#and the adorable little kid is a six-foot something young adult who’s built like a fridge

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens Secret Santa 2020 - “Lights Will Guide You Home” (Rated PG13)

Summary: While watching the kids for the night, Crowley takes them all on an adventure, which includes a trip to the states to look at the Christmas lights. He drives them around to see bigger and gaudier displays, but Aziraphale is a little confused when he finally gets to see Crowley's favorite. (1556 words)

Notes: Written for Micha (@one-with-the-floor) as part of the Good Omens Secret Santa 2020 gift exchange.

Read on AO3.

"How about this one, kids? This might be the brightest one yet! ... Kids? ... Kids?" Crowley looks in his rearview mirror and scowls. "Oi! When did the little buggers fall asleep?" 

Aziraphale turns away from his window and the house beyond covered in every twinkle light available on the Eastern Seaboard (he suspects) and gives Crowley a confused look. Then, remembering that they aren't alone in Crowley's Bentley, he peeks over at the seat behind them, where five children snore softly, heads leaning on shoulders, fast asleep. "About five houses ago, I believe? Give or take? That's the last time I heard any ooo'ing or ahh'ing."

"Which house was that?"

"The one with the nativity scene made up of inflatable dragons breathing fire and wearing Santa caps."

Crowley's brow draws together as he tries to recall. "Oh, yeah. Right." He looks over his shoulder so he can see the pile of children properly: Warlock dressed in his stiff new Christmas suit, Adam a bit less formal in khakis and a pale blue polo, the rest of The Them a hodgepodge of wrinkled trousers, thick-soled shoes, and shirts of various fit alongside Pepper's red velvet gown, which her parents forced her to wear (a fact she stated numerous times throughout the evening) and which she accessorized with a faux leather jacket and a bulky pair of Doc Martens. "What's the deal with them knocking out so early? They're kids! They're supposed to be boundless founts of energy, aren't they?"

"Early? It's close to one in the morning!"

"Yes, but if you take into consideration the clan of gingerbread people they decimated, then washed down with a gallon of cocoa, they should be bouncing off the ceiling! We've been out for, what? An hour? Two?"

"Try four," Aziraphale says, checking his watch to be sure. "Did you have to miracle us all the way to the states?"

"Yes," Crowley says definitively. "They do Christmas a little differently out here. Bigger. More grandiose."

"That's an understatement," Aziraphale mutters as they pass a house so festooned with lights and animatronic creatures, he can't see the structure they're affixed to. "As is, I'm not sure how exactly you're getting away with miracling the lot of us abroad."

"When Hell finds out I used my magic to take five children across borders without passports, they'll be ecstatic!"

"But will Warlock's parents? Or Adam's?"

"Who's going to tell them?" Crowley shoots his angel a significant look, but Aziraphale matches it, arms crossed over his chest, glaring sternly, and Crowley backs down. "Look, their parents ditched them with us so that they could go off drinking and regaling and having a good time."

"Ditched them?" Aziraphale chuckles at Crowley's skewed point of view. "We offered!"

"And we promised these kids a good time!"

"You definitely delivered," Aziraphale says, smiling at his memories of their night: the snowball fight that ended with them crashing an outdoor service; the horde of snow zombies they built in the yards of a quiet and unsuspecting neighborhood; the hills they zipped down using trashcan lids as sleighs. Aziraphale was horrified by most of these to begin with, but that didn't last. Not when he saw how thoroughly the children enjoyed themselves. 

Crowley, too. 

But driving around, looking at lights? That was an unexpectedly tame suggestion. And Crowley was rather insistent. "But why did you want us to see Christmas lights?"

"Because it's important."

"How?"

"This is the only time of year you get to see this," Crowley explains, gesturing vaguely.

"And what's that? Enough wattage to coax down passing aircraft? Or are you perhaps referring to the eight-foot Santa mooning passersby?"

"No," Crowley replies. But that Santa was hilarious! The children spotted him from miles away and made Crowley drive over. They spent a good fifteen minutes pointing and laughing, making the kinds of off-colored jokes that make parents shush! But more hilarious was his angel's scandalized reaction - his dramatic tut, followed by an even more dramatic, "God Lord." "Humanity." Crowley sighs. "I know I talk a lot about Christmas becoming vulgar and over-commercialized. And come the day after, it'll be back to the business of not giving a shite about their fellow man, trampling each other in the shops to get the most ridiculous garbage at seventy-five percent off ..."

"Something you earned a commendation for, if I recall," Aziraphale points out.

"... but when humans light their houses like this, invite their neighbors to gather 'round, they're saying 'All are welcome! Stop on by! Let's celebrate together!'"

"To me, it's more like they're saying, 'Look at me! Look at all of this useless bother I own! Who cares that I'm diverting migratory birds from their destinations? Astronauts can see my house from space!'"

"Agree to disagree then," Crowley grumbles, then goes silent, and Aziraphale knows he's teased one step too far.

"The children falling asleep will make it easier to transport them," Aziraphale says, easing into a new subject until he can think of a way to apologize. "We can miracle them into their beds when we get back to the Dowling's. Then we can do a little regaling of our own."

Crowley grins. He can't stay stung by his angel forever. He's just too sentimental tonight to have a sense of humor. "Sounds about perfect. Been a while since I've done any regaling."

"Tonight's as good a time as any to start."

Crowley turns down a street with fewer lights and no neighbors milling about, preparing to snap them back to London. "Which house was your favorite?"

"Oh, none of these," Aziraphale says snobbishly. "I'm not the biggest fan of modern-day extravagance. I would have to say my favorite out of all the displays was that abbey down by the river: fairy lights reflecting off the water; tasteful nativity out front; evergreen trimmed with simple decorations - wooden star atop, red velvet bows, paper angels ..."

"Leave it to you to choose the one holy place we found, and only because we took a wrong turn."

Aziraphale wiggles happily in his seat. "You know what they say - there are no accidents."

"Yup. And four rights make a left."

Aziraphale pulls a face. "I ... don't think that's correct ..."

"Don't matter." Crowley turns in his seat, looks at his angel. "Do you wanna see my favorite?"

Aziraphale smiles, all thoughts of turns shelved for the moment. "Of course." "Alright. It's back in our neck of the woods, so hold on tight."

Aziraphale reaches to the side, takes Crowley's free hand in his, gives it a squeeze. "Ready."

Crowley snaps his fingers. 

For a single second, the world stops. 

A bright light surrounds the Bentley, engulfs it in its brilliance. In the amount of time it takes for Crowley's fingers to slide across one another, they're home. 

Aziraphale blinks, looks about as his eyes adjust to the lower light. He expected to see a house pulsating with a glow equal to a thousand suns outside his window, maybe with Virgin Mary riding a motorbike behind the abominable snowman while the angel Gabriel wrestles an alligator. But the shapes around him are familiar. His brow wrinkles as he tries to understand what he's seeing. They're not just back in London, they're in Soho.

Right outside his shop. 

"Which one is it?" Aziraphale looks up and down the block at darkened storefronts, most of them as frugally adorned as his own - a rope of garland, a wreath, a silver bell or two, but nothing special. Nothing noteworthy. Nothing even close to the houses they spent the night ogling. 

"This one right here." Crowley points past Aziraphale toward a set of wooden double doors.

Aziraphale frowns. "But ... that's my bookshop."

"A-ha."

"I didn't do much in the way of decorating."

"I know."

"And I don't like when people stop in, so it's not as if I'm encouraging my neighbors to gather."

"Know that, too."

"So, why is it your favorite?"

"Because ..." Crowley scoots across the seat, puts an arm around Aziraphale's shoulders "... it's home."

"You consider a dusty old bookshop home? When you own that mansion of a flat in Mayfair?"

"You consider the bookshop your home, don't you?"

"Yes, but that's because my books are there, my liquor cabinet, my snuff boxes - everything I'm fond of. Everything I adore."

"What a coincidence. Because everything I'm fond of ... everything I adore ... is at your shop."

"And what would that be?" Aziraphale asks sarcastically. "My bottle of Hennessy Paradis Imperial?"

"No. You, you pair of walnuts," a grumpy Warlock responds in Crowley's stead.  

Crowley glares at his young charge over his shoulder. "Rude."

"Look, could you guys take us home first and then make out?" Adam asks.

"Yeah," Pepper agrees. "My entire body is numb except for my right eyelid."

"Plus, listening to adults flirt kind of grosses me out," Brian adds, the rest mumbling in agreement.

"Alright, alright," Crowley growls, sliding back into his seat and putting the car into drive. "We'll drive you ankle-biters home, and then ..."

"We regale! Which I'm confident will include plenty of 'making out'? Right, my dear?"

"Absolutely," Crowley says with a smirk. Aziraphale snorts when their cluster of pre-teens groan.

"I think we're making them uncomfortable, angel." 

"Serves them right," Aziraphale says, straightening in his seat. "I could have happily gone on for another six thousand years without seeing Santa Claus's rear end. Vengeance is mine."

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