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aceforwhatevenisthis · 2 years ago

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Band of Brothers - A Good Omens Fic

Summary: “I have no intention of fighting in any war.”

But that’s now.

Then, in the midst of the cracking bombshells and the ringing bullets? War didn’t -- and will never -- care about your intentions, whether human, angel, or demon.

(World War I AU?)

Word count: 7.9k

Tags: World War I, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Angst and Hurt/Comfort except the comfort is really minimal, Military, Not Beta Read, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Author's philosophical musings, Demons, Switching perspectives constantly, Hell is Terrible, Heaven is just as bad but more distant, Serious Injuries

Author's Notes: I dug this up from my old drafts and it was close enough to being done so I did. Apologies if the history and/or medical stuff is outrageously wrong; I am trying my best and this was written for fun. Also, general disclaimer that a lot of the things said/done here are not reflective of my views on war (I despise the principle of it, I am very much a pacifist) but are necessary for the environment/plot of the story.

Be warned that people do die and there might be some triggering incidents (please tell me if you want something specifically tagged). Generally, warnings for: violence, chemical weapons, death, medical injuries (not described in too much detail but yeah).

Anyways, enjoy

Also on AO3!

Aziraphale had been called to service, almost entirely because he seemed able-bodied enough for the French government to draft into the army. He was in no written records but a couple of weeks or so into the start of the fighting, Aziraphale would get the strangest of glances from older men in the streets of Paris, so he decided to sign up for the MHS where they took one look at him and thought him a capable-enough physician. It took Aziraphale some amount of effort to convince himself that his new military service was not because he had received an inked letter from Heaven a few days prior.

So off he went, riding in the back of a crowded truck, fitted in a bright blue coat and a pair of blue trousers — a stark contrast to his preferred palette. It was, however, somewhat refreshing to wear such colorful clothings again after so many years since his last grand ball.

A sharp whistle called him to attention and the truck stopped. Aziraphale could see the gleam of eagerness and pride in the eyes of the young men around him. To die for your country, serving with dignity and courage, that was the greatest honor any young man could earn. Aziraphale had seen many wars in his time on Earth — had partaken in many as well, this was no different — and every time he couldn’t help but send a quick prayer for the men he encountered.

But as they left the truck, joyous chatter among the newly-deployed soldiers, Aziraphale frowned at the sight of men digging — trenches? Never in his years of military service had he ever seen soldiers having to dig into the battlefield like such. Aziraphale shook his head, warring off his worry. Perhaps just a simple evolution of warfare, as it tends to happen with humans. The medical tents were but a stroll away from the trenches and so Aziraphale slipped away and got to work. Already there were soldiers in need of attention and there wasn’t a moment to waste.

-----------------

Three weeks later and the trenches were miles along, eventually running throughout all of Europe.

A month and the stench became unbearable. One week later and the soldier’s boots were sogged all the way through. It didn’t take long for their feet to rot away.

Nearly four months and Aziraphale thought he could get used to the sight of corpses littered along the battlefield, in the trenches, in the medical tents. But the men weren’t smiling anymore and Aziraphale considered himself lucky that he wasn’t on the frontlines. The men who came back alive from there were the ones who at first wouldn’t cry, but at night Aziraphale saw them scream into the night void and curl in on themselves. Those were the ones he prayed for the most.

It was nearly three in the morning when Aziraphale paused from washing dirty rags and saw one of the men from the frontlines kick at a tree and then slide his back down the trunk, his head between his shaking knees. The young soldier stayed like that until the sun rose over the horizon, lighting up the dark patches of blood blanketing the destroyed ground around all of them. The next time he saw the young soldier, a mere two days later, Aziraphale was helping the stretcher-bearers support the weight of the soldier’s cold body.

The wrong end of a German machine gun was the last thing the young soldier saw. Aziraphale made sure to personally pass the news to the soldier’s secret lover, who was recovering in a hospital cot from a delicate amputation.

“Sir Doctor,” the lover choked out in French, reaching for Aziraphale’s sleeve. “Please tell me he went quickly.”

Aziraphale fought the urge to grit his teeth. With a warm plastic smile he’s come to perfect in his months reassuring dying soldiers, he said, “Yes, he did.”

The lover nodded and clutched a small green diary to his chest. Aziraphale resigned quietly and sought out other patients in need in the tent.

Within two weeks, the secret lover would be sent home. Nearly fifty years later, Aziraphale would see him again, guiding his hand as they wrote a memoir for the young soldier and his secret lover, a green diary nearby that was in near perfect condition. It would take nearly another fifty years for the memoir to reach the public. It was the one of the only books Aziraphale ever bought various copies of to sell in his bookshop, because it would be after the war that he made sure no soldier would be forgotten to the harsh desert sands of time.

But that’s later, and this is now.

-----------------

Crowley lounged atop his bed in the barracks, surrounded by his fellow soldiers. He smiled as he placed down his cards on his rough mattress. “I believe that,” he pointed to the pile of makeshift tokens on the ground, “is mine, boys.”

Hans threw down his cards and nearly banged his head on the wooden ceiling. “You cheated!” he shouted in German.

“I absolutely did not,” Crowley answered with feigned outrage. He looked down at the bed beneath his own. “Did I, Erich?”

Erich snorted, gathering some cards and shuffling them. “You always do, Crowley. I don’t know why anyone’s surprised anymore.”

“Rematch!” called out Hans. He then promptly cringed when some half-asleep soldiers at the other side of the bunker glared at him. More quietly, he said, “I’ll keep an eye on you this time.”

Crowley laughed and resettled back into his mattress. “Yeah, I think I’m done for the day, boys.”

“I’ll wager my portion of tomorrow’s breakfast.” Crowley could feel the smirk on Hans’ face.

The demon let out a deep breath and shifted, rubbing his eyes. “Erich, you think they’ll give out something good for breakfast tomorrow?”

Erich put the cards away and tucked the tokens under his mattress. “I think Crowley’s saying ‘no,’ Hans.”

“Bullcrap! You’d never give up a wager, would you, Crowley?”

“Contrary to popular belief,” Crowley said while pulling his hat down his face, “I do have some form of self-control.” He lifted the hat a little to give Hans a once-over. “Unlike some people.”

“Hey!”

“Honestly, Hans, get some sleep,” muttered Erich as he rolled over on his mattress. “Save it for the frontlines.”

Hans looked at Erich and then at Crowley, before deciding to look at the ceiling and lay down properly on his bed. “What do you think they’re like? The frontlines?”

Erich shrugged. “Didn’t you just get off from the frontlines, Crowley?”

“They’re not worth it. Not one bit. Just a death sentence, really.”

“Isn’t that the point of it? To die for your country?” asked Hans. Crowley looked at him and only saw curiosity in the young man’s dark eyes; a genuine interest in debate.

“Could be. But then again, I’ve always chosen to save my own skin.” And I’ve chosen the angel. Only him.

Hans hummed. “If I die, would it hurt?”

Erich sat up in his bed. “I’d imagine it does, don’t it?”

“You wouldn’t like it. What comes after I mean. Don’t get your hopes up,” said Crowley, pulling his hat further down his face. He imagined that judging by the quietness that the conversation was decidedly over.

Still, Crowley didn’t make any move to remove his hat from his face. From under his darkened glasses, his eyes shut as he tried to chase the peacefulness and emptiness of sleep. After a while, Erich and (eventually) Hans drifted off to slumber.

Come morning, Hans would be sent off to the frontlines and a new soldier would take his bed. Johann was a pleasant young man — the textbook definition of beautiful German youth — but there was the way in which he saluted his commanders, as if he’s putting his entire body behind every salute. Whenever a commanding officer would speak to him, he’d seem like he was hyperfocusing his entire attention to that one conversation, like nothing else mattered. They’d tell him to run at the daily exercises and he wouldn’t question anything; he’d just run until he’s told to stop.

-----------------

Erich threw a small rock at Johann’s bed. “Hey schön, what’re you always smiling for?”

Johann lightly threw the rock back. “Piss off! Go to sleep.”

“If you’re looking for a medal, I don’t think the General would ever give you one. You talk too much for his liking.” Erich shook his head and continued to stack a pile of rocks next to his mattress.

“What medal? You can’t get one without coming back from the frontlines.”

“Well, there’s nothing else worth smiling over. Not in this bloodbath.”

Johann considered this for a long moment. Finally, he said, “Crowley, why do you think I smile?”

Crowley did his best to look uninterested, picking at his dirt-filled nails. “For my money, I’d say you’ve got a nice partner at home.”

Johann laughed and nearly fell off his bed. “I wish!”

“Alright, now you’ve got to tell us,” said Erich, restarting his rock pile, this time adding in the extra challenge of making one vertical pile upwards.

Johann put a finger to his lips and his eyes smiled at them conspiratorially. He beckoned both of them to lean closer. “I’ve got word from a friend in the third division that we’ve got those Russian bastards on the run at the Eastern front.”

“Spectacular,” said Crowley mockingly, rolling his yellow eyes.

“The Deutschland is going to win this war and we can all go home, celebrated as war veterans who defended their country with pride.” Johann punched the air near Crowley, as if reaching for his arm. “Surely you’ve got your own nice German girl back home to impress, Crowley.”

Johann was posed as he waited for any reaction, unbearingly proud of himself for divulging this information. Crowley scoffed. “Bullshit.”

“I’m sorry?” asked Johann, clearly deflating.

“That’s bullshit. If we were winning,” Crowley looked at Johann, “they wouldn’t need anymore soldiers at the frontlines, would they? But they keep transferring more and more, while less and less come back.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Go on all you like with your terrible rumors. It doesn’t change what’s going on. Don’t slack off because you think it’s over. You’d just get yourself killed.”

“Didn’t—” Erich started, hesitantly, “Didn’t you sign up voluntarily, Crowley?”

Crowley frowned and lazily stretched in his bed. “Nah. I’ve got orders. You think anyone would want to sign up for this mess?”

“Well, why don’t you just leave then?” Johann asked with a defensive tone, tensing his shoulders. “Clearly you’ve got no interest in defending your country!”

Crowley smiled. Just by Johann’s normal behavior Crowley could tell the soldier was a ready model. The carefree attitude, the free spirited mentality, the “patriotism,” all of it was perfect. He just needed to push a couple of buttons. “I could just leave, can’t I? I mean, the easiest way to go is through the frontlines, though. Not sure I’d call that a pleasant departure.”

Erich was eerily silent (though Crowley could definitely see the smile in his eyes) and Johann’s mouth had dropped. It was late in the night and while most soldiers were sleeping in the barracks, no one was in a deep slumber. Everyone could hear Crowley, and that was a dangerous thing to hear.

Erich was the first to break the silence. “You’re right.”

“What?” Johann sputtered. Crowley craned his neck to stare at Erich.

“Crowley’s right. Why do we need to die for a country that’s losing the war we’re dying for?” Erich was smiling, as if amused. Crowley couldn’t help but think that it’s not right for kids their age to be so at peace with death. It’s okay for him, he’s thousands of years old, but human kids with their whole life ahead of them? Out of the question.

“Hold on a second! You volunteered too!” Johann pointed at Erich.

“Yeah, because I’m stupid kid.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Well,” Erich shrugged, “You can join us, if you’d like.”

Johann blanched and Crowley eyed Erich questionably. “ Us? ”

“Yeah, you, me, and Johann here. Three men, not like they would miss us. I mean, they already replaced Hans. And don’t act like you’re not ready to leave too, Crowley.”

“Absolutely not!” Johann shouted. A couple of men besides them were further roused from their sleep. “We’d be a disgrace. Traitors! The Deutschland would fall to the hands of those French and English bastards!”

Erich shrugged again and laid back on his bed. “Do what you want, then. I bet you’d be glad if you end up in the frontlines. Hell, I bet you’d beg for the promotion . You can get yourself a nice shiny medal, if you really tried.”

Johann growled but didn’t move. Instead, he rolled over, his back to them.

Crowley spent the rest of the night trying to convince himself that this was just a simple temptation, that he was most definitely not trying to convince kids to commit treason, that Hell ordered him to do it. He was a demon, and demons don’t help pathetic human kids cheat death. That would be Nice. Crowley was not Nice.

-----------------

It was a pleasant day, well into a graciously warm April, and Aziraphale mindlessly redressed a soldier’s wounds. The wounds themselves weren’t far too grave (not anymore) and so the task was simple enough after sufficient practice, going through the motions. Aziraphale hummed as his hands cleaned the rags, tying off loose ends. The soldier looked at him with curious brown eyes.

“Why aren’t you out there? In the frontlines?” said the soldier. “I’ve seen you carry other men. You’re incredibly strong.”

“Ah, well,” said Aziraphale as he cleaned the dirt off the soldier’s recovering leg, barely brushing over the sore wounds. The soldier hissed. Aziraphale continued, “I’ve never been much of a fighter, in all honesty.” Not lately. He was once. That was a long time ago.

The soldier nodded. “That’s respectable. I think lots of boys here quickly realized they aren’t much of a fighter.” He chuckled darkly and pointed to his hurt leg. “Then they end up like me.”

Boys — that’s what they were. Simple teenagers expected not to run away or give in when a gun is pointed at their heads, held by a cruel hand ready to shoot, only because if they don’t then they’d end up with a bullet in their own head. Aziraphale remembered how simple warfare used to be, with honor and dignity and respect for the opposing side, split by a green battlefield where you can see clearly who it is you are shooting at. Even farther back, when knights would duel for the sake of their king or their honor, commending each other for the courage of carrying out a duel. Aziraphale remembered when the military was a respectable path of life, honored by the people and by the nobles. But down in the trenches, with the explosive crackling sounds of machine guns and tanks firing overhead, the boys weren’t anything but the same as the rats in the city sewers. All while the commanding officers refused to have their hands dirty, itching for a proper fight for the sake of violence.

In retrospect, not much was different from the trenches than the army camps of old. The technology was different, sure, but the hierarchy was the same. It’s actually not too different from Hea--

Don’t.

Aziraphale patted the leg of the soldier he was working on and pretended like he didn’t hear anything. “All better. Do try to keep it clean, dear. God bless you.”

The soldier nodded and limped away, back to the trenches, back to that insufferable inferno, back to hell.

Aziraphale set a mental reminder to ask Crowley about that when he next sees him; the comparisons of Hell and the trenches (at least, about how the humans see it). He wondered if Crowley even knew what was going on. He had to, didn’t he? Hell loves it whenever humans go to war, especially on this scale.

Then again, so did Heaven. But of course, Heaven had divine justifications; all in part of the Great Plan and thwarting the enemy, guiding humans down the path of good and virtue.

Good. Keep that up.

Believe it.

Never forget it.

The thought of Crowley troubled him. Oh, he did hope the demon was taking care of himself. Their last argument in St. James Park was not ideal, per say, and they haven’t spoken in decades, much less seen each other.

A few hours later, at the crack of dawn, the sound of a whistle was heard and French soldiers were sent off in waves, running across no man’s land, hearts thumping louder than the gunshots. Some time after that, the noise died down and Aziraphale was sent to help collect the bodies from the waste and the debris. He managed to locate an older soldier (around his early thirties) whose right arm was stuck in barbed wire and his rotted feet had gotten sunken into the crater full of water. Aziraphale ran up to him and the startled soldier’s free hand went immediately to his bayonet. It was a miracle that the bullet missed and Aziraphale was able to drag the soldier back to the medical tents, heaving him up to the hospital cot and ripping off his uniform sleeves, exposing his infected arm.

The wound wasn’t as deep as Aziraphale feared and some minutes later, the arm was cleaned thoroughly. The feet, however, were in such a terrible condition that Aziraphale might just have to recommend the soldier be taken off duty.

(It never works. Aziraphale has tried before. But the French high command is dedicated to keeping as many soldiers on the battlefield as possible, not letting any get off easily. It reminded Aziraphale of— Don’t. )

A nurse came by as Aziraphale finished up with the soldier. He looked around himself, at the crowded tent with no hospital cots to spare. Some men had to recover on the dirty mud of the floor and it pained Aziraphale to think that he could be doing more, more miracles, more something.

But Orders are Orders. It will all work out for the best in the end. It has to.

Right?

-----------------

The night was beginning to set in as Aziraphale sat down at the entrance to his assigned tent, overlooking the sleeping soldiers. Most were sleeping, though some were busy in their own hobbies: writing, painting, some were even reciting plays to the people next to them. It made Aziraphale think of the orphanages he would visit occasionally, how pleasantly delighted he would be to usually find Crowley there, and the angel smiled fondly. The demon never talked about it but after millennia of always being able to find him near one, Aziraphale had his own suspicions.

It was a quiet night so far, even with the muffled laughter where some men would recite lines from famous plays. The braver few would indulge in singing their favorite operas. Aziraphale made sure to place soldiers whom he knew had an affinity for instruments next to the singers. It warmed his heart to listen to the confident singers and the resourceful musicians (who more often than not recreated their preferred instruments with nearby objects or their voices). It made this whole mess almost seem normal, if only for a little bit, when the warfare outside has quieted down enough to forget where you are.

There was some shuffling outside, however. Aziraphale could hear it but thought nothing of it. It was typical. The cover of night helped the soldiers do things they normally weren’t allowed to do, like sing or fool around. Be normal young men. If only for some fleeting minutes.

Aziraphale smelled it before he noticed anything else. It was potent and irritating, stronger than anything he’s smelled before. He put down his book and took a breath in, trying to place the smell. Aziraphale gagged immediately, covering his mouth. It was most decidedly not something he would like to experience, thank you very much. Luckily, he didn’t need to breathe, and so he turned off his respiratory system. It was most likely some foul smell from the blood and the rotting flesh around the trenches. Maybe even mixed with gunpowder or the sweat of so many dirty people (who unfortunately haven’t been able to bathe properly in months ).

Then the shouting started and the peaceful ambience of the medical tent vanished as if it never existed. Sleeping soldiers jolted awake and some tried to stand to attention before realizing the pain in their bodies was more overwhelming than awaiting orders. Aziraphale rushed out of his wooden chair and exited the tent with a hurrying pace. Red, blazing flares went up in certain spots along the long trenches, illuminating the green sky.

No, that wasn’t right. The angel pushed his way to the nearby frontlines, searching— There! The sound of a cannon and somewhere down the line of the trench, a metal canister lodged itself between the ground and the sandbags of the trench barrier. Then, like a firework, it popped open, releasing nothing. Aziraphale stared at it, trying to make out any details in the extremely dim light and from such far a distance. But nothing came out of the canister.

The officers closest to his stretch of the trenches shook their heads. The eldest one spoke up. “It was a malfunction of their cannons. Tell the men not to panic but to be ready if needed.”

The officers dispersed and the eldest remained by Aziraphale’s side. He looked at the angel and sniffed. “What do you think of it?”

“Pardon?” asked Aziraphale. “Is it not a failed explosive?”

The officer scoffed. “That’s only to not raise more alarm than is needed, Sir Doctor. The Germans have been too resilient to send in failed explosives and not back it up with something more reliant.”

“Then, and forgive me for asking, but why ask me? ”

“Why ever not?” His pale eyes glared into Aziraphale’s. “I like having second opinions given to me. You are a respectable doctor. My men have said so.”

Aziraphale glanced back at the faraway canister. He frowned and tried to pull some miracle to be able to see it more clearly. It was a long moment before his blue eyes caught something unusual. “If you look closely, the area surrounding it is close to a green color.”

The officer nodded. “Most strange. I will advise the men not to touch it then.”

Then, more shouting erupted, more noise, the sound of help! down the opposite end of the trenches in the area. More emergency flares were sent up, accompanied by a faint green smoke, and Aziraphale paled. The officer must have noticed it too because his war-hardened eyes were full of fear.

The men returning from that side of the trenches were coughing, doubling over as they gasped for breath.

They would cough, and then they would fall, and they would cough again, liquid spilling out from their lungs until their bodies stilled. Paramedics arrived, would inspect the men, shake their heads to each other, before also having coughing fits. They too would promptly fall on the ground and convulse until they stilled.

The officer was the first of the two of them to move. “Damn!” he shouted as he raced to the first soldier he could grab hold of.

“Don’t let anyone get near the canisters!” he hollered to the nearby men.

Aziraphale flew past all of them. The officer called after him (“Are you out of your damn mind!”) but to no avail. His attention went back to commanding the soldiers around him. In the dense haze of the green gas, the angel could see closely how it affected the soldiers: extremely intense coughing, spasms, faints. The more you inhaled, the more you coughed, but the more air you’d need, and so the cycle continued. Aziraphale was quick to carry as many men as he could, tripping over himself multiple times, until he could deposit them into the farthest medical tents. The nurses and other volunteer physicians set to work immediately and Aziraphale made his way back to the trenches.

The sun was starting to rise when Aziraphale was able to sit down. He panted and ran his hands through his dirty hair, having spent many miracles to help where he could. The green fog was still dense by the time the sun fully rose and the once blue sky was a terrible green. Not so much because of the color but because there was no wind to disperse the gas somewhere else and so it all concentrated in the immediate area. The wet and damp atmosphere made it immensely worse, as the gas ate through and corroded the metal equipment in the trenches.

The next day, Aziraphale was given the casualties report. More than a thousand dead in an area of a few square miles. And those were only the registered soldiers. The doctors and nurses that cared for the poisoned soldiers were not recorded yet and it filled Aziraphale with dread.

The Germans did not start any attack for the rest of the week nor for the week after that. The eldest commanding officer was now a stout man with a full beard and stone-cold eyes. He did not meet the eyes of any of his subordinates nor of the doctors. He gave orders and expected someone to execute them. He was nothing like the officer before him.

“Those bastards will get what they deserve,” he would say often, and those around him would nod solemnly. If he heard laughter or saw smiles, he would roar. If he heard music or chatter, he would threaten to put the offending person on the frontlines as shooting practice.

Aziraphale hated him.

By then, it was well into a hot summer. Aziraphale was moved from the medical tents to the barracks, because the stout commanding officer decided that he looked strong enough to hold a gun and strong enough to face down the enemy. There were soldiers in Aziraphale’s barracks that he recognized from their stay in the medical tents. They looked at him and shook their heads in defeat, wondering how he ended up here and knowing the exact answer to why: the French needed more men. They were losing the war and they weren’t afraid to repurpose.

-----------------

“Put some backbone into it, men!” shouted one of the officers. He shook his fist in the air and the soldiers were drenched in sweat as they banded together to lift the fallen tree. It was blocking the transport line and any more delay would make the trucks late as they rolled their way to the trenches. After the tree was finally moved, the soldiers clambered over to the back of the army trucks. Crowley huffed as he got himself comfortable on the bench.

Hell was more rigorous with appearances this time around and Crowley could only guess why. The war has only been going on for about a year and already so many humans are dismissing belief in God, feeling as though She has abandoned them entirely. So many souls ripe for the picking. Temptations naturally come more easily, as was the logic of Hell, and thus Crowley did not need so many miracles, seeing as any display of the supernatural will equate to divine power in the eyes of the humans.

It was about the most creative thing that the Dark Council has ever come up with, like they were finally taking Crowley up on his advice of getting an imagination. And so, they’d sent him to ensure that the most amount of destruction was made possible, predicting that with Germany’s industrialization, if the Germans were to be only a little more ahead, then the vengeful nature of France and the imperial attitudes of England and Russia would maximize the tragedy.

As much as Crowley hated to admit it, it was working so far, and Hell was even keeping a closer eye on him. They’d even interrupted his depressive nap, claiming he’s done enough slothing about, and ordering him to fulfill his new mission with the utmost efficiency.

Crowley wondered if Aziraphale was caught up in this bloody war as well. He probably was; Heaven loved it when humans went to war. He tried to imagine Aziraphale with firearms and shuddered, feeling suddenly fearful of the soft angel he’s known for millennia. A sword was one thing, but a gun? Divine justice to the extreme, enough to make any demon cower in fear.

“—about that, Crowley?” asked Erich, snapping the demon out of his thoughts.

“What?” said the demon elegantly.

“The gas,” said Johann, as if that explained anything. “They just deployed it on the Western front. I think it’s a coward’s weapon. You don’t even face your opponent! And what’s it even going to do to the Allies? Absolutely nothing, I tell you.”

“I think it’s only good enough to shake up the Allies. But we aren’t any closer to going home.” Erich tapped the butt of his gun on the floor of the truck, fiddling with it.

“Sure. Yeah. Gas.” Crowley crossed his arms and laid his back against the wall of the truck. He crossed his leg over the other and fixed his gaze on the disappearing road as the truck carried on.

“You know,” said Johann in that same conspiratorial voice, “I heard that the French have an angel on their side. He came out completely unaffected by the gas.”

Crowley sat up in interest.

Erich groaned in annoyance. “An angel? As if. We wouldn’t be here if God was actually benevolent. We’re all God-fearing Christians. Why do we need to die like this?”

Johann scoffed. “Again with that, Erich?”

Erich opened his mouth to retort but Crowley put a hand on his shoulder and turned to Johann. He’s a violent boy. Exploit that. “If you want to argue, wait until we’re out of this truck. You’ll have more space for a proper fight.”

Johann snorted. “I always think you’re too old for this job, Crowley. You sound like my father.”

“What, are you scared of a little scuffle?” Erich smiled.

“N-No!” Johann sputtered. “I just think that I should save my energy for some pathetic Allied bastard. Be able to enjoy it with all my strength at the ready.”

Erich made a disgusted face and gave Crowley a side glance. Crowley shook his head. “Very honorable,” he said with as much sarcasm as the demon could muster.

“Well, it’s what they deserve for trying to ignore Germany and her might. They won’t ignore us after this.”

“Is that what they tell you?” Crowley asked, in absolute pure disbelief. He shouldn’t be surprised, however, especially coming from Johann.

“Is it not true, oh wise old man?”

“Definitely not,” said Erich. “Do you even read the news?”

“The news from where? English papers and their lies?”

“ German papers and their reports. Do you even know what happened last summer? Or are you just that thick?”

Johann’s argument was interrupted by the truck lurching to a stop and the soldiers next to the trio filtering out. They’ve arrived at the newly built trench with a restock of supplies for the Eastern front. Johann got out first, Erich stuck his middle finger at him, and Crowley rolled his eyes. Honestly, Johann was too easy of a Temptation and Crowley hasn’t even done anything yet.

The trucks were unloaded quickly. While the other soldiers, including Johann, went ahead, Erich grabbed Crowley by his sleeve and pulled him back.

“What do you want?” hissed Crowley.

“We could leave. Right now.” Erich had a determined look in his eyes.

“Are you insane?” The poor boy would be shot immediately. At least he’d go quickly. Still, Crowley was not up to watch kids die.

“Come on! You want to leave too!”

“They’ll kill you,” Crowley said with a growl, yanking his arm free from Erich’s grasp.

“We’d die anyways if we stay.”

Crowley sighed and slung his gun around his shoulder, resting it on his back.

-----------------

“Shoot those bastards down!”

“We’re on our last bullets!”

“Crowley, look out!”

“Run!”

. . .

“It was him! It was all him! He made us do it! He’s the devil!”

“Shut it!”

“Please, Johann-!”

“ Shut it! Kill this one too.”

“But-!”

“Do you traitors have anything to say for yourselves?”

“...go to hell.”

. . .

“What shall we do with the Brit?”

“Leave him here. The rats will have him soon enough. The general requested us on the Eastern front.”

-----------------

“And why would saving the lives of these humans guarantee souls for our Master, demon Crowley?”

“Well, you’ve got all these humans ignoring orders, rebelling, ya know? And you’ve got 50 million people pissed off at their leader. They’re willing to do anything at this point. And it’s not really saving their lives, innit? We’d have them later in their lifespans.”

“...I see. Then you have your orders, Crowley. We will send a group of other demons to cover all of Europe.”

“...how many demons?”

“Does it matter? Enough to claim all of humanity’s souls.”

“Right. Okay. Yeah. Teamwork. Wahoo.”

-----------------

“Hail Satan,” greeted the demons with toothy smiles.

Crowley strolled up to them and gave a half wave. “Right, Satan. Er, what do you want?”

“To coordinate. Beelzebub wishes a smooth victory for Hell,” said the one with a head full of gray horns instead of hair.

“Right. Well, I’m pretty good here— er, bad— well, you get it.” Crowley stuffed his hands into the pockets of his uniform jacket. “You can do as you please. I’ve got this front covered.”

One of the demons frowned with what was left of their rotten, misshapen face. They sniffed the air and growled. “I smell humans.”

Another demon, much shorter, jumped up to hit their companion over the head. “We’re on Earth, moron. Of course there’s bloody humans!”

“No, not like that.” They thought for a moment and cringed, scowling. “I smell virtuous humans. Untainted by us.”

“Listen, I’ve already said I’ve got it under control here. You can move along and go tempt some other poor sods—”

“Shut it, Crawly—”

“ Crowley. ”

“—you’ve got explaining. Why are there good humans here? Where are they?”

Crowley shifted on his feet slightly. Just a few miles away, back towards the south, along a path he had hiked along, was a farm that had been abandoned at some point in the war. The family had left in a hurry when the war came their way and so the animals and some commodities were still there. Lounging just outside the main barn were Erich and his friends, gathered around a small fire and looking up at the unpolluted, untouched night sky.

Crowley gritted his teeth. “It’s a bit of a harder job than usual.”

The short demon jumped up repeatedly to reach Crowley’s eye level. “Let us introduce ourselves then!”

“Surely a demon would have no reason to object to the help of other denizens of Hell?” said the very first demon with his head of horns. It smirked cruelly. There were multiple reasons to object to the help of other demons. Many of which were fairly obvious, thought Crowley, and he was glad once again for the protection his glasses gave him as he tried for a pleasant smile.

“Oh, they’re already on the brink. It won’t be too long for them to give in.” His hands twitched in his pockets. “Got them to rebel, desert, see? Highest sin: disobedience. Especially in these times.”

The demon with hardly a face grunted, the short demon eyed the red-head suspiciously, and the horn-headed seemed satisfied with Crowley’s answer. “Very well.”

“Eh?”

“Carry on, Serpent of Eden,” said the demon mockingly. “But we’ll be here, in case you find it too hard to handle.”

The other two demons seemed to want to protest, eyes wide, but the horn-headed demon grabbed both of them and dragged them away, finally vanishing into the maze of branches and bushes beyond.

Crowley swallowed. “Right. That was a thing.”

He turned back in the direction of the farm. Upon arrival, he found the soldiers exactly where he left them, even if half of them were asleep or drowsy. Erich was one of the few still wide awake. He grinned at Crowley as the demon sat down next to him.

“Any news to report, Captain?” said another soldier.

Crowley was not a captain but the young man seemed intent on calling him as such. In fact, most of the soldiers here either called him “sir” or “captain.” The few who called him Crowley were the ones he respected the most.

“Ngh,” answered Crowley. “Just the occasional rabbit. More snow. Nothing much.”

Erich laughed. “Did you even try to patrol?”

Crowley smacked him in the arm. “If all of you end up dead, so do I. Not patrolling seems a bit of a conflict of interest, innit?”

The other soldiers hummed in agreement. Some even laughed as well. Erich just laughed harder. One particular soldier just glared at Crowley. The demon racked his brain for a name — nothing came up. That boy was more quiet than the rest and he always seemed reluctant to have joined their group. Back in the trenches, he was almost left behind while the group joined Erich and he had to run to catch up to them.

After a while, as the fire died down, most of the soldiers had drifted off to sleep. Erich was just about ready to turn in for the night, standing up to claim a spot inside the warm barn with the itchy hay. It was a harsh winter but with what all of these boys had seen in the trenches, it wasn’t so bad. It just took some getting used to. There were some sheep in the fields of the farm as well. One of the soldiers used to watch his mother knit and another used to live on a farm, although he only ever worked with the pigs. Together, they had managed to strip the sheep of some of their wool and make something that could count as blankets for the rest of the group.

Crowley stayed near the dying fire, acting as guard. He tucked his knees in and focused his eyes into the dark forest surrounding them. That quiet boy was staring at him with a blank face. It would be unnerving if Crowley wasn’t so used to it already.

Only a mere year into the war and already there were thousands — if not millions — dead, most on the Allied side only because the Centrals decided to play defensive and it seemed to be working. No one was prepared for this though, but it was coming, and Crowley hated that. That’s the thing with free will: humans do this to themselves. Crowley usually just has to open certain doors and they’ll walk right through. Same with angels, in a way. They hold the door open but the path is troublesome and Heaven likes to pride itself in the journey to virtue instead of the virtue itself. In reality, though, Blessings and Temptations are just two sides of the same coin. Free will is the one who flips it and decides which no matter what the result was.

At some point, deep into the night, the fire had died out. Crowley still refused to rest and he could already see just a sliver of sunlight peak over the dark horizon. But it was also the middle of winter and while the fire’s light would be useless in a few hours, its warmth was still valuable. Thus, Crowley got up to search for more wood.

Unfortunately for him, good branches for the fire were further into the forest. The big ones high in the trees were a bit difficult to break off and the ones on the forest floor were hidden by a fresh layer of glistening snow, not to mention wet as well. Frowning, Crowley resolved to snap off the smaller branches: the ones closer to the ground and the ones on the very ends of the bigger ones. Not too great to keep a fire going but okay enough for kindle, if only for a little while. Maybe he could use a miracle to keep the flames going more than they should. Shouldn’t be too big a miracle that Hell would notice, right? Damn their new restrictions for this mission.

Crowley reached towards a small tree, on the edge of a cliff. He stepped around it a bit, mindful of the sudden drop behind him as he found footing. His arms were full of dry branches and he quickly snapped another one off the tree. He stepped again, in the fresh snow this time, then—

The ground gave out from under him.

Crowley fell.

-----------------

Aziraphale always seemed to find looking at his surroundings much more stimulating than focusing on the monotonous marching of soldiers, even if he was marching too. That being said, it’s not like his surroundings were much more interesting. The open valley was the same landscape they’ve been in for the past week and other than some small game here and there, not much would happen. The most comfort they’d had was a small farmhouse they had spent part of the night in and had just left that early morning. The soldiers’ morale was at an all time low as well; anyone could tell you that. The winter was depressing and long and far too cold and Aziraphale had no idea what the actual status of the war was—

Wait. What the heavens was that?

Something fell from the valley walls around them. Aziraphale and the other soldiers near the back stopped and turned. A few of them already armed their guns, pointing in that general direction. But nothing moved so neither did they, except for Aziraphale, unarmed due to his position, who cautiously approached the area. And imagine his surprise when he saw a lanky figure with fiery red hair, stilled, deep in the snow.

“What is it, doctor?” one of the soldiers called, slinging his gun over his arm.

“Nothing, just a rabbit,” Aziraphale called back. “Nothing to worry about.”

The soldier nodded and signaled to the others to resume their marching. Aziraphale waved his hand quickly — a simple miracle to force the soldiers’ indifference — and got to work getting Crowley somewhere else. The farmhouse in the valley wasn’t too far and frankly, Crowley looked like he was in no condition to get there by himself.

-----------------

“What the hell are you doing, Aziraphale?”

“What does it look like I’m doing, Crowley? It’s not exactly very discreet.” Aziraphale gently wrapped Crowley’s leg with gauze. He said sternly, “Stay still.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and growled. “Thought you had other people to fraternize with.”

“I still refuse to give you a suicide pill. I thought I made that clear half a century ago.” The angel propped a wooden board against Crowley’s leg and began tying the two together.

“That’s not—!” Crowley winced when Aziraphale tied his leg harsher than he probably should’ve. “Fine. Have it your way then.”

Crowley settled himself against a bundle of hay near the back wall. The splint was expertly made. After a moment, he looked at Aziraphale’s blue uniform, the red cross on the angel’s sleeve, and asked, “Why France?”

“Heaven’s instructions. They had caught me in the middle of lunch. Give me your arm. Why Germany?”

The demon extended his mangled left arm as best as he could. Aziraphale doused it with clean water and started wrapping it in gauze. Crowley said, “Hell’s orders. They caught me in the middle of my nap. Didn’t even know what was going on ‘til I walked out of Hell in a uniform.”

“Seems as though we are canceling each other out,” said the angel, teasingly.

Crowley didn’t smile. “Not this time, angel.”

Aziraphale stopped dressing the rest of Crowley’s wounds and sat down on the hay beside him, looking at him intently. “What happened, Crowley?”

The demon looked away.

-----------------

Crowley buried his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck and wrapped himself around his soft angel. They were comfortably in bed and the world was, gratefully, not destroyed. Aziraphale held him in his strong arms, one hand stroking gently through the demon’s fire hair, murmuring sweet nothings. At one point, Aziraphale spoke up, as a thought occurred to him. “Dear? “Hm?”

“Do you ever wonder about your platoon’s families? From the Great War?”

Crowley squeezed him a little harder, sleep still in his voice. “‘Ey weren’t m’ platoon, angel, they were m’ friends. Far as I know, their families had the recession to worry about. No time for grieving.”

“Yes, but…”

Crowley shifted. “What’s wrong, angel? Talk to me.”

Aziraphale pulled his lips together and hummed in thought. “I was wondering… what with the relative life-spans of humans… and the fright we had at the beginning of the 20th century…”

Crowley pulled a face. “Oh, don’t start with this again, angel.”

“No, no, my dear. It’s not that. Though that discussion was certainly interesting—”

“You mean depressing.”

“—I was just wondering how they, the humans, put such blind trust in each other. We’ve been friends for six thousand years, but they only get a maximum of about a hundred. It’s so short in comparison.”

Crowley nodded, trying blinking the sleep in his tired eyes away as Aziraphale continued to run his hand through his hair. “It’s a miracle, innit?”

“It’s certainly heartwarming. I must say, they truly had it in the 1960s. Do you remember the 1960s, dear?”

“Bright as day, angel.”

“Oh, that was a terrible time. So much fighting, like a repeated cycle. But they made it out, to your night canvas.”

Crowley smiled fondly. “I remember your face when I forced you to sit through the recording of the moon landing. Do you really mean to tell me you hadn’t used a telly yet before that?”

“Oh, hush you fiend.” A moment passed in comfortable silence. “They really do love each other, don’t they, my dear? Like a family.”

“Pretty big family. Billions of distant cousins.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I’m very glad this all isn’t, how did you put it, ‘a pile of boiling goo?’”

“A big messy ball of boiling goo.”

“Yes, that.”

Crowley yawned. “A big soft pillow too. G’night, angel.”

“Good night, my beloved.”

Because even with all its flaws, humanity is not a species or a grand family; it’s a celebration of life and kindness. Because even in the end-that-wasn’t, through the sheer kindness of an 11-year-old boy with his dog and his friends, the earth continued to spin. Because even though terrible things have happened, whole cities destroyed, whole continents mercilessly bombed, whole lives with so much future potential lost, life finds a way. And an angel and a demon can stand testimony for it, because they’ve seen it all, through the good and the bad. And that’s beautiful, in its own complicated way. The unsung heroes of everyday life that you don’t notice, the newborn crying as their mother holds them tight to her chest and promises to protect them forever, the friend you lost but will never forget; they’re all beautiful.

They’re all worth it.

And that’s beautiful.

-----------------

More Author's Notes:

If this story made no sense, just pretend it did. I also initially wrote this during quarantine so do with that information what you will.

Historical notes: 1. The year 1915 was the year with the most fighting on the Western Front. It was also the deadliest year for the French forces, with 349,000 deaths.

2. In 1915, the Germans were also focusing on the Eastern front with Russia. On April 22 of that same year, the Germans unleashed chlorine gas on the Western front but that was the only battle they instigated that year, as an experiment for the gas. However, they didn’t think the gas would be effective at all so this allotted nothing other than further death and destruction.

3. The MHS (Military Health Services) was made up of volunteer doctors and nurses willing to put their life on the line to set up hospitals and medical tents wherever the fighting went. However, they were constantly overwhelmed with the amount of deaths per day on either side of the fighting. It was apparently common for civilians to see dozens of hospital trains and hundreds of ambulances pass through cities on the daily. According to German writer Leonhard Frank, these were a representation of the war as they quite literally brought home the horrors of the trenches, regardless of the side.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #good omens fanfiction #ace writes #world war 1 #why is that a tag on this website #anyways i hope yall enjoy #please ignore any plot holes this is really old

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