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ineffablemossy · 8 months

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Wish Upon a Fallen Star

I'm still on the waitlist for AO3, so I thought I'd just post the first part of this fic on here. I haven't written fiction for a long ass time, 20 years maybe? I've got so many ideas rolling round in my head, feels good. Just a short one to start though. 906 words. This will be in 2 parts and should post the rest this weekend. Feedback welcomed but please be gentle if possible!

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A loud crack pushed him to spin on his heels. The heat from his sword flickered near his face as he moved. Aziraphale looked up at the brooding sky, shades of purple betraying the chaos of the battlefield below. In this liminal dimension, chunks of stony island floated among fractured celestial architecture. Everywhere around him the battle still raged. How long had they been fighting? It felt like days had passed since the two sides had first clashed.

He felt a deep ache in his bones as weariness overtook him.

“Why are we tearing ourselves apart like this!” he shouted, then bit his lip as he thought better of the question.

He spotted a star, brighter than those peeking through the background; it shifted, slowly at first. The light streaked downwards, gathering speed. “That’s no star,” Aziraphale whispered to himself. Following the movement of the falling star with his eyes, he made a wish [1].

[1] It was perhaps the first wish made upon a star, and much later it would be he who put the idea into a human’s head. After all, his wish had come true, surely it would work for them too.

His wings beat once, lifting him from the broken ground. His muscles tensed and he propelled himself forward. As he approached his doubts grew. Sparks fizzed around the light, flying off into the dark before petering out. There! He inhaled sharply as he saw the outline of pale feathers shimmering in the burning blue-white light. His strong wings beat faster now, matched by his heart hammering against his ribcage. Could it be them? He’d looked everywhere, scouring every corner of the battlefield, searching for one angel.

“No!” his voice was thin, his throat tightening as he spotted strands of blazing copper hair plunging through the heavy air. He could make out the singed robes fluttering around their limp form. His eyes filled with determination, although the lines on his face betrayed the fear that gripped him. He dived.

So cold. So bright. I can’t feel my wings. I can’t feel. I can’t.

A wide island rushed towards them. Too fast. I have to make it, thought Aziraphale. I have to. Please God help me. His wings burned with the effort as he caught up to the trail of light. His face stung as the ash and sulphur in the air whipped at him. Tears sprung unbidden from his wild eyes as his jaw opened in a scream of terror. He reached with both arms, dropping his sword as his fingertips grazed the hem of the angel’s smouldering robes. And then there was no more sky.

Dark. Thunder. I can’t feel Her.

A cloud of dust and bits of grass blew across the platform, the impact shuddering through the grey stone. The dust slowly settled on a jumbled pile of feathers. Stillness fell as gently as the night, the sounds of fighting suddenly distant.

One of the wings twitched.

Soft. So soft. Softsoftsoftsoftsoft sosososo…

Aziraphale opened his eyes. They were sticky with tears and the ash clinging to his lashes. He held his breath as he moved his wings, sharp pain spreading through the shoulder under him to his coracoid. Taking a ragged breath to push the pain to the back of his mind, he dared himself to look in the space between his arms.

The angel’s shock of red hair spilled across Aziraphale’s chest, just below his chin. Their limp form seemed too small as he held them tightly. Relief flooded through him and his breath hitched, slowly morphing into small sobs as more tears streaked down the sides of his round cheeks. He rolled onto his back, cradling his fallen star gently and burying his face in the long fiery tresses.

“Please,” he whispered longingly, “please. Please wake up. Please wake up. Don’t go. Please this can’t be the end. I’m sorry I couldn’t find you. I promised I would.. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry..” he broke off with a tight feeling in his throat and cold dread gripping his stomach.

Softsoftsoftsososoft I don’t want to go

The angel breathed in suddenly and coughed twice before the sound dragged out into a whine. Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered closed.

“Oh thank God! Oh, thank you thank you,” his mind raced as words tumbled out of him “It’s alright, I’ve got you, I’ve got you. You’re ok, you’re alright, I’ll never ever leave your side. I’m here, I’m here, I'm right here dearest”. He smoothed his hands gently over the angel’s back, feeling their breathing slow as they came to.

“Azi.. Azi…” they croaked, pressing their face to his chest. Aziraphale felt the hands that had created so many of the Universe’s beauties bunch in the fabric around his waist. “Azira…”

“Raphael,” he replied in a soothing voice “my darling, it’s me. You’re going to be alright now my dear. Just stay still a moment, you’ve been through the proverbial wars I fear.” They lay there on the grass in the middle of the empty sky, far below the celestial combat they had plummeted through. Time seemed to stretch out and Aziraphale thought he could well stay there for all Eternity and be happy with his lot.

I want to stay. Here forever. For Eternity. Please don’t let this moment end. It’s all going wrong, please just let me stay. Here here just here with him please please please just him just here…

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to be continued shortly...

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angel-and-the-serpent · 1 month

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If Aziraphale said no…but crowley said yes. I hate the way I can’t hate you. I can’t hate the way I can’t stop thinking of the simple days I can’t hate the ways I thought I saw my future in your yellow eyes I can’t hate the way for thinking you were different from the rest of them I can’t loathe the way you said you were different I can’t loathe the way you told me we were an us I can’t loathe the way you said that we didn't need them, that we had each other. That that was all we needed I can’tt hate myself for believing you I can’t hate myself for falling into your arms and into your lies I can’t hate myself for convincing myself that you weren’t just a demon I can’t loathe myself for loving you I can’t loathe myself for thinking that you wanted the future I can’t loathe myself for dedicating my life to you. I can’t stop loving you. You, you, you. @daisy-has-too-many-wives @sparrowsortadrawzzz @helphowdoiusethis

#a.t.s morningstar #good omens #angel speaks #good omens crowley #ineffable #aziraphale pov #poem #angst #good omens fanwork #good omens art #good omens fanfic #angsty #hurt no comfort

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citizen-sade · 6 months

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Angels with silver wings, Shouldn't know suffering. I wish I could take the pain for you...

If God has a master plan, That only He understands, I hope it's your eyes He's seeing through...

Things get damaged, things get broken. I thought we'd manage, But words left unspoken left us so brittle, There was so little left to give.

I pray you learn to trust. Have faith in both of us. And keep room in your hearts for two...

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cha-mij · 8 days

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Re-reading some of my poems in preparation for a creative writing workshop I'm running this week and I must admit I'm still very proud of this one inspired by Good Omens.

I shan’t compare you to a summer’s day

Nor the moon, nor stars

But a tempest, blowing hard.

That twists and turns

Churns the very ground asunder.

But the calm. Oh the calm

That follows. How it ebbs

And flows. Casts yellow

Glows through coal dark webs

Of cloud that soften in the breeze.

As the storm abates

To assuage your mind.

Rain drops freshen,

Lesson your desire to find

Solutions to questions so long asked.

Swollen rivers settle

From churning white

To serene calm

You charm the blight

That eats away at you.

At me.

And in this state you steady me

Like a garden fresh from storm

I need you like a bloom needs water

Like a bird needs air.

Like an angel needs heaven

And a demon needs hell .

You're a tempest blowing life my way

And all I can do is ride the storm.

It's part of a series of diary entries from the POV of Aziraphale that I add to every now and then.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #snippets of time #aziraphale pov #aziraphale's diaries #aziraphale journal #aziraphale and crowley #aziraphale x crowley #poetry #good omens poetry

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beans-in-your-socks · 7 months

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Not Nice Days

ayyyy here ya go, here’s the update :)

read now on ao3

| CHAPTER 2 | An Angel’s Despair |

Aziraphale gasped. He found himself bringing his fingers back up to his lips, just as he had done so 3 weeks ago. He was in such utter disbelief at what he had just witnessed, that he was becoming severely lightheaded. “Good god I need to sit down.” He muttered to himself as he made his way back over to his desk and collapsed into his chair. Being supreme archangel meant new power, new access, and one of the things Aziraphale had recently found himself in possession of was the earth observation files. He would never admit it to anyone, but he had been spying on Crowley ever since he’d left for heaven. What he saw concerned him. He was almost always drunk as a kitten on copious amounts of cream. and when he wasn’t imbibing, he was either asleep or sitting alone in Give Me Coffee Or Give Me Death. Aziraphale held his head in his hands. He had opened the files this morning, noticing a new one that arrived from Crowley’s flat and couldn’t resist the temptation. What he had seen shook him to the core. Never in a million years had he expected those words to come out of Crowley’s mouth. Aziraphale knew that Crowley loved him, but to outright just say it… it was extremely unlike the demon to be so raw.

“Supreme archangel?” He heard Michael’s voice snicker. He looked up. Ugh. What now.

“Yes, Michael? How can I be of assistance?” He retorted in an equally sarcastic tone. The other archangels had always been horrid, but they seemed to be extra smarmy since his promotion.

“We still need to discuss the cleaning roster, this portion of heaven has become particularly… untidy, over the past few weeks.” They remarked, giving Aziraphale’s cluttered desk a once over. Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I have much more important things to worry about than whether or not MY portion of heaven is up to your standards, Michael. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.” He sighed, getting up from his chair and quickly shoving the earth observation files into a small drawer underneath the desk. Michal gave him a look of disgust and walked off with a huff, attempting to compose themselves but failing.

Aziraphale was only halfway to the elevator when the doors opened, revealing an ex-37th order scrivener, heaven’s new representative in London and Aziraphale’s replacement. They were dressed in clothes quite appropriate for Earth. A white blouse, a sage and cinnamon knitted sweater vest tucked into some chocolate-coloured, wide-leg trousers. Much better than their previous “inspector constable” disguise. Muriel quickly noticed the archangel and rushed over, nearly tripping over the elevator gap, calling “Mr Fell! I’ve come for my daily report!”

“Please Muriel, it’s just Aziraphale, I’m a bit busy can the report wait?” Aziraphale said, attempting to get past Muriel but they stayed put.

“No Mr. fe- Aziraphale,” they corrected themselves, “this is important, it’s Mr Crowley.” Aziraphale noticed the look of extreme concern plastered over Muriel’s face. Oh fuck.

“What? What is it? What about Crowley?” He interrogated Muriel. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. After what he’d seen in the files, whatever was going on with Crowley could not be good.

“Well, you see-” they stumbled over their words. “Um well, it’s- he’s… well he came to the bookshop this morning.” They finished, still grimacing. Why would Muriel be upset about that? They were quite fond of the demon… wait.

“The- he- he came to the bookshop?” Aziraphale stuttered. “He actually went inside?” Muriel had previously reported him standing near the bookshop or looking longingly at it from the coffee shop across the street, but he had never actually gone into the bookshop. Not since… well. Those events.

“Yes, he came to the bookshop, asking if you were in. I told him that you hadn’t come to check on the shop yet but that he was welcome in for a cupperty. He’s in there now, although he seemed to ignore the cupperty and went straight for a large green bottle inside a cabinet I didn’t even know existed!” They exclaimed, words tumbling out of their mouth one after the other.

“He… he’s in there now?” Aziraphale repeated in shock.

“Yes, I told him I needed to go run an errand and that I’d be back in a jiffy, but as far as I know, yes he’s still there!” They blurted out. A million thoughts rushed through Aziraphale’s head. Why was he in the bookshop? What did he want? Why did he ask if Aziraphale was there? Why would he drink in the presence of Muriel? Did he want to talk to him? Was he ok? Was he safe? Stop catastrophizing. He told himself sternly. I’m sure he’s fine. Aziraphale knew that there was no way in hell that Crowley was fine, but denial was one of his specialties.

“What is with the face?” Aziraphale asked, “w-why is your face making that shape?” He gestured at Muriel’s face. They tried to correct their expression, but the result was just a poorly masked wince.

“It’s just-” they started. They exhaled, and Aziraphale began to prepare himself for what they were to say next, but what came out of their mouth was completely unexpected. “Well it’s just… he’s hurt! He’s really hurt Aziraphale! His face is all… wrong. He was bleeding Aziraphale! I'm worried, I think someone’s done something to him!” They cried collapsing into Aziraphale’s arms, sobbing hysterically. Aziraphale, taken by shock, stepped back slightly, not expecting the sudden embrace from the lowly angel.

“It- it’s alright dear” he stuttered. He was unable to disguise the look of genuine horror on his face. Bleeding? He had been so hung up on Crowley’s words that he hadn’t paid any attention to what he looked like on the files. How? How could he have missed this? Who’d done this to him?

Why?

Muriel stepped back, wiping their face with their sleeves.

“I… what? Aziraphale what are these?” They sniffed, looking at the water stains on their blouse with confusion.

“Those are tears, dear. They come from your eyes when you are sad or distressed.” He consoled them. “Shh it’s alright dear, it happens.” He extended his arm to their shoulder patting it lightly. “Now, why don’t we go check on Crowley?” He suggested, guiding them back to the elevator. He tried to compose himself, but he was close to tears as well. He had never been more worried about Crowley in his eternal life. They made their way back to the elevator together, Aziraphale supporting Muriel with his arms. His finger trembled in front of the earth button. What if he doesn’t actually want to see me? What if he’d done this to himself? What if he’s in danger? What if what if what if?

He pressed the button.

Whatever awaited him on earth, Aziraphale was certain it would come with hardships. Only one way to find out.

“Going down” the automated voice sounded from the elevator speaker.

Oh dear. Here we go.

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aziraphales-library · 1 year

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Hello! Firstly, thank you guys for this blog and all the recs, it's an amazing job honestly💖💖

Secondly, do you know any good ineffable husbands multi-chapter human au's with no pov switching? No matter whether it's Aziraphale's or Crowley's pov, it's just many fics show us both of their perspectives, and that's great too, but I want to read something where we can see only one character's feelings and thoughts and can only assume the other's through his reactions... No other specific preferences, but please no bad endings.

And thanks again for your work!!

Hi and thank you! There are some single POV human AUs. Try these...

Under Construction by summerofspock [E]

Crowley has one goal: sell the run-down lodge in the Cascades that his uncle left him in his will.

He doesn't expect to meet someone like Aziraphale, the kind handyman working on his uncle's property who turns out to be more of an enigma than Crowley first thought.

Long Haul by snae_b [E]

First time he sees him he’s barreling down 40 like a bat out of hell. Thirty miles outside of Flagstaff and six hours behind schedule. The desert looming large on all sides. Red sand and sage stretching out for miles and miles in front of him. Juniper and pine and gray crag behind him. The flora might be changing but that's about it. Same bone-dry air that gives him nosebleeds. Same cute little cottontails and scrawny jackrabbits darting under his tires. Same two lanes separated by white lines...

He checks his speedometer. He hasn't downshifted since the city limits. Sheer luck, that. He's coming up fast on another rig. Flatbed with Vermont plates. Bright white cab with gold wings painted on the side.

Anthony Crowley might have gotten out of Missouri, but he hasn't escaped his past. He wears it like a cloak. When he crosses paths with a guardian angel, he starts to learn how to shed it.

Clementine by Mussimm (E)

I love you madly Let my imagination run away with you gladly.

The seaside neighbours AU exactly one person asked for.

New Approaches by FeralTuxedo (M)

Aziraphale Fell, Professor of Creative Writing at Tadfield University, welcomes the attendees of the First Conference on New Approaches to Genre Fiction. Among them is keynote speaker and best-selling thriller author Anthony J. Crowley. Aziraphale has not seen him for twenty-five years. Sometimes, he can still feel the ghost of their parting kiss on his lips.

Or: Exes reunite at academic conference. A Human University Professor/Author AU.

And so beguile thy sorrow by hapax (T)

Crowley (generally known to the staff as That Demon) was unusual in that he was obviously aware of his library codename, and delighted in returning the favour. Thank goodness, he showed no apparent signs of mental illness, or awkward exhibitionism, or even potential danger. What he was was bloody annoying.

Aziraphale adores his work as a public librarian. He finds fulfillment in answering questions, recommending titles, and planning programs. He likes his co-workers (well, most of them), and loves the small city he serves. The only thing marring his happy life is That Patron. Until one spectacularly disastrous Summer Reading Program throws them into a most unusual Arrangement.

roots, the other, wings by MostDismalFeldsparkle (NR)

Embattled by his grief stricken orphaned nephew, and still standing in the ashes of an awful relationship, Aziraphale, in need of a gardener, emails Crowley’s of Eden.

~ Mods N & D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #human au #adult omens #crowley pov #aziraphale pov #mod n #mod d

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tetl · 9 months

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What do you do when the only thing you've ever wanted was to see the one you've loved for thousands of years to be as happy as they were when you first met them, but the only way to guarantee that is to return to the one place you hate and re-build its sanctity to make sure that not only will there be a chance to help them regain their happiness, but so that they and others will never be in danger from that place ever again, and until then, would have to be content with only the hopes of one day reuniting with them in the peaceful future you will have created just to be able to live together freely

#good omens #good omens s2 spoilers #good omens s2 #good omens spoilers #aziraphale pov #this season hurt me so bad yet it has somehow become my comfort show once again so guess whos now comfortably sad all the time

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prinxlegolass · 3 months

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My heart entangled

Your strands of sunrise jasper

Drag me straight to hell

#goodomens #goodomenspoetry #haiku #ineffable husbands #angst #aziraphale pov #aziraphale x crowley

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fenrislorsrai · 2 years

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Guardian Angel

Prompt: Touch

Sharing a bed was new. Crowley had always fallen asleep easily on the couch. They were separated but still close. Now he seemed to have trouble with it when Aziraphale was sitting on the bed reading. Aziraphale suspected it was the downside of Crowley’s ability to sense ethereal observation.

Crowley appeared to finally be asleep and Aziraphale put his book aside. They talked all the time but getting to be silent in each other’s presence was still new and a bit fraught. Then they weren’t performing for anyone, even each other. They were just them. That was terrifying. To just be…him. Whatever that meant.

Right now that meant watching a demon sleep. Crowley roused slightly, making an inquisitive noise and Aziraphale hastily picked up his book. He tried to give it his full attention. He’d purposely picked one with short stories so he could be fully immersed in reading and then when he finished a story, check to see if Crowley was asleep.

There was a slur of sounds that might be Aziraphale’s name.

“I’m here.” He kept his voice low and reassuring.

”Mmmm” And then Crowley was out again. Aziraphale finished a second story before looking back at him.

This time he seemed truly asleep as a softness had crept into his face. All the little lines of a lived life were on his face, but all the tension had gone. The lines softened so it was clear they were from joy that Crowley had felt but hidden.

Aziraphale could feel his own expression soften as well, just allowed to look. There was a certain satisfaction in just being here, in being close and trusted. Crowley had put down his anxiety for a time to let him watch over him. It was what he was meant to do. To guard. But Crowley had never been his charge or purpose. Until now he was. He felt like an angel, a proper one, like this and had no idea how to tell Crowley any of that.

For now he could just watch him sleep. Crowley rubbed his cheek against the pillow. He rolled over so he was closer. He twitched slightly as his hair tickled his nose. He was growing it out again and he’d need a miracle or extensive brushing to get it untangled in the morning. Aziraphale wanted to offer to braid it but wasn’t sure how to ask that either. He’d need to work through the conversation sometime when talking wouldn’t wake Crowley.

Crowley shifted again, curling up so he was touching Aziraphale’s hip. The sheet was still between them but he wanted him closer. That Crowley sought out his warmth and comfort when he was at his most vulnerable made him want to be brave.

He reached out and brushed the hair out of Crowley’s face. For now he could just be himself, unobserved. He needed to figure out who he was now before he could bear the weight of being similarly regarded.

#good omens #aziraphale pov #watching someone sleep #ineffable husbands

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cloud-based-and-rainpilled · 8 months

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Ahhhhh first Good Omens fic!! Lowkey terrified since before (as an adult rather) I've only done Succession but feeling pretty good about how this is gonna turn out. Angst? Gay sex? Fall arc? Who knows! (I know)

#this will prob get lost in the Void ™️ 🕳 since I waited too long lol #ah well!!#it needed to be said #good omens #good omens 2 #good omens fic #ao3 #ineffable husbands #azicrow #<- not my fav tag name but puttin it here for visibility #vague succession tag since i miss y’all #aziraphale pov #crowley #spot the music references #pls no flame!!#michael sheen #david tennant #<- dig i tag them because i directly quoted them? who knows…

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revelationschapter6 · 1 year

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Aziraphale clutched Crowley's present to himself and watched the clock with unblinking eyes.

Because Crowley had promised they’d spend Christmas Eve together.

That they’d drink, and laugh, and each would pick a present for the other to open.

And Crowley never broke a promise to him.

a Good Omens fanfic from Aziraphale's POV

warning: no happy ending

#good omens #ineffable husbands #ao3 link #ao3 fanfic #ao3 #aziraphale #crowley #anthony j crowley #aziraphale pov #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfic #good omens fic #fanfic #fanfiction #no happy ending #angst #revelations chapter six #revelationschapter6

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rcreveal · 2 months

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Shipwrecked, with no memory of who we were before

From a Prompt a week challenge on Sendarya's Discord server Prompts: memory loss, the magic crystal ball

Starts off with the Ineffable ones washed up on a beach with no memory of who they were. We get to see them fall in love and be an Us without all the baggage, but with a continuous mystery until the final 5th chapter. Some sweet tenderness, with a spicy scene in Chapter 3 (only on A03, but teen version on Tumblr), hopeful ending as they redefine who they are and what their purpose is.

Chapter 1

Gentle waves wash a white sandy beach, nudging a small cask as the tide recedes. A stocky man, barefoot, in a broad brimmed hat, wearing shirt sleeves and tattered trousers walks purposefully towards the cask carrying a piece of torn sail cloth. Behind him, carefully pulled above the high tide line are piles of broken timbers, casks, barrels, and ropes. Useful flotsam and jetsam, he hopes, stopping to drink some water from a flask and fan himself with the large hat he’s managed to weave from some palm fronds. His fair skin and white blond hair seem likely to burn here. The island, once volcanic but so long dormant that the old shoulders of the mountain have almost slid completely into the bright blue sea, supports palm trees and a few freshwater streams. Soon, geologically speaking, the ringing coral reef will be the only thing left of the once tall island.

Squinting across the waves the castaway still sees no vessels anywhere. Sighing, he shades his eyes and stares down the beach. Sore, tired, and lost, he has to complete this inventory of broken things before the next high tide takes its treasures back. Trudging to the next bit of debris, he methodically creates a new pile that will all have to be moved back to his little camp later on.

Furthest yet, a largish heap of timber tangled with ropes boasts some other unidentified detritus. Finding himself running, his mind registers that a figure is wrapped in all that seawrack. Tossing a piece of planking aside, he finds a pale man with red hair, dark clothing in shreds. Too anxious to trust just his fingers to find a pulse, he puts his ear to the man’s chest and is overjoyed to hear a heartbeat, feel the lean chest rise.

“I have to get you back to camp!” the man says to the only other living soul he’s found since he woke up in a battered dinghy on this island. Gently, he untangles the fellow, murmuring to him, “Now, I’m just going to get you free,” while noting the bruises and scrapes all over him. Nothing is obviously broken, but when untangling the man’s head from a bit of net his hand came away sticky with something dark and iridescent. Oh dear, it would be so much easier if the fellow could wake up and walk back to his camp next to the little fresh water stream.

“I say, can you hear me!?” he says loudly, patting the man’s shoulder at the same time. No response. Biting his lip, he rubs his knuckles forcefully on the man’s sternum which elicits a groan and a weak move to swat away the painful touch. “Oh! I’m so sorry!” he says, rolling the fellow onto his side as he starts to cough. Once the coughing fit is past, the red haired man lays curled on his side, but definitely not moving on his own. Drat.

Only the seabirds could hear him swearing, so swear he did, and sweat, and chafe. He’d tied the red haired man into a sailcloth bundle with a loop of hempen rope as a harness, rather a crude sled, and was dragging the fellow back to his camp. For such a slender man, it was still a long, hot, weary time to get him back down the beach to his rudimentary shelter. He dunked his head in the little stream and drank handful after handful of water after he finally got them both there and the stranger onto the bedroll in his little shelter.

“Water!” taking in the other man’s cracked lips, he refills the water flask and hurries back to the red-haired man. Lifting the thin shoulders, he tries to trickle some water into his mouth without choking him. Somewhere in the midst of a swallow, by some reflex, the fellow seems to catch on and grasps the flask, drinking eagerly. Too eagerly, with a choking cough, the man’s eyes open. Golden orange snake eyes, unfocused, look up at him out of a man’s face.

“Who’re you?” he croaks hoarsely, then his eyes roll up and he’s unconscious again.

Laying the red haired stranger down gently on his side, the blonde haired man murmurs, “I wish I knew, good sir. I wish I knew.” For he is still unable to recall his own name, what happened before he washed up on this beach or any inkling of where this beach is. Well, they are sheltered and watered, so better get himself fed so he can keep tending this other castaway.

The red-haired man awoke, staring up at tattered cloth in hot shade, not sure what was worse: feeling like he’d had six kinds of shit beaten out of him or that he needed to piss so badly he thought he’d explode. He groaned.

A soft, gentle voice answered his groan, “Are you awake now? What do you need?” a slightly sunburned, slightly worried man’s face entered his field of view topped with white blonde curls.

“Despr’tly needta take a leak. Sorry, don’t think I can stand by mysel’,” he rasped. This was so embarrassing.

“Oh! Let’s get you up and over to some accommodating foliage! We’re well appointed in that respect!” The blonde-haired stranger looked soft, but easily got him upright and propped against some palm trunks in commendable short order. The blonde man even tried to give him some privacy given his precarious re-entry into the upright state.

Done with his most pressing concerns, the red-haired man leaned into the rough trunk and willed his knees not to buckle, commenting, “You know, I’m pretty sure I started this adventure with more clothing on.” He had a piece of cloth kilted around his hips held on with a leather belt with a new hole punched just for him. No wonder it felt like his muscles were congealed, he'd never seen such a collection of bruises and grazes as what he could see on himself right now.

“So sorry about that!” The blonde fellow popped back into view and helped him back to what looked like a child’s attempt at a fort,”Your clothing just disintegrated and you wouldn’t believe how difficult it is managing sleeves and such when someone’s…not able to help. So it was the best I could do for decency’s sake, but now that you’re up …”

The red-haired man flapped his free hand, hoping the other man would shut up, he had such a headache already. Blessed silence descended and he leaned back against a cask padded with some sailcloth, “I’d take some water and food, if you have any to spare.” This set off a bustling. Very soon there was a cool cup of water in his hand. Next, he smelled something so good that it made him feel like he’d never eaten, ever, and he needed large quantities of whatever that was immediately! “The mug gets rather hot, so be careful with the stew,” the fellow said, handing over a mug of some sort of fish stew and a spoon then tucking in himself.

Between near scalding spoonfuls of the best stew he thinks he's ever eaten, the red haired man says, “Thanks. You've been doing a lot to take care of me, obviously. Who are you? And where are we?”

The blonde haired man has set his stew down to cool and he starts to fiddle with a gold ring on his right pinky finger. “You're very welcome, of course. But, I don't know…either of those things.” He looks troubled. “I don't know who I am. I don't know who you are or where this is. Do you know who you are?”

The last spoonful just finished, the red-haired man suddenly looks anxious, “I…no. No!” He looks a little wild, red hair shaggy and loose to this chin, snake eyes wide in alarm.

The blonde haired man immediately switches back to comforter in the face of his distress, “Steady. Steady! You took a blow to the head! I think we both did. We’ll figure it out together.”

The red haired fellow slumps back, eyelids heavy, “Together, yeah,” and spent, falls into the easy sleep of an invalid. The blonde haired man carefully settles him back down onto the bedroll and bustles about to clean his wounds again. It wouldn’t do for him to get an infection on top of everything else.

When he next wakes in the little stuffy shelter, the red-haired man’s nose is assaulted by an evil smelling cloth that he sees the blonde fellow is trying to get onto his own back.

“Let me help you with that,” he says, grimacing as he sits up, he takes the cloth and applies it gently to a nasty wound in the blonde fellow’s back.

“Oh! Thank you!” the blonde haired fellow says, throwing a beaming smile over his shoulder, “I was able to take care of the rest of our injuries, but that one’s hard for me to reach,” he winces at the light touch of the cloth.

Concerned, the red-haired man says, “I’d like to see this in the light. I’m worried it’s festering.” Seeing a handy stick the blonde obviously put there for him, he levers himself up and staggers out of the shelter and under some palm trees. The blonde man has been busy while he slept, building benches from casks and trunks and fashioning a tripod for cooking in the fire. The blonde fellow has gathered his bandages and medicines and brought them over to the benches. With his shirt off, the blonde man has the build of a former blacksmith or wrestler, inherently stocky and strong but with a deceptively soft layer. The blonde man’s own injuries are more apparent now. Most are bruises, some scrapes, but the red haired man hisses at the sight of the wound in his back. Deep, like a stab wound, it is an angry red, hot, and oozing a slimy pus.

With slender fingers testing the extent of the injury, he says, “I’m not going to sugar coat it, this looks infected. I’m going to make a hot compress,” looking over to the tidy campfire that already has a pot and steaming kettle on it. He sniffs the cloth, “You’ve made a medicinal salve? Have you got any more?” he looks at a trunk that’s been turned into a campaign cook chest with a motley assortment of salvaged basins and metal cookware. Pulling out a basin and taking the little pot with the salve the fellow has made, as the other man sits on a bench, he almost snarls, surprised at his own anger, it feels like an old argument, “Tell me you haven’t been neglecting yourself to take care of me!”

Not rising to the other’s irritation, “No. It’s just there’s a lot to do and I can’t reach it! I have felt a little more tired today. Thank you for seeing to it,” the blonde-haired man says simply and waits patiently, watching him work and pointing out where he’s stored things.

Dropping the cloth into the basin with the salve and adding some boiling water, the red-haired man lets it cool a bit before wringing the cloth out and folding it up, still steaming. “This will probably smart. I’m going to hold the compress on the wound until it cools then keep repeating until it drains. Try and draw out the infection,” he holds the steaming compress over the wound, unbothered by the heat. With his fingers against the blonde man’s back, it’s like he can sense the infected wound trying to dig down further than the original blow, about to breach the covering of the lung. This is a killing wound without proper treatment! Somehow he is remembering having seen more people die of infected wounds than of the injury itself. Angrily, he wishes he could will it away, halt the deadly march that’s threatening to take away his benefactor.

“OH!” the other man exclaims.

Eyes flying open, the red-headed man had closed them in concentration, his hand pulls away, to show the wound greatly changed. The cloth is coated in pus and dead tissue, but the wound…the wound is mostly healed.

“Uh, how do you feel now?” he asks shakily.

“My word! You have the healing touch! It feels ever so much better,” the blonde man turns to the red-haired man, who’s gazing at the cloth. “Oh dear, that came out of me? How does it look? It hardly hurts now!” he twists and squirms trying but failing to reach the spot, “It was starting to hurt with every breath, come to think of it.”

“Uh, it looks better, a lot better. I’m just going to bandage it,” the red-haired man wraps a roll of cloth against the wound, hands shaking with reaction. ‘Did I do that? Did I heal him?’ then turns to wash his hands seeing a bar of rough soap handy.

“Are you hungry? Only I’m suddenly famished, and the stew’s still hot,” the blonde fellow burbles, in a sort of forced lightness, “I’m surprised to find that I’m rather good at field medicine and cooking on the rough. Fairly proficient angler, too. Can’t remember a blessed thing about what I did before. You?” he hands over another mug of fish stew.

“Yeah. I seem to know some field medicine, too, and I’m thinking about ways to improve the shelter. Still don’t know who I am. If you were a pretty, young Mediterranean woman, I’d think this was the island of Ogygia and you were Calypso.”

“Oh, you mean like Odysseus in the Odyssey! He washed up on her island prison and she nursed him back to health! Yes, I see the reference. You were tangled up in a pile of wreckage when I found you on the beach. I’ve been thinking about Robinson Crusoe and his shipwreck. I think we were in a storm?”

“Yeah. I vaguely remember…chaos. Wind and water and everything breaking apart,” he stared out at an exquisitely blue lagoon with nothing but water to be seen to the horizon. “Look. What do you want me to call you? I can’t just keep calling you the ‘blonde-haired man’ in my head. Have you found anything that identifies you?” the red-haired fellow asks, sliding off the bench to lean against it while he makes short work of the stew, going back for a second helping.

“I’m blonde?” the fellow touches his short curls.

“Almost white-blonde, your beard coming in, too, and blue eyes,” replies the red-haired fellow.

“Gosh, glad I’ve been covering up from the sun, then. No, I haven't found anything! There's no inscription on my ring. It looks heraldic, but that's most of the western world. I've got a pocket watch, doesn’t work now, I’m afraid, and no engraving. No wallet. Nothing that's washed up has any words on it, not even manufacturers’ stamps. My clothes don't have any labels, but they're rather posh. Fine fabrics, well made, and tailored. Uncanny really.”

“Did you find anything on me?” asks the red-haired man.

Poking the fire a bit, the blonde man gets up and goes into the shelter coming back with a pitiful pile of black scraps before he replies, “Your clothes were just shreds,” he hands over the scraps. “No jewelry, no wallet. You've got a little tattoo on your temple, looks like a stylized snake.” He taps his own right temple, "You've got the brightest, dark red hair I think I’ve ever seen, beard, too.”

Poking at the burned scraps of fabric, the red-haired man says, “Huh, I should be careful in the sun, too, then. What about the eyes? Blue, green, hazel?”

“Umm, you’ve got snake eyes. Orange, slit-pupiled snake eyes. They seem to turn rather golden when you’re upset or excited. Like now,” observes the blonde calmly.

“Snake eyes!” huffs the red-head.

“And your blood isn’t red, it’s iridescent black,” the blonde puts a steadying hand on the red-head’s shoulder, “If it’s any help, my blood’s not normal, either. It’s iridescent gold.”

“Right. So, not human, then. Well that might explain it.”

“You’re taking this rather better than I somehow thought you would. Explain what exactly?”

“The eyes, oh sure, right, glad you said. No, I was more surprised that I think I healed your wound. I could feel that it was almost into your lungs, you know. Now it’s not.”

“My goodness! A healer like Asclepius and his caduceus! Which do you like more? Asclepius or Caduceus?” the blonde fellow exclaims.

“Huh?” the red-head asks, suddenly feeling bone weary again.

“Do you like either of them for a name?” persists the blonde, “I don’t want to keep thinking of you as the ‘red-haired fellow’.”

“Seems kinda long. Lemmee sleep onit,” and he curls up on his side by the fire, falling back to sleep.

The blonde fellow looks at his compatriot’s black, purple and blue bruised skin pulled over the painfully thin frame, the red hair feathered over his sunken cheek. ‘How badly hurt would a being that could heal with a touch have to be that he was healing human slowly? And like a human who’d been gravely injured?’ he got up and draped a blanket over the invalid, then walked down the beach to retrieve more piles.

During his trips back and forth from the beach, he wondered at how much better he felt. ‘That wound must have been really sapping my strength. Also, if he’s part snake, should I let him lay in the sun a bit and warm him up?’ Setting down his latest burden in the little camp, he looked down on the red-haired fellow, ‘Well, no time like the present.’ Gathering the fellow up in his arms, ‘Was he this light before, or was my wound really that bad?’ He steps out of the shade of the palm trees and onto the sunny beach, laying the fellow down in the bright sunshine. Tentatively, he places a hand on the fellow’s toaster rack chest, over his heart, then just tries to sense what’s wrong. ‘If he can heal with a touch, can I?’

“Oh!” he exclaims to himself. The sunshine was a good thought, he can almost see it soaking in. This fellow has no reserves at all and it feels like he has something weighing him down, almost a metaphysical wound. But it’s hard to pinpoint the problem with him so beat about. Maybe something as simple as wishing him a more restorative than normal sleep? So, he did, and was delighted to see some pain lines ease around the fellow’s eyes and mouth. ‘I’ll just have to make sure he isn’t getting sunburn,’ he thinks and heads down to the waterline to catch some more fish and collect shellfish for the stew.

Hot sand, hot sun, finally warm through, the red-haired fellow feels knotted, strained muscles relaxing and knitting. ‘I’m thoroughly fed up with being thoroughly tired and passing out all the time! Wonder if I can speed up the healing process…’

The sound was ‘whoomph’, the sensation was that of being splashed by star fire. The blonde fellow turned from fishing at the sound to see multicolored fire erupting over the spot where the red-haired fellow had been and a man-thick black and red winged serpent curled up with its eyes closed. The sigh of contentment it, no, he let out was really endearing. And the blonde fellow would appreciate it more if he could get his heart out of his throat. Tidy that he’s fallen into the waves, too. Saves doing some laundry. I’ll just sit here in the sea and watch the pretty fire playing over my friend there until I can trust my legs to go have a lie down in the shade!

Bodies could only stay alarmed so long, and he managed to get used to a flaming, winged serpent snoring gently on the beach after dunking his head in the stream again, a mug of cool water, and a swig of medicinal brandy. The serpent fire wasn’t at all hot towards him or their camp. He even got composed enough to walk back up the stream looking for wild ginger and edible things to enrich the stew.

When he came back with his foraging, he saw the serpent fellow was man shaped again, same ragged blanket still kilted about his hips, but energetically working on the shelter, having found the tool box. Now you could easily stand up inside the shelter, the tarpaulin roof looks like it won’t fall in on them in case of a stiff breeze. The red haired fellow is almost equally changed; his bruises have faded to yellow-green and lean muscle has filled out his chest and arms. Practically humming with good health, he turns grinning with a mallet still in one hand. “I’m onto the beds, do you want a hammock or a cot, Asclepius? I’m leaning towards a hammock myself after pulling a crab out of my ear a little while ago.”

“Asclepius? Me?” the blonde fellow sets down his foraging on a bench and peers into the expanded shelter and over at his companion.

“Well, yeah, you certainly healed me up, it seems. Feel fit as a fiddle!” and he bends to take a swig of water.

“Well, then, you’re Caduceus, since you turned into a flaming, winged serpent and napped on the beach most of the morning after healing me.

The newly monikered Caduceus sprays his swig of water and Asclepius is mildly surprised that he doesn’t breathe fire, too.

“Turned into…! I thought I just had snake eyes? I woke up feeling well enough to wonder if I could speed the healing along and then went back to my nap.”

“You turned into a huge, twenty foot, black and red serpent with wings, snoring within your own personal fire,” Asclepius points out, starting to add ginger to the pot of hot water on the fire. He’s not at all surprised that Caduceus finished off what was left.

“A snoring snake? How does a snake snore? I thought I was just enjoying the warm. I was shaped like this when I woke up,” he gestures to himself. “Uh, want some fresh coconut? I gathered some while you were off,” he lops off the top of a young coconut with a machete and hands it over.

“Thanks, that’ll do a treat for the curry!” Asclepius says, taking a sip and then pouring the rest into the pot. “I’ll go for a hammock, too, since you’re asking. But try not to overexert yourself! You’ve spent most of the past few days sleeping and recovering. Do you want some different clothes? Only, I found some things you can look through.”

“Nah, thanks, this feels familiar and it’s handy in the heat. I’ll fix up the ragged bits later. Well, back to hammock making,” he says with a grin, finishing drinking young coconut milk out of the green coconut he opened for himself and handing the rest over to Asclepius who had scooped out fresh coconut and was alternating eating it and putting some in the curry.

By the heat of the afternoon, Caduceus had finished the hammocks. He strode into the lagoon, kilt and all to rinse off the wood shavings and hemp bits sticking all over him and then stomped happily up the beach, twirled around and fell back onto the hot sand with his hands behind his head. Winking and waving at Asclepius, he turned back into a large serpent, no wings or fire this time, but soon snoring again, scales shimmering in the bright sunshine.

Asclepius had helped with the construction by having a better idea of what they had in building materials and had made several more trips down the beach for a few remaining piles. Hot and comfortably tired, he walks up the little stream to a pool and bathes in the freshwater, cleaning the sticky sweat and saltwater out of his clothes and laying the wet things onto a bush to dry. Refreshed, he gratefully climbs into one of the new sail cloth hammocks in nothing but his small clothes. Enjoying the pleasant breeze in the once stuffy shelter, he drifts off into a nap of his own thinking how pleasant that there are two of them.

Someone studying the scene in the depths of a crystal sphere smiles.

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