Guides to Alaska Need Not Apply
Title: Guides to Alaska Need Not ApplyFandom: Good Omens.
Author:
write_rewrite
Rating: PG-13.
Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley.
Warnings: None.
Notes: I'm on an Alaska kick. Written originally about a week or so ago, and now I'm just kind of putting it up after some heavy editing. Critique is very much appreciated! Comments as well.
Summary: Of all the places Aziraphale's picked for a vacation, why does it have to be Alaska?
When He had made Malamutes, Crowley was sure that it was due to some private bet He'd had to create an animal that combined the worst points of a horse with the best marketable aspects of a dog (1).
"Explain to me again," Crowley said, "why I agreed to do this."
Six heavy bags stood around, nearby or otherwise beside a lopsided, rent-for-a-weekend-and-keep-the-change brown sled, which was strapped to the aforementioned dog. The Malamute was prancing on the spot. Snowflakes gushed up everytime it landed; by this process, one of Aziraphale's suitcases was no longer visible.
Aziraphale hadn't noticed, too busy trying to navigate a crinkled map that was precisely 80% coffee stain. He paid no attention to Crowley.
Crowley scowled, folding his arms over his chest.
"A-zira-phale," he said, a little more loudly. He would've tapped his foot, but the toe of his boots kept sinking into the slush and, besides, foot-tapping was a step too far. It wasn't like Aziraphale was purposely ignoring him -- well, okay, he was, but only to find out where they were going. He'd wanted to do things the 'old fashioned' way, and he'd looked quite annoyed when Crowley had mentioned the 'old fashioned' way involved looking up at the stars and trying to pick one to follow (2). There were no stars out yet, anyway.
The Malamute was half-buried in snow. Served it right for prancing.
"Aziraphale!" Crowley flung his arms outwards, scattering the snow off the Malamute, off the sled, off his thirty-dollar-plus-leather-coat and all onto Aziraphale's map.
The angel blinked. He lifted his hand, also snow-covered, and brushed snow carefully off his section of the map.
"What is it, my dear boy?" he asked pleasantly. Snowflakes clung onto his hair out of sheer terror.
"Can we get going, please?" Crowley pointed to the sled, the bags still around it, to the dog digging a hole in the snow, "before we waste the entire weekend standing out here and freezing?"
Aziraphale blinked, rather like he'd woken up and wasn't quite sure where he'd put his clothing. He stared at the sled, then at the bags, then grinned and put the map back into his pocket. It folded by itself, because Crowley was not going to stand around and wait for Azirphale to align crease to crease.
"Of course, my dear boy, of course; I was merely side-tracked trying to find our way-- hm, it seems we have a couple of options." said Aziraphale, hefting a bag onto the back of the sled.
"Which is the shortest?" asked Crowley, tossing a dog-treat to the dog. He placed his suitcase in the back, and looked dubiously at the direction the sled was pointing to. It was in the general vicinity of 'north', though between here and 'north' was a spread of forest so thick, the ground had little snow on it and the fading light provided no help. The ground was already pitch-black there.
"Dear," Aziraphale's voice was puzzled and he spoke over the sound of a sudden shocked howl from the dog, "was our Malamute wearing little dog booties when we rented him?"
"Yes," said Crowley, and didn't bat a lash, which was more than could be said for a young Malamute pup who'd been startled at the sudden growth of woollen booties.
"Hm," said Aziraphale, and lifted the last of the cases into the back. They should have, by no means, fit, but Crowley was damn--ble-- he'd bloody well not be making two trips. Once into the fray was enough (3).
"Well, then." Aziraphale clapped his hands. "Up you go."
Crowley eyed the sled with apprehension. He climbed in with apprehension. Apprehension was, first and foremostly, the emotion with which he placed his hands on the bars and tightened his grip on the little metal rod. The sled shook a little bit.
In front, the Malamute stopped trying to tear at the booties on its paws and turned its head.
A flush of warm air tickled the side of Crowley's neck as Aziraphale pulled up behind him. The angel gestured towards the Great North, pointing quite majestically. It did nothing to the dog, but it looked rather nice.
Muffling a laugh, Crowley tapped the side of the sled, and then gingerly touched the leather point of the whip. "I think you need to use this."
"Oh. Er." Aziraphale uncoiled the whip. He snapped it in the air, tearing two pine needles from the branches. "Onwards!"
It was ten minutes later that they moved -- onwards, into the Great North, scattering pine needles and snow to the sides. As a method of travelling, horse-riding had just gone up a step in Crowley's mind.
. . . . . .
Travelling in Alaska is not to be attempted lightly. Furthermore, it is never to be attempted in the middle of winter, with packed bags, utilizing a map or at any other point in existence. Getting hopelessly lost is something that can, will, and must happen - like an initiation rite. Once lost, the Alaskan-bound traveller must find his way back to civilization, either by following the Malamute or by praying.
As Crowley was a demon, neither of those worked particularly well, unless civilization was a hare's den.
"We're lost."
"We are not lost."
Crowley rubbed his hands together. His fingers felt like flash-frozen sausages, and he was starting to regret his refusal of the tea Aziraphale had offered him when they'd landed in what counted for an air-port here (4).
"We're lost," he insisted, "just like that time in Russia, where you took a left at the Tsar's Palace and wound up in Vologda."
"Ah, I was reading the map upside down," said Aziraphale, a little sheepishly, "but I met a lovely family there. They still send me postcards."
"And me waiting in Moscow," Crowley groused, properly getting stuck into his role, "freezing--"
"You can't freeze, dear."
"Freezing," said Crowley, with a glare, "and wondering if you'd walked past some bookshop and been snared into purchasing Rasputin's long-lost diary, or Catherine the Great's book of hair appointments. Then, then, you show up two days later. Two. Days."
"You went to a hotel at night, didn't you?" Aziraphale said, his words almost smiling.
Crowley hefted a case and marched ahead with a huff, "yes, but that's beside the point."
They found the cabin by a fluke. It was a small, simple building made from wooden logs, and it had smoke coming from the chimney. Snow iced the rooftop and the porch-swing and the railing. The plants that had grown around it were icicles and ice-statues, and he longed to melt the petals and get a really good, botanist's look at them, but Crowley was, frankly, tired of the great outdoors (5). The Malamute followed up the stairs behind them, darted into the house, and curled up by the fire.
The tension of travel uncoiled from Crowley's shoulders. He laid the bag aside, moving to one of the wide, stretched windows, and peered out into a land of snow and ice, with the craggy mountains at the back and the frozen river curving glassily in the distance. Soon, a kettle was whistling and the fire was cracking, and he'd forgotten about most of the trip. His bones had begun to thaw.
Admittedly, the view was breath-taking, if he had any breath to take.
Aziraphale brought him a cup of tea and kissed his cheek. His lips were cold as a snow-flake, but Crowley's spine rippled with warmth. Aziraphale put his arm around him, and stood there with him, staring outwards, and when Crowley relaxed against his side, he could smell the snow on Aziraphale's clothing. It was a not altogether unpleasant scent - rather like the frozen river, it was something that had to be smelled to be believed. And it made Aziraphale smell rugged, which was something he'd failed to achieve with a fifteen-pound guaranteed 'ruggedness' formula (6).
"I can't believe people lived here," said Crowley, a little awed. You had to think about what they were giving up - convenience, and warmth, and they had to live with dogs the size of small ponies, and it was all so quiet and lonely. Nobody here except birds and wolves and bears. You could actually hear yourself thinking, breathing, existing.
Aziraphale squeezed his waist, already sipping at his tea, "still do, actually."
"It's lovely," Crowley admitted, "but I rather miss having a car." And his poor Bentley was all alone in London, under the not-very-watchful eye of Shadwell. But if he thought for too much on that, he'd start to worry and he'd have to call London to make sure he hadn't blown it up or gotten any condensed milk on the seats (7).
He started to worry at his lip, and found Aziraphale's in the way. Mugs of tea clinked, hot water sloshed over his palm, and the icy window was against his spine in a breath. His head spun a little. Aziraphale's mouth was flavoured with sugar and milk, and very soft.
He didn't even feel the hot water any more, and the scald was gone by the time Aziraphale took his hand.
Crowley flushed. He linked their fingers together.
"... Did you bring me here just for that?" he couldn't help but ask.
"Of course not, my dear boy; I brought you here because it's lovely, and I wanted to spend some time with just you."
"So, yes, in other words."
Aziraphale sighed. His eyes, that brilliant blue, glinted brightly with humour and a decidedly unchaste expression that made Crowley's cheeks glow a little bit.
Crowley lifted Aziraphale's hand and kissed the ridge of his knuckles.
"There's nothing to do here," he pointed out, and though his tone was smug, smugness was the last thing in his mind. Yes, Aziraphale had brought something like half the Alexandria library with him, but now that they were actually at the place, Crowley doubted how much reading he'd get done. And there was no television. Plus, the big, four-person bed fairly dominated the room, and it was a pretty big Hint as far as he was concerned (8).
"Oh, we'll amuse ourselves easily enough," Aziraphale commented, his voice too light to be purely innocent.
Crowley sidled his gaze to the dog. It had started to doze in front of the fire, heavy, snowy head resting on its paws. A blanket lifted slowly off the chair and covered the animal. It was an incredibly sound-proof blanket, as the case turned out. Remarkable what they were putting in wool these days.
With that taken care of, Crowley turned his head again, and his stomach fluttered with nervous energy. Aziraphale's eyes were clear as eyes, and a touch warmer than fire, and his hands eased gently down his sides. He kissed him again, cinammon and sugar kisses that made the small, fridgy cabin feel like the heart of a furnace, and led him backwards. Crowley let him, following, his fingers digging desperate bruises into Aziraphale's arms and sides and hips.
The weekend, he'd decided, was a Very Good Idea. And he took back what he said about the travelling-to-hot-countries-and-not-using-animals.
All he really needed to enjoy himself was Aziraphale. That had always been the case, and it would probably always be the case.
(1) He imagined a Divine Meeting being held about it in the sort of posh boardroom shown in the movies, although this Divine Boardroom probably didn't have bagels.
(2) Aziraphale had also been annoyed when Crowley had pointed out the second 'old fashioned way' which was on ships, horses or on chairs carried by slaves.
(3) He'd learned his lesson over the years: it was once into the fray. Maybe twice if it was a particularly big fray. No more than that. The Light Brigade came to mind.
(4) Air-port was exaggerating the place. Air-jetty was more like it. At the most, it was an air-bay.
(5) Crowley had also made up his mind that, when he next took a trip to Aziraphale, it would be somewhere warm that didn't make him feel so sleepy, and where they wouldn't have to travel on any sort of animal. Preferrably, it would have a pool. And a garden centre. And a place where they sold expensive lattes with names like an Italian car engine.
(6) Aziraphale had tried the AXE body-sprays to attempt ruggedness. Ruggedness had not been achieved, but Crowley had had a good laugh over Aziraphale's face when he saw the 'when angels fall' commercial. Then he'd had to hide and pretend he'd had nothing to do with it while Aziraphale grumbled about casting choice, wings, angels and What Up There Thought.
(7) Again.
(8) Crowley was the master of hints. In his spare time, he liked to bother young writers by inserting Hints into their work, but this was ultimately a case of vandalism against bored university students, and one that had earned him a glowing review by the Small Annoyances department in the Sixth Circle.