hi, I'm new and I brought Robin Hood Good Omens headcanon.

[confoundthemighty]

SHERWOOD FOREST, NOTTINGHAMSHIRE, ENGLAND
SOMETIME IN THE 12TH CENTURY

Being assigned to guard and guide the soul of a human was a far more pleasant prospect when said human was not making you carry him across a river on your shoulders.

Robin of Locksley, as a few astute observers in Heaven had already noticed, was a good man and true; he had the potential to do good that might eventually spread far further than the county where he made his home. Granted, he had chosen banditry to support his charitable efforts, but surely a principality could remind him to be merciful and kind-hearted even in dealing with his enemies. Which was how Aziraphale had ended up in the plain robes and sandals of a holy man [1], walking the road that ran through the forest, in search of the human soul who was to be his charge for the next few years.

And, eventually, how he had ended up to his waist in running water with a full grown man on his back, thwacking him occasionally with his longbow and having an uproarious laugh at his expense.

"What ho, good brother!" Robin shouted, with another sound thwack. "All thy tucking cannot spare thee from a thorough washing, for 'tis a Monday, and did I not hear thee singing that Monday is washing-day with my friend the little old woman?"

Aziraphale had tried his level best to gird up his loins, in the literal sense, for a trek across the river, and had ended up mostly trying to tuck the skirts of his robes into his rope belt. It was not, at the moment, doing him any good.

"Aye, that thou didst, my son." Patience, Aziraphale reminded himself, was perhaps the foremost virtue to practice when dealing with humans. "The lady sings a little innocent merriment before her prayers, like many a joyful soul. 'Tis no sin to join her in her singing."

"Then thou canst not begrudge me my merriment, Brother, for I am myself a joyful soul."

"Aye, that thou art." He tried not to grumble, but it wasn't exactly easy, what with several inches of his robe thoroughly soaked and his sandals full of mud.

"Come, wilt thou not remind me how the song names out the days of the week?" Robin's heels dug into him a little. "Doth not it say Tuesday is for ironing? I'll warrant our friend the merry old woman could use thy broad back for an ironing-board."

Angels are, as a rule, extremely patient creatures [2]. But even an angel might feel a touch out of sorts with this mirth at his expense, especially if he was wet and getting cold and hadn't yet had any breakfast.

"Good young master," said Aziraphale, "thou hast forgot that today's work is not yet done. For how can our friend do the ironing, if the washing be unfinished?"

And, before the man could come back with any sort of quip, Aziraphale threw him off with a huge shrug, sending him tumbling into the water.

Not a moment after the splash and the initial burst of sputtering from Robin, there came a soft sound from the trees either side of the river; when Aziraphale looked up he realized the sound had been thirty or forty men, mostly in green, stepping out of cover to take aim at him with their bows.

Oh, Hell, he thought, trying not to wring his hands. That little lesson in humility backfired, didn't it?

But before a single arrow could be loosed his way, Robin sat up, sloshing quite a bit, and began to laugh. It was the long, loud laugh of a man who indeed had a joyful soul, and could find joy even in being outwitted with this sort of rough sport at his expense.

"Peace, friends," Robin cried, through his giggling. "Thou art a brave man and stout-hearted, Brother Tuck, and I love thee well for it. And I'll love thee better still if thou agree to minister to the souls of my good men here in the greenwood."

There was a murmur of approval among the archers, who began to lower their bows; a handful of them, Aziraphale noticed, were looking at him hopefully.

"That will I, and right gladly," Aziraphale said, and bent forward to offer Robin a hand up--which he took, and clasped as casually as if they were equals. "If the wicked Sheriff and the greedy Bishop love not my work among their people, then let me minister to them away from their displeasure."

"Then make a good start of it by blessing our bread and meat and ale this day," Robin said, clapping him on the shoulder with a wet hand as he staggered upright. "Come, good Brother Tuck, break thy fast with us. Little John, bring him hither, for we have both had our fill of washing."

A ragged cheer went up, and before Aziraphale could correct Robin on the matter of his name, he was being swept up and carried by an absolutely enormous man.



[1] As the term friar did not enter common use in England for another hundred years, many of the commonfolk he ran across referred to him as a monk if they spoke of him, and if they spoke to him, called him Brother, or sometimes Holy Father. The name "Brother Azyrafel" (and half a dozen other variant spellings) shows up in several medieval manuscripts--mostly to remark on his arrival and departure from an abbey or monastery.

[2] The most notable example being Achaiah, sometimes referred to as the angel of Patience, who also has dominion over scientific discoveries. Rumors of Achaiah needing to have a good long scream in a quiet room once every millennium or so remain unsubstantiated [3].

[3] Did this starter post need footnotes? No. Did I do them anyway? You bet, and I'll do them again given the chance.

Comments

I've been overthinking this for DAAAAAYS and should just reply with something. =)

[duckshaveears]

Crowley had remained back at the hideout proper, and was tending the gardens near the great oak^[1] tree. He'd been assigned the chore for the day--they all had chores, actual chores, for Satan's sake, though he grudgingly admitted they were all necessary to keep this bizarre little forest community going. The problem was the gardens weren't really miracle-able. Dishes were easy, dishes were a literal snap, but try to miracle plants and they just...weren't good enough. You could taste it in the herbs afterwards, when it was time to pick them and use them as seasoning.

"Come on, you bloody little things," he muttered, prodding at the drooping basil and scowling. "I was in the fucking Garden of Eden, I should be able to figure out how to make a few scrawny herbs grow..."

It was becoming a challenge, and a much better one to focus on than the utterly bizarre set of circumstances that had landed him here. Crowley still wasn't sure why he hadn't just left. True, it was very hard to say no to Robin of Locksley, but that wasn't an answer that would cut him any slack Down Below. Mostly it was his usual damnable curiosity, and he knew it.

Ah well, he'd been in stranger places, and there were justifications enough to come up with why he was staying here. Not so many to justify why he was prodding at green things and wondering how to make them grow, however.

A loud ruckus announced Robin's return, along with the majority of the band, and Crowley immediately stood to go and see what the fuss was about. They weren't usually this boisterous; something must have happened. Knowing Robin, it could be anything. They'd robbed a noble's coach and returned with a sack of gold, or stopped a hanging, or poached a few deer, or...

...or found a straying angel, apparently. Because that figure riding on Little John's shoulders was all too familiar. Crowley's eyebrows nearly jumped off his face entirely^[2], while at the same time he realized that yes, he should have expected this, this was what always happened. Did either of them ever go anywhere without the other one turning up eventually? But why in Heaven was Aziraphale drenched and covered in mud? It was the least pristine he'd ever seen the angel, and that alone was worth the huge grin that covered is face. "Funny looking fish you've got there, John!"

Little John roared amusement, and Robin loosed his trademark merry laugh, the irresistible one. "A fine fish it is, Scarlet, and one that took some catching!" Robin grinned and clapped Little John on the arm. "Here, my friend, let our fish down awhile. And mind that no one fry him, for we have better matter to serve!"

Another yeoman whooped and held up a game back, clearly weighed down with the results of the morning's hunt, and Crowley chuckled, sauntering forward. "Then let me take our fish in hand for a while and introduce him to your company, shall I? For methinks he is not overfond of his muddy scales."

Robin laughed again and waved them off, and Crowley led Aziraphale away before anyone could protest. Not that any did, being much more occupied in divesting themselves of bows and quivers, and handing over food for cooking. "Hello there, angel," Crowley said cheerfully, letting go once he was sure Aziraphale would follow. "How is it that a fine, upstanding soul such as yourself has fallen in with this band of outlaws and miscreants?"


^[1] In later times the oak would be known as the Major Oak, but at this point in our history it had yet to earn its promotion to officer ranking.

^[2] This had never yet happened, but not for their lack of trying. God had a private bet on with Herself as to whether or not they would ever actually succeed, and if so, what would be the cause. <sup>[3]

[3]</sup> Did this response need footnotes? Yes, yes it damn well did, footnotes are always a good idea.

And after far too long...

[confoundthemighty]

After being bounced about on Little John's broad shoulders, Aziraphale found himself swung to the ground, set unsteadily on his sore and muddy feet--and face to face with a smirk he hadn't seen in two hundred years. For a few moments all he could do was sputter, and wonder what the Almighty was playing at[4], and then he was being led off by the fellow John and Robin had addressed as Scarlet.

It was certainly a change from the last time they'd seen one another. Aziraphale had been a Knight of the Round Table and Crowley a menacing, masterless Black Knight[5]; now they were both members of the same outlaw band. Which, as Aziraphale immediately realized, meant two things: first, that the battle for Robin Hood's soul must be in some way vitally important; and second, that they would be seeing quite a lot more of each other during this assignment.

A third, unwanted revelation popped up shortly thereafter--namely, that he was a soaked, bruised, jostled, jangled, hungry, uncomfortable mess with a terrible haircut, and Crowley somehow managed to look elegant in a casually ragged sort of way.

It took him a full three seconds of stammering before he could get out something intelligible.

"Even miscreants need guidance and comfort," he replied, with as much dignity as he could manage. "And what brings you here, among the most charitable mortal souls in England? Don't tell me you're having a go at fomenting good will."






[4] This time it was actually Satan's idea. He'd had his eye on Crowley for some time, suspecting he was the only demon who might be able to tempt an angel to carnal sins. About which he was, eventually, correct.

[5] There were, incidentally, a handful of medieval troubadour ballads where just such a menacing, masterless Black Knight revealed himself to be a good man and true, wearing the armor to prove his valor without his name attached to it and thus erase some former shame, so he would be worthy of the friendship of another knight who had aided him once.

shhhhh don't look at the dates

[duckshaveears]

Crowley made an extremely rude noise at the mention of formenting good will. "'Course not, and if you accuse me of that again I'll toss you back in the river. I'm here promoting lawlessness, theft, and the general defiance of rightful authority. Would you like to do your guiding and comforting like this or find something more dry to wear?"