#in which crowley is a twitch streamer and aziraphale is a good sport

[luckyspike]

An Absolute Menace - A Good Omens fanfiction

behold and lo for i have heard your cries for a sequel to the whole Crowley is a twitch streamer story

and i have written this monstrosity (4k words)

have fun enjoy

(credit to BrownMan and LetsPlay, without whose playthroughs I never would have been able to accomplish this level of detail since i do not own the game or requisite gaming system)

-

2000 hours GMT: Stream time.

There is only one problem tonight, and that problem is that Crowley, retired demon and part-time Twitch streamer, has lost his voice. Oh, certainly, he could miracle his vocal cords back to health, soothe the inflammation brought on by an entire afternoon screaming at Manchester the day prior, no problem. But that would remove his excuse to look forlorn while Aziraphale brewed yet another pot of honey-infused tea, and more importantly, would negate his entire strategy for the stream tonight.

If asked directly, he would deny that he had intentionally screamed exceptionally loudly the day prior. That would be an outright lie but, well, demon.

“Come on, angel,” he wheedles hoarsely, over the rim of a steaming mug of tea. “Please?”

“I don’t know the first thing about video games, dear boy.” Aziraphale maneuvers the mug away from Crowley for a second, long enough to deposit a dollop of honey into the mug and stir it in. “I don’t understand why you don’t just fix it for yourself. Really, frivolous miracles aren’t exactly something we should be worried about anymore -”

A memory swims to the forefront of Crowley’s brain, and he slumps. Tries to look pathetic. Aziraphale is better at it, always, but Crowley is fairly competent when he needs to be. “It’s not the same,” he manages. He sounds absolutely pathetic, and his voice cracks pitifully at the end. “It doesn’t work the same.” He sips the tea - too much honey for him, it mingles unpleasantly with the ever-present taste of ash, but it does feel good going down. “Come on, angel, I’ll pick a really easy game. Just tonight. Please?”

Aziraphale watches him for a moment. Frowns thoughtfully. Sips his own tea. “You planned this.”

“I did not.” He sets the mug down, sprawls across the counter, and looks up at Aziraphale, eyes wide and pleading. “Please, Aziraphale. It’ll be on the Switch, nice and easy, I’ll sit right next to you the whole time in case you need help. I can’t do a three-hour talking thing tonight.”

“Hm.” He purses his lips. Takes another sip of tea. “You’ll owe me.”

“Absolutely. Anything you want. Baked goods, rare books … I’ll even go to the opera, if you want. One whole night, not a word out of me, just respectful and quiet.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” It is an agreement, and the angel sets his own mug down, the better to straighten his bow tie. “You swear it’ll be an easy game, yes?”

“Cross my heart,” says Crowley, solemn. “It’s about animals. You like animals.”

“I do, rather.”

Aziraphale sits, awkwardly, in Crowley’s usual chair in front of the bank of monitors in the den while Crowley fiddles with a few things on the computer. He hands Aziraphale the controller, briefs him on the buttons (“Right, move with that thing, yeah just push it around, you’ll figure it out, and your right hand has all the little letter buttons”), and then, after affirming that they’re both ready for whatever Crowley has in store, starts the stream.

He starts, as he always does, with the introduction: “Hey guys, welcome to the stream, I’m your host AJ, variety streamer and quite possibly the oldest streamer on Twitch*. And this is … uh, Ari Fell, he’s been in a few videos, why don’t you introduce yourself?”

[* He definitely is. By a long shot.]

Aziraphale had been in a few videos by this point, most significantly the infamous Nuzlocke run of Pokemon X, which was thrilling and captivating and ended up with both of them crying over the untimely demise of Blanche Devereux, the plucky little Diggersby that perished in the final conflict with the Elite Four. He’d been in a few others, too, and by now they have a routine down. Crowley has the same standard introduction every time, but when Aziraphale makes an appearance, he likes to mix it up.

“Yes, I’m Mr. Fell. AJ’s best friend, his eternal nemesis and your … ah, local tartan enthusiast.”

Crowley snorted. “Accurate. Anyway, as you all -” all 500 people, and counting, although Aziraphale tries immediately to banish that thought and forget that section of the monitors ever existed “- can probably tell, got a bit of a voice problem right now, not really up to a full stream, so I’ve pulled in the backup to try out a little game that’s gotten a lot of press in the past but I never got around to it. You’ll like it, s’got animals in it.” He taps a few buttons on the computer, and the game screen changes. Soothing piano music begins, and they are both bathed in the blue light of the monitor. “So this is Untitled Goose Game by House House. Now, angel -” Aziraphale ignores the deluge of heart icons that fills the chat “- you have never played this game before, correct?”

“You know I haven’t.”

“Great. So the whole point is to be a goose and complete the items on your checklist. Hit ‘begin’.” He coughs, and takes a swig of tea as the screen loads in an image of a little clearing. “Right, says ‘press Y to honk’ so press the Y button and honk.”

Honk. Aziraphale frowns. “Is this the whole game?” Honk. Honk. Honkhonkhonkhonkhonk.

“Nah, says press B to run.” Aziraphale, a little tentatively, begins to maneuver his goose avatar around the screen. He gets increasingly confident, following the tutorial as it directs him.

“Oh, wings, of course, my wings. Can I fly?”

“Nah. Grounded like the rest of us poor saps.” He grins in the face of Aziraphale’s scowl, and takes a diversionary sip of tea. Honk. “Right, through the gate, there you go, tutorial done.”

“Seems simple enough.” Aziraphale is studying the screen, thoughtful, as his goose paddles across the lake. “Now, you said a to-do list - oh! Oh, where’s the dash button? Ah, there. Yes. Excellent, alright. So first it looks like we need to get into the garden.” Crowley nods, and Aziraphale reads on. “Get the groundskeeper wet? What has the groundskeeper ever done to me?”

“Nothing. When has a goose ever needed justification for its actions?”

“Hm, yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right. ‘Steal the groundskeeper’s keys’.” He sighs. “Crowley you picked this game on purpose. You wanted to tempt me into making mayhem.”

Crowley is laughing. “I did,” he confirms. “Oh, definitely, definitely did.”

“Right, well, I suppose it’s just a video game.” He straightens up a little. “And I am a goose. They’re practically agents of chaos in their own right anyhow, so nothing lost.” Crowley is laughing and coughing in the background, curled up in his chair with his free arm around his knees. “Very well. ‘Make the groundskeeper wear his sun hat.’ That one’s not so bad. ‘Rake in a lake’ … well rakes are waterproof so - oh! Have a picnic! How nice.” Crowley does not agree, mostly because he is too busy laughing. 

“I suppose I’ll start with the nicer ones.” He leaves the to-do list, and starts wandering around in the game. “Is there a way into the garden? Perhaps if I get on top of these bags. Is that a radio?” Crowley giggles, although it comes out more of a whimper. “I’ll just move that. I say! Bagpipes!”

“I think I need this for the picnic, anyway, don’t I? Where do I go to find the blanket?” He runs around for a minute, radio playing some kind of bagpipe rendition. Honk. “Argh!” The groundskeeper appears from stage right, and begins to pursue the goose. “No, I need this! No, it’s mine now!” The goose swims into the lake. “Hah! Mine. No!” The groundskeeper pursues him, and the goose drops the radio. “No, I took that!” Honk. Honk honk. The goose pursues the groundskeeper now, and snatches the radio back out of his hand, turning and escaping hurriedly into the pond. “Haha! Catch me now!” The goose paddles across the pond, escaping under the bridge. When he crosses under the bridge, the groundskeeper turns back, defeated. “Crow - AJ, look! I got the radio!”

“Yeah.” Crowley is wheezing, curled up in the chair, the tea safely stashed on the nearest plant stand. “Good job, buddy, you got it.”

“Did you see him chase me into the pond? The cheek. I did mark off the ‘get the groundskeeper wet’ item though.” On-screen, the goose is wandering around, tinny music blasting from the radio. “Now if I could only find the blanket …” He looks happily surprised. “Aha, but he opened the garden gate!” The goose waddles toward the gate, when suddenly the groundskeeper appears from the garden, summoned by the siren song of his radio. “No! No, not again!” Honkhonkhonkhonk. The goose, once again, flees into the pond and under the bridge. “Give up already, you stupid man!”

“I’m dying,” Crowley gasps hoarsely in the background. “I’m actually dying.”

“Where’s the blanket?” Aziraphale is coming as close as he ever does to snarling. “I have never in all my years had to work this hard to have a picnic!”

Crowley is clutching his sides. “That makes one of us,” he manages, before lounging back in the chair and coughing, face aching from laughing. “Oh I’m gonna die.”

“When have you had to put in this much effort for a picnic?” Aziraphale grouses, before he brightens when he spots the plaid picnic blanket. “Ha! Got it!”

“Oh, I dunno, basically from ‘You go too fast for me’ until about three years ago.” Honk. The goose freezes because Aziraphale has whipped around in his chair, the better to glare at Crowley.

“Dear boy.”

“You asked,” he says, before he dissolves into giggles again. “Go on, you have to finish the picnic.”

Honk. “We’ll discuss this later.”

“I imagine we will.” Crowley lunges forward, taps a button on the keyboard, and leans in close to Aziraphale, smarmy grin plastered on his face. “Love you, you’re pretty.”

“There’s a microphone -”

“Muted it.”

“... You’re an absolute nightmare.”

“And you’ve got 600 people watching you pretend to be a goose.” He jerks his head toward the computer. “Game on, angel.” The button is tapped again, the microphone live again. “Sorry, technical difficulties, nothing to see here. How’s the picnic going?”

Gradually, the items for the picnic are assembled. Aziraphale, as the groundskeeper goes on chasing him, becomes more antagonistic. “I’m going to steal this crate just because I can.” He gasps. “A goose hole!”

“A goose hole!” Crowley wheezes behind him. “Yes, a goose hole! Get his keys and throw them in the pond!” 

By the time the to-do list updates with ‘make the groundskeeper hit his thumb with a hammer’, Aziraphale has fully embraced his bastard side and is more than eager to honk with prejudice. The second phase of the game is worse: the shopkeeper that continuously chases him away with a broom becomes the fully-realized subject of his ire, and Aziraphale pursues her with all the determination of a spiteful avenging angel. When the challenge comes to lock her in the garage, he complies with gusto, even confining her beyond the required instance.

“You stay in there you hateful creature,” he grumbles, as the door once again comes down and entraps her. “Forever.”

“You bastard,” Crowley snickers in the background. “You’re brilliant.”

When he proceeds to the third portion of the game, he waddles straight into the meticulously-kept garden of the older gentleman reading his newspaper. Honk! “This is the next twenty minutes of your life, sir, dreadfully sorry, but I’m sure you’ll do something in the next fifteen seconds to absolve me of guilt.”

The man does not, truthfully, do anything to make Aziraphale feel less guilty about stealing his slippers, his hat, and the rest of his possessions, although the woman next door with the painting is annoying enough with her constant fence repairs that the angel is able to alleviate some of his guilt by mis-directing his frustration with her to the man. After he accomplishes the ‘do the washing’ task, the two of them watch in amused fascination as the man tries to throw the woman’s bra back over the fence and misses, repeatedly.

“I spent eight pounds on this game,” Crowley observes. His voice is barely-audible at this point, between the laughing and the occasional instructions to the angel. “What a spectacular physics engine.”

“Is that a lot for a game?”

“It is a criminally low amount to charge for this game.” The man again fails at throwing the bra at the fence. “Can you imagine if we walked outside one day and saw our neighbors doing this?” His eyes widen. “What if you could possess a goose and instigate all this in real life?”

“Can demons possess geese?” Aziraphale has moved on, and is dragging the woman’s duck statue away so that he can impersonate it and get dressed up with a ribbon.

“Nah. Geese are already demonic - too much evil for one soul, probably explode. Or become a Mega-Goose and destroy the world.” He looks thoughtful. “I hope demons can’t possess geese.”

“Mm.” The woman fastens the bow on his neck, and Aziraphale beams. Honk! The woman falls down. “Look how dapper he looks with the ribbon!” He flees, through the hole in the fence, and into the next zone. Crowley groans, nearly silently. He checks his watch.

“Angel, you’ve been going for three hours. You want to save this for later?” If Aziraphale hears him, he doesn’t acknowledge it, instead studying the to-do list.

“‘Make the old man fall on his bum’ … Mhmm. Let’s do that one first.”

“Oy.” Crowley slouches forward, his hands folded and resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You’ve been going three hours. You can call it and finish the game next stream, if you want.”

Aziraphale turns to him, brow furrowed, entirely incredulous. “Dear boy, you can’t possibly be serious. This town is absolutely discriminating against fine, upstanding geese -” Crowley lets his forehead fall onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, his own skinny shoulders once again shaking with laughter, “and I will not rest until I’ve put them all into their place.” Honk. “Now go get yourself some more tea, you sound dreadful.”

“Don’t break the computer.”

“I won’t.”

When the demon returns with a fresh mug, the typical honking of the goose has been replaced by a frantic off-key harmonica. “Serves you right for playing such an appalling instrument! Stop chasing me!” Crowley adds a slug of honey to the tea out of the plastic bear-shaped container, and relaxes back into his chair.

“What’re you doing now?”

“I’m going to make this man fall on his bum,” Aziraphale announces. “Hang on, wait for it …” The old man in the game starts to sit on the little stool, and Aziraphale directs the goose to snatch the seat out from under him. “Take that!” The character drops his harmonica too, and the goose snatches it up, waddling away and tooting through the infernal instrument relentlessly. “Mr. Fell strikes again!” 

Crowley puts his face in his hand, although he is grinning from ear-to-ear. “You’re a madman. You’ve gone mad with power.”

“Goose power,” Aziraphale agrees. “Nearly god-like.”

Crowley winces. “Careful,” he rasps. “Not that I don’t love the hubris but … you know.”

“Tell me it’s not.” He drops a bucket onto another man’s head, and then cackles as the man falls into a full box of tomatoes. The back of his trousers are splattered with tomato. “He’ll never get that stain out. It’d take a miracle.” Crowley snorts.

The most thrilling part, by far, is probably supposed to be the end of the game. The stealthy lift of the beautiful golden bell, and the sneaking back to the goose’s den where the bell is to be deposited to join its fellows. Crowley imagines that if he were to be the one playing it, he would be sneaking through, crouching all the while, waiting around corners for people to be distracted before slinking by with the bell, careful not to make a sound.

But Crowley is not playing, and never before, he thinks, has the difference between a celestial soldier and an infernal demon of temptation and subtlety been so stark. Aziraphale seizes the bell, honks triumphantly, actually out loud with his mouth yells the word ‘Honk’, and takes off through the town. “The goose is loose, catch me if you can, suckers!” Crowley has just enough time to put his tea down on the plant stand before he is overcome with laughter once again, doubling over and spilling onto the floor. “It’s my bell now!”

He makes it all the way through the pub and into the garden of the poor neighbors before the first bell-theft occurs. The painter catches up to him as he drops the bell to destroy the desk, and Aziraphale squeaks in indignation. “No! No, I worked hard for that!” He tugs the bell back away from the painter, and makes a bid for the desk. She catches up to him.

“No! No, you won’t - just drop it, I’m taking it, you can’t stop me!” She snatches the bell again, and begins to walk away. “You’ll be the first to fall under my vengeance!” The goose waddles to the larger bell in the garden, and a resounding bong distracts the painter from her task. The goose, once again, grabs the bell from her hand and hurries over the desk, across the fence. “Hah! Thwarted!”

“You showed her,” Crowley wheezes from his place on the floor, where he has resolved himself to watching the finale upside-down. “Go, angel, go!”

“You’ll never take me alive!” His eyes widen. “Oh, no the shopkeeper. We’re going to have to get past the shopkeeper. She’s atrocious.”

“Just run?”

“She’s fast. She’s wily.” He frowns. “Oh, this part would be perfect for you, dear boy - I’m sure you’d slip past her without any trouble.”

“Oh, indubitably, but you’re the one playing. Just try sneaking.”

He tries to sneak. Probably. It’s a terrible attempt, and the shopkeeper is alerted to the goose with the golden bell soon enough, giving chase. Aziraphale flees, straight into a dead-end. “No! No, you abominable woman that’s mine, that’s -” Honkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonk. The woman knocks the bell from the goose’s beak. “Assault! Thief! Stop!” Honkhonkhonkhonk. He nips the bell from her hands and runs. “Later loser!”

The groundskeeper, for all the consternation he caused early in the game, does not present much of a problem. Aziraphale darts past him, bell jangling, honking madly, and swims briskly across the pond to his base in the little glade. Proudly, honkhonkhonk, he proceeds to the gulley where a good five-plus bells are already deposited. He drops the bell. Crowley claps.

“Angel! You beat a video game!”

Aziraphale throws his hands up in victory. “I’m the greatest goose in the world!” He turns to Crowley, who also has thrown his hands in the air in celebration, and slaps him with a high-five hard enough to nearly dislocate the demon’s elbow. “The town surely has been taught the error of their ways.”

“Yep, you showed them. You’re a bloody menace.” The game tinkles out another piano riff, and they glance at the screen. “Oh, there’s more.”

“Is there?” But the angel is already studying the task list. “‘Make the boy fall into a puddle’ - oh, I’m certainly doing these.” Crowley has since slithered back up into his chair, and is sipping at his tea, the better to soothe his voice which, after the laughter Aziraphale induced with his bell escape, is essentially completely gone. Aziraphale pats him on the knee. “I’ll play off-stream, though, Cr - AJ. I wouldn’t want to steal your time.”

Crowley shakes his head, and points to the chat stream. Aziraphale looks, and then smiles. ‘No, on stream!’ seems to be the overwhelming sentiment, accompanied by various pictographs and variations on ‘Nooooo more Fell!! More Fell!’ “Oh, you’re all much too kind.” Hearts explode in the chat. “Oh, my.” He turns to Crowley the better to disguise the flush in his cheeks. “I suppose I did alright, then?”

Crowley nods, encouragingly, and then gestures to the computer. “Sign off and end the stream,” he whispers, with a heavy element of hissing. Aziraphale considers that if they hadn’t known each other for so long, he might not have understood him. Crowley waves a hand again, as if shooing Aziraphale toward the computer screen, and he turns back around, suddenly unsure of what to say in the face of the camera.

“Ah. Very well. I suppose that’s all for tonight. I … I’m afraid I don’t remember what you usually say at the end, dear.” He looks to Crowley, who shrugs. “I suppose I could make up my own. Ah …” He thinks about it, and then smiles, peaceful and content. “Thank you for staying, I hope you had a nice time. Be kind to one another.” He turns, nods to Crowley, and the demon nods back, leans forward, and taps the stream off. 

“Did I do alright?” Aziraphale asks, as soon as the screen showing the viewers’ perspective goes dark. Behind him, Crowley tosses his sunglasses onto the plant stand next to his mug.

“You were perfect. Wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“No, it was … fun.” He looks toward the computer. “What nights do you usually do this?”

Crowley swallows, the better to make his voice at least somewhat audible. “Well, tomorrow’s one, typically. And I doubt I’ll be up to a full stream even in 24 hours …”

“Perfect. Back to Goose Town, then.”

“Back to Goose Town.” He grabs his mug off the plant stand, takes a slow, meditative drink, and watches Aziraphale for a minute, yellow eyes fixed on blue. “You can really be a bastard sometimes, you know it?”

“Yes, but as a goose I am absolved of my actions by virtue of being a goose. It’s just goose-driven mischief.”

“True.” Crowley sighs, and leans into the angel, eyes closing, at peace. “I still like it.”

“You would.” Aziraphale idly runs his fingers through the demon’s hair, and sighs as well, equally content. “So I’ll play again tomorrow. And then …?”

“Well, if you don’t finish, you can take another day, too.” He shrugs. “You want to do another one?”

Aziraphale considers it. “Are there … games for two people?”

“Oh? Oh, yeah. Loads.” He coughs. “Bunch of ‘em.”

“Without a lot of murder?”

“Yep.” He is quiet for a long time, and Aziraphale thinks he must have fallen asleep like that, slouched up against Aziraphale’s shoulder, mug of tea nestled loosely between his knees. Aziraphale is considering how he will take him to bed; last time he tried to carry him in a bridal carry, and he tripped over the rug in the hall and dropped the demon, who promptly turned into a snake and hid under the couch for twelve hours. He figures he will start with the tea, and inches his hand toward the mug, before it spills. Unexpectedly, Crowley stirs, and takes another gulp of tea. “You think you might like a game about farming?”

“Farming?” He hums thoughtfully. “Maybe. I’m sure if it’s with you, I’ll enjoy it.”

“Maybe we can do that one next, then.” He blinks his eyes open and yawns. “Long as you let me organize the greenhouse. You can have the galaxy sword.”

Aziraphale smiles softly. “Might not be a good idea. I don’t have a great track record with swords.”

“Hm. True.” He shrugs. “Figure it out when we get there, I suppose.”

#good omens #good omens fanfic #good omens fanfiction #in which crowley is a twitch streamer and aziraphale is a good sport #goose omens #mbmbam references #crowley #aziraphale #i wish i didn't enjoy fanfiction so much #untitled goose game