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It was never quiet. That, more than anything else, was what wore on Aziraphale.
The trench shifted from muttering to shouting to explosions and back again, but it never reached silence. Even what passed for stillness carried movement: boots scraping, teeth chattering, someone coughing into a sleeve, someone whispering a prayer to stay calm. The noise settled into him day after day until he could no longer separate one sound from another.
He was glad to be here. He reminded himself of that often. He missed his shop, of course, and the bakery on the corner, and his books, and tea prepared at the proper strength, and clothes that did not cling with damp. Those thoughts came to him uninvited, but he let them pass. He had chosen this assignment. He believed in its purpose.
Here, he could do what he was meant to do.
He walked the same length of the line he covered every day, pausing where he was needed, never hurrying. The boards that creaked beneath his feet were worn smooth from months of use. The walls were patched where they had sagged. Everything smelled of mud, smoke, sweat, and cold iron. The men hardly noticed him anymore unless he stopped beside them.
A private of eighteen, shaking with fever, steadied when Aziraphale laid a hand on his shoulder. The boy blinked, rubbed his forehead, and drew a deeper breath than he had managed in hours.
A corporal of twenty-four sat with a letter in his hand. His sweetheart had broken things off, but he suddenly found himself thinking of the girl at the post office back home and the way she always smiled when he collected his mail. A small thing, but enough to lift his spirits.
A captain of thirty-seven checked the pockets of his coat and found a chocolate bar he knew he had already given away. He looked confused for a moment and then relieved.
Aziraphale continued down the walkway, offering quiet words where he could and a reassuring touch when someone needed grounding. He did not draw attention to himself. He moved at a steady pace, neither rushed nor idle. The men responded without realizing why they felt lighter, calmer, or a little more sure of themselves.
He reached the far end of the trench and paused to take in the scene: the lanterns burning low, men shifting in their sleep, someone humming a tune under his breath to stay awake, a kettle rattling softly on a makeshift stand.
Aziraphale drew in the stale air. He needed a few minutes above ground. The thought formed with surprising clarity. There was nothing he could do for the men right now that required him to remain below. He scanned the faces of the soldiers nearby to make sure no one was watching him too closely and then stepped towards the nearest ladder.
The sentry at the top looked at him with tired eyes. Aziraphale gave a small nod. The young man returned it without question.
Aziraphale climbed.
The air changed as soon as he reached the top — cleaner, colder, and easier to breathe. No Man’s Land spread out in front of him in jagged shapes, frost on every surface. The sky was clear.
He took a few steps forward, then stood still and let the quiet settle around him.
It wasn’t his choice to be here, but Crowley was here all the same, and figured better him than someone else — for the humans, at least. Hastur, Ligur, even Eric… the rest of them would have taken pleasure in making these men suffer.
Crowley saw how they were suffering already and decided that he’d justify his miracles to keep food fresh and boots dry by telling Hell that a live soldier could sin much more easily than a dead one.
He walked the German trench with his collar up and his hands in his pockets. The boards under his boots were slick where the frost had melted and refrozen. Men sat with their backs against the walls, eyes half closed, shoulders pressed together for warmth where they could manage it. A few cleaned rifles. A few played cards without much interest in winning.
He passed a crate of rations that should have spoiled days ago and gave it a brief, focused look. The smell shifted from sour to bearable. One of the quartermasters would open it in the morning and be quietly relieved. Crowley moved on.
He reached a point where the passage narrowed, the air thicker with smoke and breath. He stayed as long as he needed to check the guns, then turned away. There was nothing more he could do below ground for the moment.
He stopped near the ladder and waited until no one was looking directly at him. A lieutenant barked an order farther down the line. Two men shuffled off to carry it out. The rest stayed where they were, wrapped in their own thoughts.
Crowley climbed.
The cold on the surface wiped away the stale warmth of the trench in a few seconds. He drew in a long breath and let it go. The field opened in front of him in broken stretches of earth and wire. The British line stood across from his own, dark and still.
He scanned it out of habit and spotted a lone figure already out in No Man’s Land. The coat, the posture, the pale curls that caught the moonlight.
Aziraphale.
Crowley didn’t call out. He stepped off the lip of the trench and started across the ground at an even pace. The frost held under his boots. The wire and shell fragments marked where not to tread. He had walked worse ground in his time.
As he drew closer, Aziraphale came into clearer view. The angel stood with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders set, face turned towards the stars. He didn’t look down when Crowley reached him, but Crowley knew he had been noticed.
“You picked a fine time to come up,” Crowley said.
Aziraphale’s breath clouded in front of him. “I needed the air.”
“Trench getting to you?” Crowley asked.
“It gets to everyone,” Aziraphale said.
“Mmm,” Crowley hummed in agreement. “You could have stayed in London. Kept your shop running. Waited it out.”
“I could have,” Aziraphale agreed.
“But you didn’t,” Crowley said.
“No,” Aziraphale said. “Neither did you.”
Crowley let out a short breath. “Someone had to come. Better the two of us than a set of idiots with something to prove.”
“That is… one way to put it,” Aziraphale said. “All the same, I didn’t intend to worry you.”
Crowley arched an eyebrow. “Who says you did?”
“My mistake,” Aziraphale said mildly.
“If you want to get yourself discorporated, that’s your problem.”
“Of course,” Aziraphale agreed. “Which is why I’m here all by myself.”
“I’m here on orders,” Crowley said. “That’s all.”
“Mmm.”
Crowley opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again, looking away from Aziraphale and back towards the German trench.
“What?” Aziraphale asked. “What is it?”
Crowley tilted his head, frowning. “Do you hear that?”
Aziraphale stopped breathing next to him. Crowley did the same.
“Is that… is that a hymn?” Crowley asked.
A soft sound escaped Aziraphale. “Stille Nacht,” he murmured.
A second voice joined the first one, then a third, a fourth. Suddenly a chorus filled the night air.
Crowley swallowed. Everyone knew the Pope’s plea 'that the guns may fall silent at least upon the night the angels sang' had fallen on deaf ears.
“They’re going to get themselves shot for insubordination,” he muttered, then groaned as a German soldier appeared above the parapet, hands raised in the air. “Or by the Brits.”
“No,” Aziraphale whispered. “Listen.”
Behind them, another melody rose into the night: Joy to the World.
Lanterns appeared along the German line, more hands and heads rising above the sandbags.
“Look,” Aziraphale said breathlessly.
Crowley looked. A British soldier was holding his cap over his head, singing as he slowly ascended the same ladder Aziraphale must have used.
“Let men their songs employ,” Crowley said softly.
Aziraphale gave him a startled look, then a smile spread across his round face. “Just so.”
The carol ended, and for an instant, Crowley thought the moment would break.
Instead, a fresh song filled the silence. In a wavering tenor, the soldier — a lowly private, if Crowley’s eyes didn’t deceive him — sang, “O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant, o come ye, o come ye to Bethlehem.”
At the top of the German trench ladder, an officer appeared, his voice steady and strong: “Natum videte Regem angelorum: Venite adoremus, venite adoremus, venite adoremus Dominum.”
As the song continued in English and Latin, the private grinned and took a step forward. The officer did too, raising one hand and calling across No Man’s Land. “Merry Christmas, Englishman.”
The private turned his head back towards the trench, and Crowley couldn’t hear what he said. A moment later, he faced the German line again. “Fröhliche Weih– Weihnachten.”
The sergeant’s face — Crowley could see him properly now — shifted from surprise to delight. He held out his hand and walked forward, avoiding icy furrows with a skill that seemed suspicious. When Crowley caught the brief movement of Aziraphale’s hand in his peripheral vision, his suspicions were confirmed.
“Helping out, angel?” he drawled. “You know he’s one of the bad guys, right?”
Aziraphale shrugged. “Not tonight.”
Crowley snorted. “That’s not how this works.”
“It is tonight,” Aziraphale said. “Tonight they’re remembering what they have in common, remembering that they’re all humans and it’s a holy night.”
“It wasn’t even tonight,” Crowley muttered.
But he watched the sergeant cross the last few steps with sure footing no man should have on this scarred ground, and the British private met him halfway, both men looking equal parts cautious and determined. Their handshake was firm. Their relief was visible.
Aziraphale and Crowley released held breaths at the same moment. They kept their eyes on the men as they began speaking in halting phrases, their hands moving rapidly to communicate what words couldn’t.
The private pointed towards the German trench. The sergeant shook his head and pointed towards the British one. Whatever joke he made landed well enough, because the private laughed, a quick, surprised sound that carried across the cold air.
More soldiers climbed out. Lanterns bobbed along the parapets. Boots crunched against the ice. The singing faded, replaced by cautious greetings and short bursts of amusement when someone’s attempt at another language went poorly.
Aziraphale stepped forward half a pace, then stopped himself.
“What?” Crowley asked.
Aziraphale folded his hands behind his back. “I wasn’t planning to interfere.”
“You already did,” Crowley said.
“That was only to keep him from falling,” Aziraphale replied.
“That counts.”
“I disagree.”
Crowley rolled his eyes but didn’t press it. He knew Aziraphale was restraining himself from doing far more than a bit of stabilizing. The angel’s shoulders were tight with the effort.
A German corporal approached the growing cluster of men and held up a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. He opened it slowly to reveal a few biscuits. He offered them to the nearest British soldier, who accepted one, broke it neatly, and handed half back.
“They’re sharing food,” Crowley said.
“Yes,” Aziraphale answered. “Breaking bread — well, biscuits — together.”
Crowley watched the corporal gesture towards the parcel again, encouraging the British soldier to take another. The Brit refused, tapping his chest and shaking his head as if to say he had already had enough. The corporal nodded, satisfied.
On the field, a few more men stepped out, each moving with care, though not a one slipped.
A young Scotsman jogged forward, holding a football under one arm, shouting something in his thick accent. Two Germans tried to guess what he was saying. When they failed, he set the ball on the ground and nudged it towards them with his boot. They understood that well enough.
The ball rolled unevenly. One of the Germans stopped it with a quick step. He passed it back. The small circle around them widened.
Crowley exhaled slowly. “They’re going to end up playing a full match at this rate.”
“Possibly,” Aziraphale said.
“They don’t even speak the same language.”
“Football rarely requires it.”
Crowley couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped. “Touché.”
A British warrant officer approached with a tin of something wrapped in cloth. He offered it to a German captain, who opened it to reveal preserved cherries packed in syrup. The captain’s eyebrows rose. He handed the tin to the soldier nearest him, then produced a packet of tobacco from his breast pocket. The warrant officer accepted it with a nod.
A German private brought out a harmonica and began playing “O Tannenbaum.” It drifted across the field. A British soldier hummed along. Another tried to match it on a tin whistle. The first few notes were poor, but no one seemed to mind.
Crowley glanced at Aziraphale. The angel stood still, shoulders less tense than earlier, hands relaxed at his sides.
“You’re thinking something,” Crowley said.
Aziraphale drew in a steady breath. “They could have chosen anything else tonight. They could have stayed low. They could have ignored the singing. They could have fired.”
“They didn’t,” Crowley said.
“No.”
Crowley rubbed a hand over his jaw. “And so this clearly means the end of the war.”
Aziraphale shook his head. “I wish I thought so. I think they’re exhausted, cold, frightened, and lonely. And given one chance to stop, even if only for a few hours… they took it.”
Crowley hummed and said nothing.
Another group joined the football game, feet pounding across frost and dirt. Laughter rose when a German slipped while trying to intercept the ball, only to be steadied by a British soldier grabbing his arm.
Aziraphale’s gaze followed the scene with something like careful hope, though he didn’t speak it aloud.
Crowley shifted his weight, his gaze drifting first to the German trench, then to the British one. In his pocket, his left hand twitched. The tension that had begun to radiate from both sides ratcheted down again.
Aziraphale looked towards him. “You’re doing something.”
“No, I’m not,” Crowley answered.
“Thank you.”
Crowley didn’t reply.
He kept his eyes forward, on the field where men who had been firing at each other only hours ago were now trading bits of their rations and comparing photographs held carefully in gloved hands. Dawn would come. Orders would come. Someone would force them back into the trenches.
But not yet.
Crowley lowered his voice. “Let’s hope they get as much time as they can.”
Aziraphale nodded. “They deserve at least that.”
Crowley didn’t say what he was thinking — that he wished the moment would stretch longer, not because of hope for humanity, but because he hadn’t seen Aziraphale look so at peace in weeks.
He kept that to himself.
Aziraphale stayed very still.
The men in the field shifted and turned and moved from group to group. Two young men, one from each side, stood shoulder to shoulder, passing a cigarette between them and speaking in broken phrases. One fumbled for a word and substituted a gesture. The other copied it, grinning. Another pair traded buttons, carefully cutting them from their coats and tucking the new ones into their pockets with numb fingers.
The football game wound down as the men grew tired. A final kick sent the ball skidding off towards a shallow crater. No one chased it. A few laughed weakly and put their hands on their knees to catch their breath. Others walked back towards the main knot of soldiers and slipped into quieter conversations.
Aziraphale watched a British chaplain and a German medic stand together for several minutes. They did not trade anything. They did not laugh. They simply spoke, each man listening closely to the other. At the end, they shook hands twice, as if once were not sufficient. The chaplain pressed his free hand to the medic’s chest in what looked like a blessing. Beside him, he heard Crowley clear his throat.
Before he thought better of it, he shifted closer and pressed their shoulders together. The contact was light, brief, and he fully expected Crowley to pull away.
Crowley shifted his weight and pressed back.
Aziraphale’s breath caught once, then evened out.
Far across the fields, a single round of gunfire cracked through the air, distant but unmistakable.
Crowley flinched.
Aziraphale closed his eyes for one second, then opened them again. Officers were beginning to call their men back. Some soldiers went at once. Others lingered until they were called a second time.
The Scottish soldier fetched the ball from where it had rolled and tucked it under his arm. He slapped a German on the shoulder before turning back towards the British trench. The German responded with a comment that made the Scotsman laugh.
Aziraphale watched until the last pair in the center of the field parted with an awkward handshake and turned away from each other. Both slowed before they reached their own lines, then forced themselves to continue.
Aziraphale’s throat tightened, but he held himself steady. This could never have been more than a temporary reprieve. That didn’t keep him from wanting it to last.
Crowley walked Aziraphale back to the British trench, where they lingered by the ladder.
At last, he extended his hand. Aziraphale clasped it.
“Don’t get yourself discorporated,” Crowley said, his gaze cataloguing every familiar feature of Aziraphale’s face: warm blue eyes, rosy cheeks, chapped lips.
“Is that concern I detect?” Aziraphale said, his voice light, despite the tightness around his eyes.
Crowley scoffed. “I’d much rather deal with you than another angel. Imagine if they sent Sandalphon down here.”
Aziraphale grimaced. “Purely selfish motives then.”
“Of course,” Crowley said.
He turned away, but there was a tug on his sleeve. He looked over his shoulder. Aziraphale’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Mind how you go, Crowley.”
Crowley nodded and watched as Aziraphale descended the ladder. He waited until the angel was out of sight, then shoved his hands into his pockets and picked his way across the treacherous field.
The ground between the trenches was cut through with tracks now. Bootprints crossed and recrossed each other. Here and there, crumbs marked where biscuits had been shared. Cigarette ends were squashed into the frost. By the next bombardment, most of it would be gone.
As he neared the line, the familiar smells and sounds rose up to meet him. Men were talking in low voices, sharp and quick, giving their versions of the night. Some were boasting. Some sounded shaken. A few spoke very quietly.
At the foot of the ladder, a young private sat with his back to the wall, hands wrapped around a mug. His eyes were red.
“Back to it, sir?” he asked, his voice cracking.
“Back to it,” Crowley said softly.
He climbed down.