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SVD Advent Calendar 2024
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Published:
2024-12-23
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Tom Bawcock’s Eve

Summary:

Heaven and Hell never said they couldn’t help the humans indirectly.

Aziraphale, Crowley and a little miracle in Cornwall one Christmas a long long time ago.

Notes:

Written for the Scribbling Vaguely Downwards 2024 Advent Calendar, with all the love in the world for my two fellow admins and all the group members.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

The sea mutters against the harbour wall, talking darkly of kelp forests and starfish fields, of swallowing the land whole in one long reach.

Crowley turns up the collar on his coat and tries to ignore it. Tries to ignore the clouds sparring with the wind, tossing streamers of rain down onto already flooded streets and the ominously creaking boats in the harbour. It creeps down his neck anyway; on another plane, he can feel his wings shiver.

On a human level, Mousehole seems quiet and still. There’s a few lights burning in a few windows but the oil’s run low along with the food, and the candles are being burnt for warmth in the church. The villagers are hiding inside as much as they can.

On an occult level… it makes his skin prickle. The salt tinged prayers are harsh, demanding as much as begging, anger and frustration mixed into something that doesn’t need words.

He wanders back to the inn, tries not to think about the implications of a demon having room at the inn before Christmas. Conversation in the common room is sparse. There’s two fights while he’s there, bored and land bound men edgy with hunger, looking for an escape. Glasses roll onto the floor and chink against the muddy boards; the landlord sighes tiredly and turns to prod at the dying fire instead of dealing with it.

Overhead, the rain lashes against the roof. Sneaks its way in so that there’s a steady drip down through the rafters.

It feels like the whole place has given up. Crowley orders another glass of something that might have been wine once and downs it; the village matches his mood right now.

Vaguely, he’s aware of people looking at him. Any stranger this far West, at this time of year in Cornwall must be strange, and he stands out despite his best efforts. Taller for one, and not with the pinched, lean look of hunger about him. But none of them have the energy or curiosity to do anything other than look, and he’s left alone to finish more of the maybe wine.

He spends another two days in the inn. Listens to half hearted conversations about launching the fleet and desperate ones about the stocks of salt fish and the last remaining swedes. The cows, further inland, have stopped milking or the men no longer have the strength to milk them. It’s the same thing, in the end.

Beezelbub’s orders burn hot in his mind; hotter than the fires here at least. He’s so cold he can’t sleep, or maybe that’s the mocking laughter of the sea disturbing his rest.

It takes him hours to feel Aziraphale’s presence, and that makes him feel colder still. Is the angel trying to hide from him? Or is he so far shut down that he’s stopping himself from hearing and feeling everything, not just the prayers?

But the angel’s there, between one useless breath and another. Somewhere in the darkness, beyond even Crowley’s sight, and surely too far away for any of the humans to notice.

Crowley goes to him.

Of course he does, always and forever.

And Aziraphale’s waiting for him, or so it seems. Maybe that’s just his dreams talking, if demons are allowed to have such things. The worst of the storm seems to be missing him at least, sheltered in the lea of a holly tree as the angel is.

‘There you are, Crowley.’

It’s been… twenty years or more since he saw the angel. Easy to lose track of the humans’ ways of counting time here. But long enough that every fibre of Crowley’s being has missed him, at least.

‘Here I am,’ he replies, and the joy must sound a little in his voice because Aziraphale smiles and it feels like the storm’s blown itself out already.

‘What are you doing here?’ He asks after a moment. ‘Couldn’t have been a very comfortable journey down here for you.’

‘Oh, you do fuss so, Crowley. Heaven asked me to check in down here, they wanted me to bless someone. I wasn’t permitted to see all the details, of course. I believe Gabriel may be coming by with further information in due course.’

Crowley hisses, then remembers himself and swears instead. ‘As if this isn’t grim enough without your dickhead of a boss showing up. Really going to brighten the mood, he is.’

‘Crowley!’

He wonders if that’s a complaint for the language or for criticising Gabriel. Whatever, he doesn’t want to start bickering with Aziraphale already so he just nods.

‘What are you doing here anyway?’ Aziraphale asks after a moment. It’s a peace offering, and Crowley knows it. Good. The misery has worn his nerves thin as it is.

‘Oh. Hell stuff. Want me to make sure these people are properly miserable or something. I uhh…’

Is it wishful thinking or does Aziraphale look genuinely doubtful at that? He stares at the angel moment, trying to get a proper read on his expression under the oversized hat and coat. There’s just a flicker of blonde hair visible in between it all.

‘I haven’t done anything,’ he says after a moment. ‘The storm… the storm’s fucked up but it’s nothing to do with us.’

‘I didn’t think you had,’ Aziraphale says after a moment. ‘Can you actually play about with the weather?’

He wants to be annoyed at that, bristle at the implication that Aziraphale’s still apparently thinking he’d do something like that, but he’s cold and tired and heartsick as a demon can be. ‘If I wanted to? Probably, yeah. But it screws everything else up. If I made it rain here for a week, I’d probably make a drought somewhere else next month or set off snowstorms in Arabia or the like. So I’m just hanging around watching them all be miserable and curse each other out for eating all the supplies.

‘I’m sorry,’ Aziraphale says, and Crowley feels warm again for a moment. Warm and cared for, as though there’s layers of meaning under those two simple words.

‘Are you going to stay long?’

‘Until after Christmas, at least.’ Aziraphale looks around, seems to take in the cold and the gloom. ‘Have you got a place to stay?’

‘There’s an inn. I’ve got a room there, if you wanted a drink? No baths I’m afraid, they’re out of firewood.’ And food, but he doesn’t say that. Aziraphale nods and follows him.

**

Another two days creep by. The fishing boats in the harbour battle against their anchors, turn their heads towards the storm if they get a chance. One goes down in a rush of splintered wood and resigned voices from the onlookers.

The waves are shouting now, eating their way through the top of the harbour wall.

Crowley can’t sleep.

‘Who are you meant to be blessing?’ he demands, once he can’t listen to the waves anymore.

‘Gabriel still hasn’t told me, I’m afraid. I think I have to remain here until he does.’

Crowley sighes, doesn’t point out that the landlord is growing increasingly upset with his inability to provide any kinds of facilities for his only two guests.

‘And Lower Down aren’t letting me go yet.’

‘We may as well make the best of it,’ Aziraphale says and uses one cautious miracle to set a candle burning. ‘Cards? I think it’s your deal.’

They play until late that evening, when a disturbance outside sends them both hurrying to the window.

Aziraphale sidesteps a little so they can both see, standing shoulder to shoulder, and he’s glad of the angel’s warmth alongside him.

On the edges of the harbour, there’s an argument going on. One man standing in front of a circle of others, pointing out to sea, and waving his arms around. Crowley doesn’t need to catch the words to know the conversation: the right, frightened looks on everyone else’s faces tell the story.

‘He’s going out, isn’t he?’ Aziraphale says softly. The wind shrieks a reply and the waves bite at another boat, twisting and spinning it at anchor in a parody of a dance.

‘Yeah.’ Crowley stares down at the man with sick fascination. Bearded, heavy set or maybe it’s the oilskins he’s bundled in; clearly terrified and equally clearly determined to do something.

How many times has he watched a human reach the end of their endurance and find one last, unexpected scrap of courage? Too many to count, surely.

‘You could bless him,’ he suggests and watches Aziraphale fret at the idea. Fingers working anxiously at his shirt sleeves, lips twitching as he tries to formulate an answer.

‘Gabriel…’

Gabriel can fall into the harbour for all Crowley cares, although he knows better than to suggest that as a solution.

‘You could do,’ Aziraphale says, looking down again. A couple of men have moved to stand with the fisherman, the argument now descending into two groups.

‘Beelzebub…’ He smacks his hand against the wall, frustration boiling over. ‘We can never do anything, can we? Bastards always looking over our shoulders…’

Aziraphale’s hand is soft, warm on his wrist. Enough to ground him, at least.

‘Let’s go down and speak to him,’ and once again, he finds himself following Aziraphale through the half-light of the storm.

The air is salt laden, the wind cruel as any whips. It takes them a moment to find out that the man’s name is Tom Bawcock; that he does intend to take his boat out and fish. That no-one in Mousehole had eaten today.

Crowley notices that the argument isn’t as heated as he’d thought from upstairs. Everyone agrees that a boat needs to go out and it’s mostly shame making touchy, shame that they lack the skills to do it. He doesn’t get a sense of cowardice from any of them, at least.

It’s been a while since he’s had to do any blessings for Aziraphale and the Arrangement but it comes as easily as flying. Just a small one, aimed at the boat rather than the man. What he isn’t expecting is the gentle brush of Aziraphale’s mind and miracle alongside his at the same instant, another blessing.

There’s a flash of light bright enough to sting his serpents eyes; the men all pause their discussion and stare at the horizon. Perhaps they’ll pass it off as lightening or just another oddity of this already odd storm.

He turns to look at Aziraphale instead; sees the calm and the anger on the angel’s face and although he’s never been scared of Aziraphale, he thinks that expression could be enough in the right circumstances.

‘Gabriel didn’t say I couldn’t help.’

There’s a flicker of movement then, and they both turn back to the harbour. Tom takes a running leap down across the wall and scrambles down onto his boat. Lets the ropes go so that she spins round and the sails take the wind with a scream.

Crowley can hear the muttered prayer from one of the men nearby. ‘For those in peril on the sea,’ and he isn’t surprised to see Aziraphale muttering the words as well as the boat and the man vanish through the tiny gate of the harbour and are swallowed by the grey maw of the storm.

‘What did you do?’ he asks.

‘Blessed the boat. Same as you.’

Mousehole waits, and Crowley waits with the village and the angel. Tries not to hear laughter on the wind and mockery in the waves. Tries not to count the hours and the tides or see the faint promise of stars overhead.

Let Heaven and Hell come if they will, he thinks darkly and goes back to staring out to sea.

It’s the landlord who sees it first, from the upper floor of the inn, and his shout breaks the darkness of what ought to be dawn on the 23rd December but is so dark he can’t tell if the sun’s risen or not.

‘There! A sail! A sail!’

He doesn’t think any of the humans dare to hope. Certainly, they don’t speak until the boat’s in the harbour and a wriggling, squirming net of fish is thrown on the harbour wall. Then it’s cheering and shouting, a cascade of voices that threaten to block out the noise of the storm itself and the people of Mousehole rushing forward as one, going to embrace Tom and the food and the sudden hope for Christmas.

Beside him, Aziraphale’s smiling. Crowley lets himself smile too, and leads Aziraphale away, leaving the humans to their celebration.

Notes:

Based roughly on the legend / story of Tom Bawcock of Mousehole who, when the village was starving due to a storm, took his boat out in the worst of the weather and brought back 7 kinds of fish which were then baked in a ‘Star Gazy Pie.’

Was it real, the storm and the man? Real enough that Mousehole celebrates him every 23rd December, and maybe that’s enough to make someone real even if they never existed - and certainly men have gone out from that tiny harbour in storms beyond belief to try and feed their families, without any kind of angelic or demonic intervention.

The hymn mentioned is ‘For those in peril on the sea.’

Mousehole is pronounced ‘Mouzahl’ roughly.

Anyway, that’s long notes to say Merry Christmas to you all.