Happy Holidays, miscellanny!
Title: The 12 Days of Christmas
Gift for: miscellanny
gGift from: chinquix
Rating: PG
Summary/prompt: 'Aziraphale and Crowley in some kind of traditional Christmas story setting - inspiring Charles Dickens, or at the filming of the Muppet Christmas Carol, or re-enacting the 12 days of Christmas in some bizarre way - whatever inspires you!'
Author's notes: My goodness, what an original title. This is my first Good Omens fic, and I have say, it was great fun to write! I decided to go with the 12 Days of Christmas theme, in the end, as I found the idea quite amusing. I'm sorry Crowley didn't have much of an appearance in this, I was actually finding it quite difficult to write him in; again, sorry if that's a problem.
26th December (Day 1)
There was a tree on his doorstep.
If Aziraphale had been paying closer attention, he would have noted how this particular variety of fruit tree1 didn't typically bloom in the depths of winter - a fact that the plant in question didn't seem to be aware of, if the delicate white petals littering the surrounding area were anything to go by. It also appeared to be suffering from severe anxiety.
As it was, the angel was rather too preoccupied with the overly plump partridge currently flying repeatedly into his bookshop window.
“Oh dear,” he said.
[1] Pryus communis, more generally known as the Wild or Common Pear tree
27th December (Day 2)
It was doves, today. Eyeing them with covert distaste2, he picked up a small note that lay next to the birds.
'No magic tricks, this time.'
Aziraphale pursed his lips.
[2]As much as angels are meant to have an intrinsic love for all His creatures, it could never truly be said that Aziraphale was an 'animal person'
28th December (Day 3)
Chickens, Aziraphale decided, were irritating at the best of times. It was even worse when there were three of them. Doubly so when they were French.
29th December (Day 4)
He caught a glimpse of Crowley that afternoon, and with righteous fury descended upon the demon, metaphorical sword metaphorically ablaze3.
“I trust I have you to blame for the growing menagerie in my Classics section?” he enquired, in as stony a manner as was possible for an angel to affect.
From behind his sunglasses, Crowley levelled him with what he probably believed to be an innocent look, which was really somewhat impossible for a creature such as himself to pull off and just left him looking mildly traumatised. “I have no idea what you're talking about, Angel,” he replied, before stalking off with sashaying hips. Aziraphale didn't bother enquiring as to why exactly he'd taken the trouble to visit Soho if all he intended to do was protest his innocence. He'd spare him at least that embarrassment.
He wished he'd thought to ask what on earth Colly birds were, though4.
[3]No, that wasn't a euphemism
[4]Colly bird is in fact an Old English term for the European blackbird
30th December (Day 5)
Rings, at least, didn't leave a mess on the carpet or peck apart valuable manuscripts, though quite what he was supposed to do with five of them, Aziraphale wasn't entirely sure.
One for each finger, perhaps?
31st December (Day 6)
Back on the theme of birds once more, it seemed, as Aziraphale exited his shop to a cacophony of hissing. He jerked his leg away from the beak of a particularly broody goose, only to find himself engaged in a tug-of-war with another as it took hold of a corner of the carrier bag he was grasping.
“No, get off, you confounded-- feathered brute-- oh all right, have it then!” With an exasperated sigh, he let his burden fall to the ground.
The bag had contained a few paperbacks, novellas he'd procured with the intention of actually selling to the general public, yet had instead sat gathering dust for years5. They would only have ended up in the recycling bins, anyway.
Still, it was the principle of the thing.
[5]he'd found it unbearable to display them amongst his rare collections, in the end, so had hidden them out of sight in some dark, forgotten corner
1st January (Day 7)
There were swans in his bathroom. Of course there were swans in his bathroom.
Clearly the doorstep had become too obvious a location for the presentation of bizarre gifts.
2nd January (Day 8)
Aziraphale had been curled up in the back room, cocoa in one hand and Chaucer in the other, when he was disturbed by the sound of the shop door opening once, twice, then six more times in quick succession. Frowning, he extricated himself from the confines of his armchair, making his way through to the front of the shop.
“I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid we're closed,” he called, “though you're free to visit again tomorrow--” here he cut himself off. There were eight young women browsing his shelves.
Eight young women dressed as milkmaids, and eight cows peering through the windows.
The angel wondered if it was possible to discorporate yourself through overexposure to the ridiculous.
3rd January (Day 9)
The shop really wasn't the appropriate size or shape for an impromptu dance-off. Aziraphale had never considered this to be a negative quality before now, but being crushed, as he was, against a mahogany bookshelf by the ample frame of a well-dressed woman, he was forced to contemplate the benefits an extension might bring.
He would, for instance, be celebrated as the owner of London's only bookshop-dancefloor.
4th January (Day 10)
“I'm terribly sorry sir, I didn't see you there--”
“No, no, it's quite all right, dear boy, I was just...I should've been paying more attention, you see, should've expected something like this I suppose, haha...”
“But it is entirely the fault of my companions and myself, we became too carried away with our leaping, it seems...”
“Look, never mind, just try not to knock over any more of the shelves, would you? And watch out for the geese.6”
[6]these words came too late - one had already had its wing crushed and was currently hissing in an altogether hurt tone
5th January (Day 11)
Had Aziraphale ever bothered with sleep, he would most likely be rather more irritated with the current situation. Fortunately for him, the sound of eleven pipers playing at full volume in the early hours of the morning was not quite as aggravating as it was for his neighbours.
Nonetheless, he still felt obliged to spare a disapproving look at the boys. This really was getting quite out of hand.
6th January (Day 12)
The drumming sounded curiously similar to that of a funeral march.
The pipers had attempted to join it at some point, but clearly the pace was too sombre for their tastes; the lords had ceased their leaping and were instead stamping their feet to the rhythm; the ladies were engaged in an odd swaying dance that resembled that of a charmed snake; the cows were pacing warily, their accompanying maids nearly crushed underfoot; the swans swam in ever widening circles in what was already a cramped, flooded bathroom; the geese had become confused and were laying what appeared to be nuggets of solid gold; the rings lost their sheen; the Colly birds were circling above the shop like the harbingers of death they so closely resembled; the hens were pecking at the toes of all who ventured too close; the turtle doves had fled in search of olive branches. The partridge was still flying into the window.
All in all, the scene resembled some sort of hellish tableau.
Close to breaking point, the angel had taken refuge behind a writing desk that served as the rarely-used till. He had been shouting various pleas for silence and order, but all to no avail. And now, it seemed, the end was nigh; the whole demonic chorus was descending upon his hiding place, and as he closed his eyes in preparation for the worst, the only thought that crossed Aziraphale's mind was how on Earth was he going to explain this to the chaps Upstairs?
At that point, the door burst inwards7, revealing a certain flustered demon with lopsided sunglasses and glowing eyes. The room fell silent. He surveyed all, head turning slowly like a serpent sizing up its prey, before his gaze alighted on his heavenly counterpart crouching demurely beneath the desk.
Crowley said, quite eloquently, “Ssshit.”
The assembly vanished in an anticlimactic poof of vaguely red smoke and stray feathers, and Crowley leant down to offer Aziraphale his hand. He seemed rather adamant not to meet the angel's eyes.
A tense silence passed as Aziraphale brushed the dust from his clothes, shrouded in an aura of disapproval directed solely at the demon8. Before he could begin a tirade of scolding, however, he was interrupted.
“Look, Angel, it was a joke, I swear, I didn't expect it to go this far and OK, so I might have been slightly sloshed when I ordered the tree but it seemed like a good idea at the time, only then I thought well I've started it now and I can't really finish with just the tree, so I may as well carry on with the whole shebang, but then I actually had to start manifesting the damn birds and yeah. It got out of control. I'm sorry, that didn't make much sense, did it?”
Aziraphale merely lifted a bemused eyebrow. The disapproving aura was still there, only now it seemed to have gained a fear for the demon's mental health.
Running a hand through his hair, Crowley let out a hiss of breath that sounded a lot more sinister than he'd intended. “All right. Long story short: I got drunk, ordered a pear tree and associated partridge off the internet, sent it to you for lack of a better recipient, and then...it all went to Hell. So to speak.”
Only now did the angel respond. “I don't know if you realised, my dear, but this whole little stunt of yours nearly drove me insane.”
“Well I'm sure it can't have been that bad--”
“I considered turning my bookshop into a nightclub.”
Crowley made a sound vaguely similar to 'urgk'. That was pretty insane. “Can't we just agree to...forgive and forget? Isn't that what your lot are into? Acts of compassion, and all that jazz?”
The answering smile was distinctly too benevolent for Crowley's liking.
“Of course I forgive you, my dear boy,” he replied, oozing good will, “there's just the small matter of, ah...atonement.”
A mop and bucket appeared as if by some miracle9, and the demon found himself being directed towards a section of antiquarian books, in the centre of which was a monstrous, waste-coated nest.
“You can start by cleaning up the mess left by your well-intentioned gifts.”
'Just enough of a bastard to be worth liking', Crowley reminded himself, and set to work.
~end~
[7]an astonishing feat, considering how there was very little space left for the door to actually burst in to
[8]who considered this to be really rather unfair, regardless of what part he'd played in the proceedings
[9]it was, in fact, a miracle, though merely a minor one
Happy Holidays, miscellanny, from your Secret Writer!
Gift for: miscellanny
gGift from: chinquix
Rating: PG
Summary/prompt: 'Aziraphale and Crowley in some kind of traditional Christmas story setting - inspiring Charles Dickens, or at the filming of the Muppet Christmas Carol, or re-enacting the 12 days of Christmas in some bizarre way - whatever inspires you!'
Author's notes: My goodness, what an original title. This is my first Good Omens fic, and I have say, it was great fun to write! I decided to go with the 12 Days of Christmas theme, in the end, as I found the idea quite amusing. I'm sorry Crowley didn't have much of an appearance in this, I was actually finding it quite difficult to write him in; again, sorry if that's a problem.
26th December (Day 1)
There was a tree on his doorstep.
If Aziraphale had been paying closer attention, he would have noted how this particular variety of fruit tree1 didn't typically bloom in the depths of winter - a fact that the plant in question didn't seem to be aware of, if the delicate white petals littering the surrounding area were anything to go by. It also appeared to be suffering from severe anxiety.
As it was, the angel was rather too preoccupied with the overly plump partridge currently flying repeatedly into his bookshop window.
“Oh dear,” he said.
[1] Pryus communis, more generally known as the Wild or Common Pear tree
27th December (Day 2)
It was doves, today. Eyeing them with covert distaste2, he picked up a small note that lay next to the birds.
'No magic tricks, this time.'
Aziraphale pursed his lips.
[2]As much as angels are meant to have an intrinsic love for all His creatures, it could never truly be said that Aziraphale was an 'animal person'
28th December (Day 3)
Chickens, Aziraphale decided, were irritating at the best of times. It was even worse when there were three of them. Doubly so when they were French.
29th December (Day 4)
He caught a glimpse of Crowley that afternoon, and with righteous fury descended upon the demon, metaphorical sword metaphorically ablaze3.
“I trust I have you to blame for the growing menagerie in my Classics section?” he enquired, in as stony a manner as was possible for an angel to affect.
From behind his sunglasses, Crowley levelled him with what he probably believed to be an innocent look, which was really somewhat impossible for a creature such as himself to pull off and just left him looking mildly traumatised. “I have no idea what you're talking about, Angel,” he replied, before stalking off with sashaying hips. Aziraphale didn't bother enquiring as to why exactly he'd taken the trouble to visit Soho if all he intended to do was protest his innocence. He'd spare him at least that embarrassment.
He wished he'd thought to ask what on earth Colly birds were, though4.
[3]No, that wasn't a euphemism
[4]Colly bird is in fact an Old English term for the European blackbird
30th December (Day 5)
Rings, at least, didn't leave a mess on the carpet or peck apart valuable manuscripts, though quite what he was supposed to do with five of them, Aziraphale wasn't entirely sure.
One for each finger, perhaps?
31st December (Day 6)
Back on the theme of birds once more, it seemed, as Aziraphale exited his shop to a cacophony of hissing. He jerked his leg away from the beak of a particularly broody goose, only to find himself engaged in a tug-of-war with another as it took hold of a corner of the carrier bag he was grasping.
“No, get off, you confounded-- feathered brute-- oh all right, have it then!” With an exasperated sigh, he let his burden fall to the ground.
The bag had contained a few paperbacks, novellas he'd procured with the intention of actually selling to the general public, yet had instead sat gathering dust for years5. They would only have ended up in the recycling bins, anyway.
Still, it was the principle of the thing.
[5]he'd found it unbearable to display them amongst his rare collections, in the end, so had hidden them out of sight in some dark, forgotten corner
1st January (Day 7)
There were swans in his bathroom. Of course there were swans in his bathroom.
Clearly the doorstep had become too obvious a location for the presentation of bizarre gifts.
2nd January (Day 8)
Aziraphale had been curled up in the back room, cocoa in one hand and Chaucer in the other, when he was disturbed by the sound of the shop door opening once, twice, then six more times in quick succession. Frowning, he extricated himself from the confines of his armchair, making his way through to the front of the shop.
“I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid we're closed,” he called, “though you're free to visit again tomorrow--” here he cut himself off. There were eight young women browsing his shelves.
Eight young women dressed as milkmaids, and eight cows peering through the windows.
The angel wondered if it was possible to discorporate yourself through overexposure to the ridiculous.
3rd January (Day 9)
The shop really wasn't the appropriate size or shape for an impromptu dance-off. Aziraphale had never considered this to be a negative quality before now, but being crushed, as he was, against a mahogany bookshelf by the ample frame of a well-dressed woman, he was forced to contemplate the benefits an extension might bring.
He would, for instance, be celebrated as the owner of London's only bookshop-dancefloor.
4th January (Day 10)
“I'm terribly sorry sir, I didn't see you there--”
“No, no, it's quite all right, dear boy, I was just...I should've been paying more attention, you see, should've expected something like this I suppose, haha...”
“But it is entirely the fault of my companions and myself, we became too carried away with our leaping, it seems...”
“Look, never mind, just try not to knock over any more of the shelves, would you? And watch out for the geese.6”
[6]these words came too late - one had already had its wing crushed and was currently hissing in an altogether hurt tone
5th January (Day 11)
Had Aziraphale ever bothered with sleep, he would most likely be rather more irritated with the current situation. Fortunately for him, the sound of eleven pipers playing at full volume in the early hours of the morning was not quite as aggravating as it was for his neighbours.
Nonetheless, he still felt obliged to spare a disapproving look at the boys. This really was getting quite out of hand.
6th January (Day 12)
The drumming sounded curiously similar to that of a funeral march.
The pipers had attempted to join it at some point, but clearly the pace was too sombre for their tastes; the lords had ceased their leaping and were instead stamping their feet to the rhythm; the ladies were engaged in an odd swaying dance that resembled that of a charmed snake; the cows were pacing warily, their accompanying maids nearly crushed underfoot; the swans swam in ever widening circles in what was already a cramped, flooded bathroom; the geese had become confused and were laying what appeared to be nuggets of solid gold; the rings lost their sheen; the Colly birds were circling above the shop like the harbingers of death they so closely resembled; the hens were pecking at the toes of all who ventured too close; the turtle doves had fled in search of olive branches. The partridge was still flying into the window.
All in all, the scene resembled some sort of hellish tableau.
Close to breaking point, the angel had taken refuge behind a writing desk that served as the rarely-used till. He had been shouting various pleas for silence and order, but all to no avail. And now, it seemed, the end was nigh; the whole demonic chorus was descending upon his hiding place, and as he closed his eyes in preparation for the worst, the only thought that crossed Aziraphale's mind was how on Earth was he going to explain this to the chaps Upstairs?
At that point, the door burst inwards7, revealing a certain flustered demon with lopsided sunglasses and glowing eyes. The room fell silent. He surveyed all, head turning slowly like a serpent sizing up its prey, before his gaze alighted on his heavenly counterpart crouching demurely beneath the desk.
Crowley said, quite eloquently, “Ssshit.”
The assembly vanished in an anticlimactic poof of vaguely red smoke and stray feathers, and Crowley leant down to offer Aziraphale his hand. He seemed rather adamant not to meet the angel's eyes.
A tense silence passed as Aziraphale brushed the dust from his clothes, shrouded in an aura of disapproval directed solely at the demon8. Before he could begin a tirade of scolding, however, he was interrupted.
“Look, Angel, it was a joke, I swear, I didn't expect it to go this far and OK, so I might have been slightly sloshed when I ordered the tree but it seemed like a good idea at the time, only then I thought well I've started it now and I can't really finish with just the tree, so I may as well carry on with the whole shebang, but then I actually had to start manifesting the damn birds and yeah. It got out of control. I'm sorry, that didn't make much sense, did it?”
Aziraphale merely lifted a bemused eyebrow. The disapproving aura was still there, only now it seemed to have gained a fear for the demon's mental health.
Running a hand through his hair, Crowley let out a hiss of breath that sounded a lot more sinister than he'd intended. “All right. Long story short: I got drunk, ordered a pear tree and associated partridge off the internet, sent it to you for lack of a better recipient, and then...it all went to Hell. So to speak.”
Only now did the angel respond. “I don't know if you realised, my dear, but this whole little stunt of yours nearly drove me insane.”
“Well I'm sure it can't have been that bad--”
“I considered turning my bookshop into a nightclub.”
Crowley made a sound vaguely similar to 'urgk'. That was pretty insane. “Can't we just agree to...forgive and forget? Isn't that what your lot are into? Acts of compassion, and all that jazz?”
The answering smile was distinctly too benevolent for Crowley's liking.
“Of course I forgive you, my dear boy,” he replied, oozing good will, “there's just the small matter of, ah...atonement.”
A mop and bucket appeared as if by some miracle9, and the demon found himself being directed towards a section of antiquarian books, in the centre of which was a monstrous, waste-coated nest.
“You can start by cleaning up the mess left by your well-intentioned gifts.”
'Just enough of a bastard to be worth liking', Crowley reminded himself, and set to work.
~end~
[7]an astonishing feat, considering how there was very little space left for the door to actually burst in to
[8]who considered this to be really rather unfair, regardless of what part he'd played in the proceedings
[9]it was, in fact, a miracle, though merely a minor one
Happy Holidays, miscellanny, from your Secret Writer!