Happy Holidays, argyleheir!
Title: Peary and the Pole
Recipient: argyleheir
Author: rroselavy
Rating: PG
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Author’s Notes: Thank you so much for the wonderful prompt, dear recipient. I hope I did it justice!
Summary: For the prompt: Tell me about the time Aziraphale and Crowley accidentally joined an Arctic exploration team and made a delightful muck of things.
“I didn’t know you saved anything from the expedition!” Aziraphale exclaimed, reading the spine (“Peary Expedition, 1909”) before pulling a large, ornately detailed photo album from between two dusty volumes of A History of the Great War. He plopped down on the Chesterfield couch, put his feet up on the matching Ottoman, and cracked open the cover.
“Well, it’s not as if you come ‘round very often,” Crowley replied tartly. He plucked a couple of dried leaves off of the gardenia located in a window seat. He was particularly proud of the specimen, and he scowled as he looked for any evidence of the pesky white flies that he’d battled for ages before eradicating them from the plant’s glossy leaves.
“An invitation every once in a while would be welcomed,” Aziraphale said, feigning obliviousness to Crowley’s tone. His brow knit as he scanned the neatly arranged Table of Contents, admiring all the scroll-like embellishments in the margins.
“I thought we were past that stage in our r--ee … agreement.”
One of Crowley’s most closely guarded secrets was his recently discovered hobby of scrapbooking. In fact, he enjoyed the craft so much that he’d even signed up for lessons at a couple of different arts and crafts stores that offered free classes. Unfortunately, they had been rather disappointing as a whole; the ladies who typically ran the courses were grey-haired, fond of saccharine-y cat sweaters, and Crowley had found that type to be excruciatingly dull and decidedly uncreative. Still, that little fact didn’t stop them from criticizing his penchant for decorating with all sorts of rhinestones and sparkly things, including metallic ink.
“You know,” Aziraphale said, looking up at Crowley, “I haven’t thought about this little jaunt of ours in ages.”
Crowley sat down next to him. “It was quite the adventure, wasn’t it? Despite the brutal cold.”
“I thought the down parkas we were outfitted in were more than adequate -- toasty, even. Perhaps you’re just more sensitive to the cold, being that you’re used to a much warmer climate.”
“I do recall my teeth weren’t the only ones chattering at night in the igloo. You weren’t very fond of hardtack and pemmican diet, either,” Crowley added as Aziraphale turned to the first page.
“This is a marvelous photograph of you, Crowley!” he exclaimed.
Crowley didn’t need to lean over to see which one it was. He quite liked the portrait, even if it was taken of him without his dark lenses on.
“What was the name you were going by again?”
“Borup. George Borup.”
“I remember you gained quite a following with that memoir he ended up publishing. You presented the Commander in a surprisingly flattering light.” He glanced sidelong at Crowley, crow’s feet forming at the corners of his eyes.
“Well, you know, I was writing to my audience, and they wanted a hero.”
“Yes, if only they read between the lines.”
“You read the book, then, did you?”
“Of course! You said some very nice things about me as well.”
“That surprised you?” Crowley asked, raising his eyebrows.
“It did go above and beyond the terms of our Agreement. But you’ve never been good at playing by the rules or coloring within the lines, have you?”
Crowley shrugged, though he was inwardly pleased that Aziraphale had read A Tenderfoot with Peary. “In this case I was merely reporting your heroic actions as the captain.”
“Reporting? You were gushing. Effusive, even. And so sentimental about my death. You actually seemed broken up.”
Crowley crossed his arms over his chest and felt his cheeks grow hot. “It wasn’t so much ‘broken up,’ it was more that you left me alone in that godawful place from that point on.” Crowley half-expected Aziraphale to admonish him for his blasphemy.
Instead, he said, “You missed me,” punctuating the statement with a beatific smile. “You even dedicated the book to me.”
“My publisher insisted! Said it would sell a few extra copies because it ‘pulled on the heartstrings.’”
Aziraphale’s smiled faded slightly.
“And things did get quite a bit duller after you departed,” Crowley admitted. He didn’t bother to point out that there were more than a few men on the expedition who were broken up by “Ross Marvin’s” untimely demise. “Where were you off to, anyway?”
“I had a special mission to attend to. He called on me directly.”
“Must have been rather important, if He insisted on cutting your vacation short.”
“It was the whole Joan of Arc beatification ordeal. He wanted me to facilitate things. Did you know that there were people who still had reservations about her worthiness?”
“Imagine that,” Crowley replied.
Aziraphale deliberately chose to ignore his sarcasm. He turned his attention back to the photo album. The next several pages featured team members, whose names would have been all but forgotten if it hadn’t been for “Borup’s” memoir. Aziraphale examined each one closely, and as he did so, he remembered little details about each man. Some of them he knew he’d read in Crowley’s book.
“We’re the only two people who’ll ever remember these men,” he said, his eyes getting misty.
“Oh, come now, isn’t that the case with all the humans we meet? Why is it that these people -- who you haven’t thought about for the better part of a century -- are so important to you?” He reached into his breast pocket and produced a handkerchief for Aziraphale.
“I-I don’t really know. There was something about that trip, though, I don’t think I’ve felt so -- not alone, but … so free. Like neither of us had a care in the world.”
“No cares, that is, except for not freezing or starving to death. Or dying suddenly by falling through the ice,” Crowley said, pointedly.
“I had to think of something quickly,” Aziraphale protested. “It was the best I could come up with, spur of the moment,” he added weakly. “I wanted to let you know …”
Crowley waved his hands, brushing it off. “It really wasn’t that important--“
“I see,” Aziraphale said stiffly. He turned the page.
“It wasn’t as if I thought that I’d never see you again! And I already said I miss--that things were boring when you left.”
Aziraphale brightened. Of course this was just a silly word-game, but the fact that Crowley made an effort to engage in such trifling diversions warmed his heart. He looked at the final two portraits on each facing page -- Peary and Henson. “It’s a shame he never got any photographic proof he made it to the North Pole.”
Crowley shifted in his seat. “Perhaps if he’d been a bit nicer, fate would have been kinder to him,” he sniffed.
“What do you mean by that?”
“He drove the dogs to near-death and the men like dogs.”
“I don’t see how that would be so bothersome to you.”
“I was merely contending that he wasn’t a very pleasant man,” Crowley huffed.
Aziraphale turned the page, and as he scanned the image, his eyes widened with shock. Crowley squirmed in his seat; the room was suddenly uncomfortably hot.
“I thought you said--“ Aziraphale began.
“That there was no film in the camera.”
“And?” Aziraphale was incredulous. The picture, and the way Peary and his team were posed in it, made it obvious it was a commemorative photo.
“I guess I was wrong,” Crowley mumbled. “And, anyway, the picture proves nothing. If he’d kept a decent log book, he’d have had a better chance at proving his claim.” Aziraphale didn’t respond to Crowley’s explanation; he just kept looking at the faded image. After a few moments of icy silence, Crowley offered, “he made you cry.”
That statement gave Aziraphale a start. “Crowley! What the dev--whatever are you talking about?”
“That day -- when he suggested that we eat the dogs -- what was it that he said? They were ‘beasts of burden put on God’s earth to serve mankind in whatever way he pleased.’ You looked positively heartbroken.”
Aziraphale’s face clouded over. “It was the cold!” he said, his words measured carefully.
Crowley let a snort escape his lips.
“Was it that obvious?” Aziraphale asked, a weak smile forming. Crowley patted his thigh.
“I don’t think anyone noticed except me. But the food-poisoning bit that you did afterwards, that was brilliant.”
“You don’t think it was a bit overboard?”
“No, I think you got your point across in a deliciously devious manner. And I can say with utter confidence that no dogs were eaten on that expedition.”
“They were magnificent, noble beasts, weren’t they? They certainly deserved to live to a ripe old age.”
On that point, Crowley could agree.
Aziraphale turned the page to the last image.
“Oh, my … how?” He marveled at the picture before his eyes, and then a thought occurred to him and Aziraphale’s face darkened. “You didn’t injure him, did you?” he hissed.
“Does he look hurt?” Crowley snapped.
“Well, no, but … then … why did you … ?”
“I was already at the North Pole!”
Aziraphale cocked his head. “Go on.”
“I was curious, all right?” Crowley stammered.
“Curious.”
“Ah, to Hell with it! I figured while I was there I could … conveniently ruin Christmas for about a century or so. It would look good back at the Home Office.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No, I didn’t. I utterly failed. You see, there’s a reason why he’s got that twinkle in his eye, and it isn’t because he loves his job. Or rather, that’s not the only reason. He also happens to have a very fine collection of single malts.”
Aziraphale laughed and closed the book, laying it aside. “He plied you with liquor.”
There was something about the sound of his laughter that, even after a millennia, left Crowley a little weak in the knees.
“I was cold, and you weren’t there to keep me warm anymore,” he said, affecting a whine.
“Poor, poor Crowley.” Aziraphale patted Crowley’s knee. “I guess you were no match for a jolly old elf?”
“Let’s just say we came to a gentleman’s agreement.” Crowley smiled. “But one that isn’t nearly as pleasant as ours.”
More Author’s Notes: I took liberties with History. While it was not unheard of for Arctic explorers to resort to eating dog rather than starve to death, there is no indication that Peary made that suggestion on this particular expedition. The photograph Crowley hid was actually published widely but, as Crowley stated, it wasn’t very compelling evidence, and Peary’s less than-detailed log-keeping, along with the fact that he was the only person at the pole who could read a sextant, contributed to the actual controversy over whether or not he and his team made it to the North Pole.
Recipient: argyleheir
Author: rroselavy
Rating: PG
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Author’s Notes: Thank you so much for the wonderful prompt, dear recipient. I hope I did it justice!
Summary: For the prompt: Tell me about the time Aziraphale and Crowley accidentally joined an Arctic exploration team and made a delightful muck of things.
“I didn’t know you saved anything from the expedition!” Aziraphale exclaimed, reading the spine (“Peary Expedition, 1909”) before pulling a large, ornately detailed photo album from between two dusty volumes of A History of the Great War. He plopped down on the Chesterfield couch, put his feet up on the matching Ottoman, and cracked open the cover.
“Well, it’s not as if you come ‘round very often,” Crowley replied tartly. He plucked a couple of dried leaves off of the gardenia located in a window seat. He was particularly proud of the specimen, and he scowled as he looked for any evidence of the pesky white flies that he’d battled for ages before eradicating them from the plant’s glossy leaves.
“An invitation every once in a while would be welcomed,” Aziraphale said, feigning obliviousness to Crowley’s tone. His brow knit as he scanned the neatly arranged Table of Contents, admiring all the scroll-like embellishments in the margins.
“I thought we were past that stage in our r--ee … agreement.”
One of Crowley’s most closely guarded secrets was his recently discovered hobby of scrapbooking. In fact, he enjoyed the craft so much that he’d even signed up for lessons at a couple of different arts and crafts stores that offered free classes. Unfortunately, they had been rather disappointing as a whole; the ladies who typically ran the courses were grey-haired, fond of saccharine-y cat sweaters, and Crowley had found that type to be excruciatingly dull and decidedly uncreative. Still, that little fact didn’t stop them from criticizing his penchant for decorating with all sorts of rhinestones and sparkly things, including metallic ink.
“You know,” Aziraphale said, looking up at Crowley, “I haven’t thought about this little jaunt of ours in ages.”
Crowley sat down next to him. “It was quite the adventure, wasn’t it? Despite the brutal cold.”
“I thought the down parkas we were outfitted in were more than adequate -- toasty, even. Perhaps you’re just more sensitive to the cold, being that you’re used to a much warmer climate.”
“I do recall my teeth weren’t the only ones chattering at night in the igloo. You weren’t very fond of hardtack and pemmican diet, either,” Crowley added as Aziraphale turned to the first page.
“This is a marvelous photograph of you, Crowley!” he exclaimed.
Crowley didn’t need to lean over to see which one it was. He quite liked the portrait, even if it was taken of him without his dark lenses on.
“What was the name you were going by again?”
“Borup. George Borup.”
“I remember you gained quite a following with that memoir he ended up publishing. You presented the Commander in a surprisingly flattering light.” He glanced sidelong at Crowley, crow’s feet forming at the corners of his eyes.
“Well, you know, I was writing to my audience, and they wanted a hero.”
“Yes, if only they read between the lines.”
“You read the book, then, did you?”
“Of course! You said some very nice things about me as well.”
“That surprised you?” Crowley asked, raising his eyebrows.
“It did go above and beyond the terms of our Agreement. But you’ve never been good at playing by the rules or coloring within the lines, have you?”
Crowley shrugged, though he was inwardly pleased that Aziraphale had read A Tenderfoot with Peary. “In this case I was merely reporting your heroic actions as the captain.”
“Reporting? You were gushing. Effusive, even. And so sentimental about my death. You actually seemed broken up.”
Crowley crossed his arms over his chest and felt his cheeks grow hot. “It wasn’t so much ‘broken up,’ it was more that you left me alone in that godawful place from that point on.” Crowley half-expected Aziraphale to admonish him for his blasphemy.
Instead, he said, “You missed me,” punctuating the statement with a beatific smile. “You even dedicated the book to me.”
“My publisher insisted! Said it would sell a few extra copies because it ‘pulled on the heartstrings.’”
Aziraphale’s smiled faded slightly.
“And things did get quite a bit duller after you departed,” Crowley admitted. He didn’t bother to point out that there were more than a few men on the expedition who were broken up by “Ross Marvin’s” untimely demise. “Where were you off to, anyway?”
“I had a special mission to attend to. He called on me directly.”
“Must have been rather important, if He insisted on cutting your vacation short.”
“It was the whole Joan of Arc beatification ordeal. He wanted me to facilitate things. Did you know that there were people who still had reservations about her worthiness?”
“Imagine that,” Crowley replied.
Aziraphale deliberately chose to ignore his sarcasm. He turned his attention back to the photo album. The next several pages featured team members, whose names would have been all but forgotten if it hadn’t been for “Borup’s” memoir. Aziraphale examined each one closely, and as he did so, he remembered little details about each man. Some of them he knew he’d read in Crowley’s book.
“We’re the only two people who’ll ever remember these men,” he said, his eyes getting misty.
“Oh, come now, isn’t that the case with all the humans we meet? Why is it that these people -- who you haven’t thought about for the better part of a century -- are so important to you?” He reached into his breast pocket and produced a handkerchief for Aziraphale.
“I-I don’t really know. There was something about that trip, though, I don’t think I’ve felt so -- not alone, but … so free. Like neither of us had a care in the world.”
“No cares, that is, except for not freezing or starving to death. Or dying suddenly by falling through the ice,” Crowley said, pointedly.
“I had to think of something quickly,” Aziraphale protested. “It was the best I could come up with, spur of the moment,” he added weakly. “I wanted to let you know …”
Crowley waved his hands, brushing it off. “It really wasn’t that important--“
“I see,” Aziraphale said stiffly. He turned the page.
“It wasn’t as if I thought that I’d never see you again! And I already said I miss--that things were boring when you left.”
Aziraphale brightened. Of course this was just a silly word-game, but the fact that Crowley made an effort to engage in such trifling diversions warmed his heart. He looked at the final two portraits on each facing page -- Peary and Henson. “It’s a shame he never got any photographic proof he made it to the North Pole.”
Crowley shifted in his seat. “Perhaps if he’d been a bit nicer, fate would have been kinder to him,” he sniffed.
“What do you mean by that?”
“He drove the dogs to near-death and the men like dogs.”
“I don’t see how that would be so bothersome to you.”
“I was merely contending that he wasn’t a very pleasant man,” Crowley huffed.
Aziraphale turned the page, and as he scanned the image, his eyes widened with shock. Crowley squirmed in his seat; the room was suddenly uncomfortably hot.
“I thought you said--“ Aziraphale began.
“That there was no film in the camera.”
“And?” Aziraphale was incredulous. The picture, and the way Peary and his team were posed in it, made it obvious it was a commemorative photo.
“I guess I was wrong,” Crowley mumbled. “And, anyway, the picture proves nothing. If he’d kept a decent log book, he’d have had a better chance at proving his claim.” Aziraphale didn’t respond to Crowley’s explanation; he just kept looking at the faded image. After a few moments of icy silence, Crowley offered, “he made you cry.”
That statement gave Aziraphale a start. “Crowley! What the dev--whatever are you talking about?”
“That day -- when he suggested that we eat the dogs -- what was it that he said? They were ‘beasts of burden put on God’s earth to serve mankind in whatever way he pleased.’ You looked positively heartbroken.”
Aziraphale’s face clouded over. “It was the cold!” he said, his words measured carefully.
Crowley let a snort escape his lips.
“Was it that obvious?” Aziraphale asked, a weak smile forming. Crowley patted his thigh.
“I don’t think anyone noticed except me. But the food-poisoning bit that you did afterwards, that was brilliant.”
“You don’t think it was a bit overboard?”
“No, I think you got your point across in a deliciously devious manner. And I can say with utter confidence that no dogs were eaten on that expedition.”
“They were magnificent, noble beasts, weren’t they? They certainly deserved to live to a ripe old age.”
On that point, Crowley could agree.
Aziraphale turned the page to the last image.
“Oh, my … how?” He marveled at the picture before his eyes, and then a thought occurred to him and Aziraphale’s face darkened. “You didn’t injure him, did you?” he hissed.
“Does he look hurt?” Crowley snapped.
“Well, no, but … then … why did you … ?”
“I was already at the North Pole!”
Aziraphale cocked his head. “Go on.”
“I was curious, all right?” Crowley stammered.
“Curious.”
“Ah, to Hell with it! I figured while I was there I could … conveniently ruin Christmas for about a century or so. It would look good back at the Home Office.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No, I didn’t. I utterly failed. You see, there’s a reason why he’s got that twinkle in his eye, and it isn’t because he loves his job. Or rather, that’s not the only reason. He also happens to have a very fine collection of single malts.”
Aziraphale laughed and closed the book, laying it aside. “He plied you with liquor.”
There was something about the sound of his laughter that, even after a millennia, left Crowley a little weak in the knees.
“I was cold, and you weren’t there to keep me warm anymore,” he said, affecting a whine.
“Poor, poor Crowley.” Aziraphale patted Crowley’s knee. “I guess you were no match for a jolly old elf?”
“Let’s just say we came to a gentleman’s agreement.” Crowley smiled. “But one that isn’t nearly as pleasant as ours.”
More Author’s Notes: I took liberties with History. While it was not unheard of for Arctic explorers to resort to eating dog rather than starve to death, there is no indication that Peary made that suggestion on this particular expedition. The photograph Crowley hid was actually published widely but, as Crowley stated, it wasn’t very compelling evidence, and Peary’s less than-detailed log-keeping, along with the fact that he was the only person at the pole who could read a sextant, contributed to the actual controversy over whether or not he and his team made it to the North Pole.