coming. Midnight, and the birth of Christ. In less than five minutes time, almost exactly two thousand years ago, the Light had come to Earth. Aziraphale had been so happy. He had glowed for thirty-three years.

In four minutes, Christ would have been born, and the bells would ring, and Aziraphale, and the rest of the Christian world would be happy. And Crowley would not be. He had lost that option. He would sit there, consumed in misery and self-pity, while the light and music shut him out of their world.

Aziraphale was happy. Aziraphale was happy now, but how happy would he be when he saw Crowley, alone in the darkness of his own black heart, reaching for the light that was no longer there?

Crowley imagined the beaming smile fading a little, the shine of the spectacles dulling. The luminous aura flickering in uncertainty, and shrinking, guiltily, from sight. For the angel would be guilty, Crowley knew. Aziraphale would see the self-absorbed depression and…. In his head, he watched, again and again, the happiness crumple, draining out of those sky-blue eyes, leaving nothing but guilt and disappointment. It hurt. Crowley knew that it should not, but it did. How could he? How could he do that? How dared he?

But there was nothing he could do. There was no way- the angel saw everything, every hope, every dream…. There was a way. He could…

Could he do that? Could he abandon that dream? That wonderful, radiant dream? Part of him said that no, he could never do that. Not for the world. Not even for the angel. That dream was all he had left.

But part of him said something different. An echo of something he had once been piped up in the blackness.

That dream, however wonderful or radiant, was abandoned long ago, Crowley. That hope Fell with you.

'Then I have nothing left?'

No, I didn't say that. Not yet.

Torn between what he was, what he had once been, and several different versions of what he could become, Crowley shivered with uncertainty. The hands of his watch, long forgotten, ticked on.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Pause.

Beep.

The church bells rang through the night, heralding the birth of the son of God. Crowley looked up. He had completely forgotten. He looked at his watch in astonishment, as if he didn't already know. Midnight.

The organ rose once more, and the voices, human and frail, but filled with uncontrollable love, swelled in the blinding light they had created.

JOY TO THE WORLD, THE LORD IS COME!

LET EARTH RECEIVE HER KING!

Aziraphale's aura burst through the night, crying out in a passion of joy. Light seared through Crowley's heart, and, before he could think, before doubt could creep back in, he let go. The golden light, the peals of the bells, the purity, the happiness, touched something in him, and like the darkness it so closely resembled, the something gave way.

He watched the light slip between his fingers, light that he would never have now, nor ever would have had. He could have clutched at it, but he didn't. He just watched it stream away in a blaze of gold. And then his hands were empty.

He looked at his fingers, cold, pale and almost completely devoid of life. And yet….

Aziraphale was happy. He was more than happy, by the sound of it. And he would never know. He would never know what had happened in the darkness in the snow on top of the hill. The awful hope, the struggle. It was all over. And, what was more, Aziraphale would stay happy. The smile would never waver; the shining eyes would never grow dim. Not until Easter, anyway, and that was all far in the future.

REPEAT THE SOUNDING JOY!

REPEAT THE SOUNDING JOY!

And suddenly Crowley's heart swelled with something that, while not quite heavenly joy, filled him with a small, warm glow. It was nothing to rival the radiance that was now emanating from the church, but it was enough to make him feel, well, like he didn't really have to cross the threshold into the blaze of light. The door was open, that was all very well, but he was quite content to be outside, enjoying the freshness of the snow. Aziraphale was happy. And, as part of him was slightly surprised to find, that was enough.

AND WONDERS OF HIS LOVE!

AND WONDERS OF HIS LOVE!

AND WONDERS, WONDERS, OF HIS LOVE!

The organ drew the final chords to a standstill. The music was gone, but the love and happiness and light still swirled in the dark air. Crowley stood up, stiffly. The service would be over soon. Aziraphale would linger (he always did- managing all those minor miracles, such as the sudden multiplication of the contents of the collection plate) but it really was getting quite chilly out here. He could wait in the car.

He looked at the short, steep slope below. Something bright bubbled inside him. The slope was covered in snow. Crowley looked around. There was nobody watching. The bright something egged him on. What the hell, he thought.

He leaned forward, letting his feet slide gently. Suddenly, just as he had hoped, he slipped.

He slid down the hill in a flurry of wet, cold snow, tumbling and scrambling. He laughed, out of pure exhilaration and contentment. He was free, for now, at least. And Aziraphale was happy.

He wound up panting and laughing and out of breath, on his knees in the snow next to a young oak tree wreathed in frost and mistletoe. He looked at the mistletoe. Hell would have words to say, if ever it found out. Words with needles sticking out, and handcuffs. He looked up and down the hill. Heaven…shouldn't be 'displeased', should it? It was all in the spirit of the season. Heaven should be happy. Aziraphale would be happy. He turned back to the tree. Nobody need ever know. He shrugged. What the hell, he thought again, reaching for a sprig.

He waited for ten minutes in the warm darkness of the Bentley. People streamed out of the church, chattering and excited. He heard the scrunching of feet on gravel and snow, the slamming of car doors, the crunch of tyres, the whistled notes of a lingering carol.

Eventually, after most of the noise had died down, a set of footsteps approached. A dark shape opened the door and clambered in.

Aziraphale was, quite literally, glowing. His golden curls, his glasses and the blue eyes behind them, even the knitted scarf and brown felt coat glowed with angelic lustre. His aura filled the car with a cosy warmth that smelled of cocoa and candles.

The angel's smile was the only thing in the car. It drew Crowley in like a gilded magnet and he was soon half in the passenger seat. The angel tasted of sweetness and carols.

Crowley retreated slightly, but only for the time it took to move his mouth to Aziraphale's ear and whisper into it;

"Happy Christmas, angel," before returning his mouth to where it had been before.

Eventually they parted, Crowley smiling tenderly, Aziraphale looking quite beyond happy, but slightly surprised.

"Well, thank you." Even his voice was shining. "But, well…" he trailed off, and tore his eyes away from Crowley for just long enough to notice the piece of mistletoe tied to the rear-view mirror. "Why?"

Crowley shook off the pain, and leaned over, and kissed the angel again.

"For you." he whispered, between kisses. "Happy Christmas."

References:

Alfred Noyes, "The Highwayman". (A particular favourite.)

Hymn, "O, Little Town of Bethlehem" (Copy that.)

Hymn, "Joy to the World"

To give credit where it is due:

Firstly to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, the greatest conjurors of all time, for writing Good Omens in the first place.

Second, to my wonderful Alpha. Who introduced me to Good Omens, to taught me to actually write down all those mysterious inspiration flashes, who showed me the vast world of fanfiction, and without whom I would never get anywhere at all.

To St. Marks Anglican Church in Devonshire, Bermuda. Who is probably not the only church in the world to sing "Joy to the World" at the stroke of midnight on Christmas Day, but who introduced me to the idea.

To you. If you are actually still reading this, thank you for humouring me. Please feel free to leave critical comments. This is my first (ever) fanfiction, and I need all the help I can get.