#Blaze is another who Tails is fine with using Miles for him because she preferred to not use the nickname until she felt close enough to hi | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

Text

Christmas without Miracles

I’ve fallen a bit behind on my contributions to @drawlight’s Advent Calendar, but behold!

One fic using two prompts so I feel less guilty!

This one takes place in the early 1800s. No specific location - just isolated, outside of England, and cold.

This is supposed to be a few years before the 1862 argument, but if you want to headcanon a universe where this happens instead of the 1862 argument, that’s cool, too.

06 - Sleigh Bells/07 - Silent Night (2,630)

Snow had started to fall.

Just lightly, each white flake twisting down from a sky dark with clouds.

All the usual nighttime noises – insects, animals rustling in the undergrowth, even the wind in the trees – were silenced. Just the gentle hush of snow accumulating, molecule by molecule.

Aziraphale knew he should be inside. There was a fire blazing in the hearth, the cabin bright and warm and empty. Two of the three would be an improvement on what he had out here, standing on the porch, looking across the rolling, tree-dotted hills.

Cold. Empty. Silent.

He hated the silence most of all.

Crowley didn’t hate snow, so long as he didn’t have to travel in it.

Walk, and your boots filled up with snow.

Ski, and you looked ridiculous anywhere outside the Alps. And in them, too.

Riding a horse was out – if he went the rest of eternity without ever sitting on one of those again, he’d be happy.

But anything with wheels was also out – carriages and wagons and carts could barely handle clean city streets.

Trains were good, if the tracks were cleared, but so far Hell had not been interested in his proposal to build a train line that stopped at every human residence in the world. Which was fine, that had only been semi-serious, anyway.

The only remaining option was to use some form of sled.

He glared at the…sled? Sleigh? Whichever. It was small, just enough room for one person, or a small pile of supplies, to sit in it the seat, but whoever drove it had to stand behind on the runners. It was pulled by some kind of long-maned pony or very small horse that looked like it had its own ideas about who was in charge.

The bridle and reins were covered in bells.

“Do you have one without the bells?” he asked, not even really hoping.

“Nope,” the man said with the cheerful joy of one who knows he has the transportation market cornered for the next few months. “Those bells let people know you’re coming even when they can’t see you. And anyway, they keep off the evil spirits.”

“So I’ve heard.” Crowley reached over and flicked a finger at one of the large silvery bells.

Chk-chk-chk

The whole line jingled, sending shivers up and down his arms, settling at the back of his neck.

He hated that noise most of all.

Too many frivolous miracles.

First, a letter full of such threatening language that only a trek through a revolution-torn city to find his favorite pastries – as well as a not-quite-chance encounter with a certain demon – had been able to calm him down again.

Then, a commendation. Congratulations on performing your job perfectly as always.

And now, a “meditative retreat” – five months alone to think about what he should and shouldn’t be using his powers to achieve. No miracles allowed.

A month and a half in, he’d decided – he hadn’t the faintest idea.

Take the most simple of duties: sometimes, he was assigned to keep a person safe.

Did that mean use a miracle to stop them from being injured? Or to heal them afterwards? Or was he supposed to guide them, miracle-free, as if he were another human? Do what seems best, he’d be told, but what seemed best to him never seemed best to anyone else.

Or protecting himself – his corporation, rather, since Aziraphale’s true self was rarely in danger. Could he use a miracle to avoid a dangerous situation? Heal himself from an injury? Was his body the same as a human body, or less valuable? Was all this a waste of Heaven’s resources when he could simply get a new body? How many miracles were equal to one body, anyway?

Questions he shouldn’t ask. Shouldn’t have to ask. He should just know. Angels received their orders, obeyed them, and chose the best course of action, because that’s what angels did.

Angels weren’t supposed to get confused.

But Aziraphale did. All the time. What did that make him?

Crowley preferred to do everything by miracle.

Need new clothes? Manifest them.

Need money? There it is.

Food? Never bothered to learn to cook. When he was hungry, he pulled fully prepared meals out of the nearest cupboard.

Hell rarely tracked exactly what he did, as long as he could demonstrate evil had been accomplished.

But they did track where he was, using miracles. It didn’t do to be more than a few miles from where you were supposed to be.

This wasn’t anywhere near Venice, which was a pity, because he’d rather like to be in Venice right now.

He stared around the bakery. “I don’t know. Just get me several things that are hot and edible.” He had a list, but it wasn’t helping. “Do you have a…stuffing? Or butter?”

“You can get butter from the general store,” the baker’s wife offered, putting together his packages.

“No. The shop person said they didn’t have any dairy.”

“He just meant milk and cream. They’ll have butter, and cheese if you want it.”

Crowley dragged the heel of his hand across his forehead. He’d lived in agricultural societies. He knew perfectly well that butter and cheese were both dairy. “Fine. I’ll go back. How about the stuffing?”

“You’ll want to make your own.”

“Really don’t.”

“I can give you a family recipe!” She started writing in pencil on the brown wrapping of one of the packages. “You’ll need ground beef, sausage…”

A few minutes later, Crowley opened the door to the bitter cold wind outside, making all the bells in the wreath jangle up and down his already-raw nerves.

Chk-chk-chk

He paused, cracked his neck, and kept walking.

Aziraphale finally had to return to the cabin, as the snow had piled up higher than his feet.

Only a single room – wood stove, table and benches, rug; there was a bed even though he didn’t sleep, a few pots and pans even though there was no food.

No chair. No books. Well, one book.

Gabriel had left him a journal, and pen and ink. Encouraged him to write down his thoughts.

Aziraphale thought best when he was reading, talking, engaging with someone or something. For the first few weeks, he’d talked to himself a lot, arguing with the empty room, having mock conversations, even reciting poetry he had memorized.

But slowly the oppressive quiet had settled across his soul. And he found himself picking up the pen to write –

What? What could he write about? His doubts? His confusion? What would he even say?

When it got to be too much, he tried drawing, sketching out what he could see. That helped a little, but once he’d scribbled down images of the room, the hills outside, the one tree he liked to walk to…well, he was back to the same dilemma, what to write?

Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to list a few questions. Just so he could think about the answers.

Chk-chk-chk

The door of the last shop slammed behind Crowley, bells clattering. Shaking his head to clear it, he checked his list one more time. It looked like he had everything, though the ink was already smudging where snowflakes fell on it.

He settled the packages into the sled, tucking a blanket all around them, and pulled up the collar of his coat against the biting wind.

“Better leave room for yourself,” said the kid.

Crowley looked him up and down. Seventeen or so, son of the man who had rented him the sled and horse. He was supposed to drive it out and return with it.

“Nope. I’m driving, you’re staying.”

“That’s not how this works. We only have a few, and we need to be able to get supplies out in an emergency –”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Crowley handed over a pile of money. “This should cover the sled and the horse, in case I don’t come back. Plus a bit. Give it to your dad.” He considered the kid another moment. “You have, I don’t know, a girl you like? Boy? Anything?” The kid tried to give him a stubborn, blank look, but some of that pink wasn’t just from the cold. “Whatever, not my business.” Crowley handed over the rest of his money, saving only what he would need to get back to London. “Give him, her, or them something nice. Cheers.”

While the kid was still staring at the pile of money, Crowley climbed onto the runners of the sled and took the reins in both hands.

Chk-chk-chk

He felt that one in his stomach.

With another jingling of sleigh bells, he shook the reins –

And nothing happened.

“Go.”

Nothing.

“Move, horse!”

Now it was just embarrassing.

The kid leaned against the sled. “Are you sure? I don’t think you know what you’re doing.”

“Of course I don’t!” He jerked the reins back, trying to ignore the way the sound of bells hammered into his spine. “But no one can know where I’m going.”

With a shrug, the kid shoved the money into his pocket. “Pull on one side, gently, to turn. Not too sudden, it’ll tip over. Whoa to slow down, walk to go, and remember, you’re in charge.” He winked, and walked away with a swagger that wasn’t quite as good as the demon’s, but better suited to over six inches of snowfall.

Clutching the reins again, Crowley called: “Walk. WALK!” He shook them hard. “COME ON YOU BLESSED HORSE, WALK!”

Nothing moved.

Once Aziraphale had started writing, it was hard to stop.

Page after page. Whatever entered his mind.

It was nice just seeing the ink flow.

Hearing the scratch of the pen fill the silence.

Crowley got off the back of the sled and walked up to the horse, grabbing it by the bridle. “Listen, here, you, I am in charge!”

The horse snorted and stomped directly onto his foot.

“Nghaa that was not – ugh!”

The horse shook its head, jingling the bells again and again until Crowley was ready to tear his own ears off, until Crowley let go and stepped back.

The horse lashed its tail.

“Look, fine.” Crowley grumbled trying to stand where the horse could see him clearly, despite the snow that was now falling thick. “You’re in charge if that’s what you want. But I need to get somewhere. I should have been there hours ago. Days ago. You are my only way of getting there. I have nothing to bribe you with. I promise, you get fed either way, you get brushed either way, and you will absolutely get enough apples and sugar to make you sick because I’m not doing anything else with those.”

He reached out a hand to touch the horse. He had lived in agricultural societies, but he was much more comfortable around the crops and plants than the animals. Still, rather to his surprise, the horse let him stroke its nose. “Please. This is more important than you can imagine. Just get me there.”

He stepped back onto the runners, picked up the reins. “Walk.”

The horse didn’t walk. It moved much quicker than that.

Aziraphale lay down his pen, wiggling his fingers after all that writing. There were a lot of words on the page. Perhaps he should read over them.

He found himself walking back to the door, stepping into the silent night outside again.

The snow was falling so fast it was almost a physical thing, blocking his view even where the light from the door should have been enough to see the edge of the woods. It spilled across the porch, piled at the corners of the cottage.

And still, everything was so quiet. Even the wind, which had picked up, seemed to carry only the flakes and not any sound –

Were those sleigh bells?

A moment later a horse came into view – one of the small, sturdy northern breeds – pushing on through the unbroken snow, pressing through the storm with determined strides, pulling behind it a small sled and clinging to the back of that –

“Crowley?”

“Whoa,” called the dark figure. “Whoa – I said whoa! We’re here!”

With a final jingle of bells, the horse stopped in front of the porch, and Crowley fell backwards, off the sled runners and into the snow.

“Crowley! What the Hell are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too, Angel.”

“You’re supposed to be in Italy!”

“Yeah, I am. No, don’t worry, I can pick myself up.” He started to rise, then stumbled again.

Aziraphale rushed forward. “I’m – I didn’t realize – what’s wrong? What happened?”

“Bloody sleigh bells. Chase off evil spirits.” He clasped Aziraphale’s hand, pulling himself up. “I’ll be fine, just need to get a drink and warm up.”

“Of course, but – I don’t have any food or drink.”

With a very tired grin, Crowley tossed aside the blanket in the sled. “Happy Christmas, Angel.”

Crowley had needed to compromise on a few things.

He had the goose, and what he was assured were all the ingredients needed for stuffing and gravy.

Potatoes, brussels sprouts, and parsnips had been easy to find; and something he was almost certain was redcurrant sauce.

There had been no plum pudding this far from England, or mince pies, or fruitcake – though he wasn’t certain fruitcake was something you bought, it was possible all fruitcakes already existed and were simply eternally exchanged. He had managed to get a variety of sweet pastries.

Lots of wine.

And two bundles of books – the ones he had picked out at stops on the way, and the ones he had taken from the shop. Aziraphale shouldn’t have been surprised Crowley knew his favorites, but the demon was pleased at his smile either way.

There were two things to take care of first.

Crowley spied the notebook as soon as he stepped in. He only glanced at it long enough to see that Aziraphale had written a lot.

Then he picked it up and dropped it into the flames of the stove.

“Crowley! That was a private journal!”

“No it wasn’t.” He pulled off his glasses and glared at Aziraphale. “What did you think, they were going to let you keep that? Ask you to tell them the important parts? They left you here alone to write your own confession.”

Aziraphale clenched his teeth, didn’t say anything.

“I don’t like it.” Crowley grumbled. “They’ve never done anything like this before. I don’t know what’s changed.”

The other issue was the horse.

“No, I can’t have a horse in the cabin!”

“You can’t leave it outside, Angel, it’s a storm!”

“I thought you didn’t even like horses.”

“I don’t! But this one got me here and…” Crowley shrugged. “And it’s as much of a bloody-minded stubborn bastard as you are, so you’ll probably get along.”

Aziraphale sighed, and Crowley could see him start to give in. “How am I supposed to hide the fact that there’s been a horse in here when Gabriel gets back? We can’t miracle it clean.”

“Eh, just tell him some traveler lost in the storm stayed here a while. It’ll be true enough.”

And so, with the horse in the corner working through its feed bag and having the night of its life, Crowley and Aziraphale set about figuring out how to make a Christmas dinner.

It wouldn’t be perfect.

Neither of them had ever cooked without miracles before. There was immediately an argument over how one peeled a potato, and what exactly stuffing was for, really.

It wouldn’t be perfect.

But the jangle of the bells had ended, the silence had been driven from the cabin, and once again they were together.

And that, in a way, was perfect.

#good omens fanfiction #good omens prime #31 days of ineffables #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #christmas #look this one actually is a christmas story #my writing #incidentally there is only one bed #;)#maybe don't read too much into that though #aziraphale doesn't sleep #and that horse has a judgy stare

64 notes · View notes