Right, so, first story ever submitted here, & in all honesty, this isn't one of those "please be easy on me" things because of that. I'm not all that confident in this fic, but... I've finished it, so what I can I say.

Vietnamese is spoken most of the time in this fic, but since I don't know Vietnamese & I'm sure you don't know Vietnamese either, it's in English. (Plus, I have this thing against mixing two languages together if only one is spoken.)

Crowley & Aziraphale do not belong to me. If they did, they would have never appeared in Good Omens (written by Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, by the way), as they would be locked up in my basement for my own entertainment.

The Vietnam War also does not belong to me. This is said just in case JFK, LBJ, or Nixon ever decide to find me & sue me for copyright.

Aziraphale didn't understand why he was still alive. It was ineffable, he supposed, but it didn't seem possible, let alone fair.

His Western features looked out of place in a nón lá, sandals, a baggy stained shirt that might have been long-sleeved and white at some point, and brown trousers that had similar stains. His British was still apparent in his Vietnamese too. What made Aziraphale look even more out-of-place was his surroundings. He sat on a mat outside of a hut, too tired now to walk. Brave weeds were smashed into the ground due to the traffic of people moving about. There were no paved roads, or street signs, or addresses, or quaint little bakeries, or high-rise apartments, or anything of the sort.

What made him blend in was the haggard expression, the dark circles under his eyes, the lines of stress on his face, the cracked skin covering his body, the bloody knuckles, the dirt under his fingernails, and the blisters on his feet. Even his hair, once golden, blended in, matted with dirt and blood. Aziraphale was almost tempted to miracle himself clean, but that wouldn't do anything to help the situation. No, he had enough miracles to perform already, and it would look strange to see a clean figure in such circumstances anyway.

There was a cry, a splash of water, gasps, and the sound of someone being rushed to a cot. Aziraphale hurried into the house behind him.

"No! Oh no no no no no… Not now. Not now," the woman on the bed sobbed in Vietnamese. She was pregnant. Aziraphale was there in a flash with a wet towel on her forehead. No one stopped him; the village had grown somewhat used to his presence in the few days he had been there. He hushed and soothed. He was no doctor, but he could at least bring calm and, hopefully, joy to the mother. A child was a gift from God, after all. The woman grasped his hand and squeezed, and he tried to give a reassuring smile in return.

The baby was delivered, and the woman cried half in joy, half in fear. It was a small thing, premature and frail.

Three days later the child died. The mother wouldn't speak. Her other three children tried to make up for the lack of a father and a distressed mother. Four days later Aziraphale left. He was worried, but there wasn't much else for him to do, and there were many other villages that needed help.

- _ - _ - _ -

The next village was a little more wary in accepting Aziraphale. They stared at him with suspicious eyes, unsure whether they could trust him or not. Aziraphale smiled as much as he could, trying to send waves of reassurance. The village refused to take him in, but he didn't mind – he hadn't even asked. Angels didn't need sleep, anyways. He tried to help tend to the gardens to make them lush, and the village perked up somewhat.

Aziraphale thought things were going reasonably well before a fight broke out between a husband and wife over one of their sons. From what Aziraphale overheard, their son ran off a couple of weeks ago, and the wife blamed her husband. The argument had finally erupted into a scrap.

The wife now sat huddled next to Aziraphale, who tended to her cuts and bruises. He feared she had a broken arm and wrist as well, and did his best with that. Aziraphale himself had earned a black eye, a broken nose, and had to put his shoulder back into its socket, but those things could heal once he left the village. For the moment, it would be strange if they miraculously disappeared. The wife was one thing; he could wait.

The wife stayed with Aziraphale for some time afterwards. He could understand why, he supposed, but was worried of what she would do when he left. He felt a twinge of guilt, but he couldn't help it. How could he stay when so many were dying? The areas he was in now were in much better conditions than villages that had been torn through by the military.

He decided he would stay for just a few more days before leaving. He'd try to either find someone else for her to stay with until then, or fix the relationship, but he wasn't so sure about the latter.

The day after Aziraphale left the United States military ripped the village apart in their quest to find the Viet Cong. He saw the husband being taken away as a prisoner for interrogation. He was crying.

Aziraphale looked away.

- _ - _ - _ -

The light blinked on Aziraphale's answerphone, and a voice half hissed at the empty bookshop.

"You've been gone for over a month without saying anything now. You're pretty touchy if my joke about you looking like the guy on those American Monopoly games got you. If you are, get over it."

The answerphone beeped.