myauntspen

[myauntspen]

Oh, I LOVE A Portrait in Synesthesia and I can’t wait to read the rest of these! Thank you for posting this, OP!

Good Omens Fan Fic Friday (Nov 15, 2024) - Current Best of the Best

After too much frustration trying to find fics I loved but lost track of, I started using a spreadsheet. I rate everything I read. But for a few fics, the highest rating isn't enough. So I highlight them. These are the fics that kept me thinking. That "love" is not too strong a word for. Fics that I can't imagine ever forgetting. I'm sure the list will grow longer. Because writers keep writing. But this is my list today. First, is A Portrait in Synesthesia (M) by DiminishingReturns. In this remarkable, canon adjacent tale, God creates earth over and over, making subtle changes each time. Despite the differences, Crowley and Aziraphale always manage to find each other using their synesthetic senses. Lovely. And romantic. Next is My Favorite Ghost (T) also by DiminishingReturns with art by cassieoh_draws. Aziraphale and Crowley are discorporated. When Aziraphale finally gets his new body and returns to earth, it's hundreds of years later and everything has changed. Worst of all, Crowley is nowhere to be found. A lovely post-apocalyptic tale in which humans act on their better natures. A heartwarming read for difficult times. In So Much Discounted (T) WanderingAlice, Crowley disappears just after a discussion about love. And it's up to Aziraphale to bring him back. Don't want to give too much away. But we get to enjoy BAMF!Aziraphale if being a badass means you're steeped in love. And there is some amazing Crowley characterization. And finally, an AU story, Echo by snae_b. Each morning, barista Aziraphale wakes up and goes to work. But why does the chauffeur, Crowley, seem so familiar even though they have never met. Surprising. I could absolutely see this being a movie or mini-series.

[myauntspen]

Fucking ouch!

Doomsday

[myauntspen]

This too shall pass but like holy fuck

[myauntspen]

Just a reminder that Aziraphale didn't give up in the face of Satan and neither can we.

[myauntspen]

word on the street is that you have to keep living

[myauntspen]

👀

six thousand years is a hell of a slowburn huh 🔥

[myauntspen]

Gorgeous!

Another year, another geeky pumpkin. Happy Halloween!

In-progress and glowing versions under the cut...

[myauntspen]

I don’t know whether SoHo retailers host a trick-or-treat or not, but if they do I imagine Aziraphale standing outside the shop door with a great big bowl full of various finely-crafted and beloved sweets from around the world (lovely European chocolates, hand-pulled salt water taffy from New England, the most unusually flavored Japanese KitKats, Kendal mint cakes, Indian halwa and barfi…). He won’t wait inside for the kids to come calling (where they’d be uncomfortably close to the books), he’ll be offering goodies to every passerby right out on the pavement.

Crowley will show up to complain about having to stand outside all evening and greet children instead of drinking several bottles of wine together. He’ll do that whenever he’s out of earshot of any children, but each trick-or-treater will be delighted by his reactions to their costumes (“Oh no, a devil, how TERRIFYING!”, “Did this duck wander all the way over here from St. James’s Park?”, “I knew you were Rose Nyland immediately and, seriously, yours is my favorite costume of all, not even close.”)

They will both love every moment.

[myauntspen]

That’s adorable and I’m adding some photos I took of that bench a couple of weeks ago after I found myself sitting on it. I hadn’t been looking for it and only realized after I’d been there a little while.

Their South Downs bench will be the one from St James Park!

Today I headcanonned that the bois (gn) will miracle their St James Park bench to the South Downs cottage.

Imagine:

(Art by @idkchatie, South Downs collage made by me and @0xlilith)

(This also means that all the scribbles you absolute vandals (I know who you are and I love you) put on the bench every time you visit London will go to the South Downs as well.)

[myauntspen]

OMG. Aubreyyyyyyyy! ❤️❤️❤️

What would Aubrey Thyme say to us all right now?

[myauntspen]

I endorse these sentiments so wholeheartedly! Including the “fell in love with the filler” part!

Ngl, I'm scared about Season 3.

So much of what I loved about Season 2 was all the character development, the "filler" (minus a few moments that felt like unnecessary jokes, but that's a whole 'nother post.) How queer it was, how much it didn't hurry to further the plot like I felt like Season 1 did.

I came into Good Omens as as Gaiman fan, and as happy as I am that he's essentially no longer involved, I don't know what to make of the Pratchet Estate taking on a major role. Yes, I know TP wrote as much if not more than Gaiman when it comes to the book. But it's the show I fell in love with.

All that said:

I know David and Michael, the latter especially, took a fairly platonic script Good Omens Season 1, and made it very romantic.

I know they acted the fuck out of a Zoom call for three seasons and it's still one of the funniest things I've seen.

I saw Michael Fucking Sheen cold read an entire play for a 500 person audience. And he fucking killed it.

I saw David Fucking Tennant play a character that has been played countless times. And the audience still fucking GASPED at a key moment in the play.

I don't know the new producers enough to fully trust them yet. And that's okay.

But I trust David and Michael as actors. And for now that is enough.

[myauntspen]

LOVE these!!

Good omens fan arts from 2023 autumn I drew in delight after watching the show

"The after"

"Before Christmas"

It still gives me strong late autumn vibes before current november :')

[myauntspen]

This makes so much sense!

The Night That Changed an Angel (or, why does Aziraphale still wear that shabby vest?)

Mini-Meta Musing (#4)

I've been brooding for a long time about, of all things, Aziraphale's worn velvet vest and the long cream jacket he's kept in "tip top condition for over 180 years now." I love the sweet familiarity, but this is the same angel who popped across the Channel and almost lost his fluffy-topped head in 1793 for dressing like an aristocrat.

"I have standards!"

He's the height of elegance, extravagance even. A dandy. We've seen the same at the Globe Theater 1601, Edinburgh 1827, and even as a Knight of the Round Table in 527 Essex, where he's wearing a glorious pelt across his shoulders! However, sometime after Edinburgh 1827, Aziraphale's stylish extravagance ends. He adopts the dress of distinguished but modest gentility. No seamstresses strain their eyes for days hand stitching ruffles and trims for him any longer. When we next see him in 1862, his clothing is refined, simple, and serviceable. It becomes his uniform, with only minor replacements. Why? What happened to change him?

Edinburgh 1827 happened. And his encounter with tragedy ran over his sensibilities like a locomotive.

Aziraphale had, we were told, saved his earnings over time and had bought land, invested wisely, and became quite well off. He used real money, not miracles, to build the bookshop, paying the builders well and taking care of bills honestly. He built himself up to a more than comfortable lifestyle, from nearly nothing. And his clothes are real, not miracled from nothingness like Crowley's. (source: original showrunner)

Aziraphale's wealth allows him to afford luxurious tailoring and fancy shoes and ruffles and trims. He'll certainly pay the cobblers and tailors and seamstresses well for their labors. It will be a substantial expense for the era. (The linked post gives a wonderful perspective on 1793 lifestyles and costs.)

https://agoodflyting.tumblr.com/post/753227014283083776/why-aziraphales-white-satin-pumps-are-ridiculous

The angel's Edinburgh multilayered and trimmed top coat, soft leather gloves, matching scarf, jacquard vest, silk cravat, etc., look entirely out of place in the back alleys where the poor huddle. Walking the clean, gas-lit avenues with Crowley and Elspeth, Aziraphale is oblivious to the privilege he has in this world.

As he strolls along in philosophical banter with Crowley about the "blessing" of poverty, the angel spouts trite pontifications created by the rich to justify poverty. He genuinely believes Elspeth has more opportunities for goodness.  After all, look at Wee Morag.  He respects her goodness tremendously.  It proves to him his “rightness.”  And so he sabotages Elspeth’s attempt to sell the body she dug up in her attempt to support Wee Morag.  Dalrymple gets no body, Elspeth gets no money, and Aziraphale believes he’s saving her soul.

It’s a poignant moment, though, when Aziraphale cradles the jar containing a tumor from a seven year old child who died because there wasn’t enough medical knowledge to save him.  Turning point number one.  It becomes Real, not a philosophical debate.  Selling stolen bodies puts good in the world.  He’s all for it now, and goes back to encourage Elspeth.  Good heavens, he’s even willing to help this time!

But, as we know, it all goes wrong.  Wee Morag is shot by a grave gun, and dies of her injuries.  Elspeth steals laudanum, and plans suicide.  Crowley drinks the laudanum, saves her in a compassionate Scottish frenzy, and is stolen away by hell because of his kindness.   And it is All. Aziriphale’s. Fault.

Turning point number two.  Another watershed moment where Aziraphale’s world changes again.

One of Crowley’s last earthly acts, before getting plunged into hell, is to have Aziraphale give Elspeth all of his pocket money.  What is pocket money to the angel is a fortune to her, one that can set her up for a better life.  I have no doubt that in the aftermath of the traumas of that night, missing and worrying about Crowley, Aziraphale thinks about all of this.  He considers all of the money he casually spends on fine clothing and expensive tailoring.  He wonders how many lives could change if that money was better spent on helping to relieve the poverty that surrounds him.  He wants to help, and to try to make amends for the harm he caused.  What would Crowley do, if he were free to be kind? And so Aziraphale changes.

I’d love to know the story of how it all played out.  Did he sell his fine clothing and donate the proceeds?  Did he become involved in charitable foundations?  Did he buy the clothing of a simple gentleman and decide to preserve it, however worn it became, as a reminder to himself of his past blindness and vanity?  We see in Season 1 how important it is to him to preserve that coat. (Sure, it's also a fantastic opportunity to flirt and flutter those angelic eyelashes... But, nonetheless!)

By Season 2, the angel who took too long justifying a life-saving miracle for Wee Morag, and who hesitated to give Elspeth his 90 Guineas, willingly and freely gave Maggie forgiveness for thousands of pounds of debt. I'd love to know what else he's done over the last 180+ years!

Whatever happened, it began that night in a graveyard.

[myauntspen]

A couple of nights ago I saw the Donmar Warehouse production of Macbeth for the second time. Holy hell, David Tennant is a great Shakespearean actor. He’s always excellent, but he wears Shakespeare like his skin. He seems so natural, so at home, so entirely believable at every single moment of this performance.

I love Shakespeare’s plays, but, for me, they often require some additional suspension of disbelief. The language is so different from ours that there’s a gap between the words coming out of an actor’s mouth and the emotional reality of the character. But that gap doesn’t exist with David Tennant, at least to my eye.

In the case of Macbeth, that makes for a particularly raw, desperate, frightening character at the center of a very intense play and a production that, with the help of headphones and mic’ed performers, makes it all feel incredibly immediate for the audience.

I’m just very grateful to have seen it. And very happy to know it’s coming to movie theaters.

[myauntspen]

❤️

Sometimes Aziraphale feels old. Or, he feels weary and achy and tired. He is old, that’s for certain, but angels don’t really get old. He’d been wearing this face since the dawn of time, and sometimes his cheeks were plumper or thinner, and sometimes there were bags under his eyes, but it hadn’t aged a day. Sometimes he remembers the inquisitions, the revolutions, the crusades, the war and the horror of it all, and he laments how much his years have let him see. 

And then Crowley will do something like start humming. He’s wandering around the bookshop, idly rearranging things. Aziraphale doesn’t have his books arranged by the alphabet or Dewey Decimal–no silly human classification. He’s not an animal, he has a system, it’s just that only he knows what it is. And Crowley, maybe. He seems to have figured it out, or otherwise is using his demonic instincts, because he’s putting the books he plucks from the shelves in exactly the worst place he could put them. Aziraphale would be mad, but it gives him something to look busy doing when customers come in asking questions. 

He can’t place the tune. It’s familiar, so familiar, but he can’t place it. He doesn’t realize at first that he’s been following Crowley around the shop, brows furrowed, following the sound like a bee tracking pollen. 

Crowley finally notices him, but doesn’t stop, making contact through his glasses as he reshelves a book. The humming gets a little louder, a little more pointed and teasing. 

“What is that tune?” Aziraphale finally asks. “It’s driving me mad.” 

Crowley quirks a grin, taking a moment before he stops to respond. “Willard Bourke. Pianist. We saw him play in the 70s, in that little tavern, you remember. You thought he was handsome.” 

Aziraphale blushes, but, yes, he does remember now. They’d been there for a drink, and Aziraphale had been mesmerized by the man’s deft fingers. “Ah.” Aziraphale clears his throat. Crowley says the 70s, like there’d been only one of them, but it had in fact been the 1770s when they’d heard him play. “I do remember, yes. I thought he’d be famous. Pity no one remembers.” 

“We do,” Crowley says, and goes back to humming. 

Or that time he stops by Crowley’s flat, just for some tea, just for a chat. He finds Crowley in the middle of cooking, cursing quietly to himself. The demon looks frustrated. He’s positively glowering when Aziraphale enters. 

Aziraphale surveys his ingredients, face screwing in confusion. “Whatever are you cooking?” 

“Stew,” Crowley responds glumly. “Or, at least, I’m trying to. I can’t get it right.” 

“Part of the joy of stew is that you don’t have to get it right.” He waves his hands. “The pot does most of the work.” 

Crowley hisses, raising his fingers to rub against his eyes. “No, it’s … It’s a specific stew. I’ve been craving it for ages, but no one makes it anymore. It came with these little roasted dill seed bread balls and …” He cuts himself off. 

“Crowley–” Aziraphale squints suspiciously. “How old is this recipe, exactly?” 

Crowley sighs, already defeated. “Mesopotamia?” he ekes out, abashed. 

Aziraphale laughs. “Oh, good! It’ll be a challenge, then.” He pulls the spoon from Crowley’s hand, taking a sip. “Juniper berries,” he decides. “You need juniper berries.” 

Or when Warlock is young, maybe 6, not more than 7, though Aziraphale finds it so hard to keep track. He and Nanny Ashtoreth are sitting in the garden, drawing. It’s one of the rare moments when they’re both calm, worn out from a long day of chasing and yelling and plotting. 

Aziraphale pretends to mind his rosebushes, but he’s been watching them for some time. Finally, he breaks and walks over. 

“Ah, young master Warlock,” he says, peering over their shoulders. “What a wonderful drawing you’ve done. You like dinosaurs, hmm?” 

Warlock looks up, colored pencil held tight in his fist. “Nanny is teaching me about extinct animals. Like dinosaurs and thylacines and unicorns.” 

Aziraphale shoots Nanny Ashtoreth a look. She doesn’t look back. 

Warlock pipes up again. “Nanny invented dinosaurs, did you know?” 

“Did she now?” Aziraphale asks. It’s hard to keep his voice straight, because he knows this to be a fact. Crowley had been quite drunk at the time, but he thought it would be hilarious. “Big ‘ol lizards,” he’d said, “just huge, you know. Like a dragon, but they’ll think they’re real, see. Biggest things ever. ‘ould barely fit in the garden, them. Big buggers.” 

Warlock nods. “My favorite is the T-Rex. Nanny says it would eat you in one bite.” 

Aziraphale hums, discontented, as Nanny Ashtoreth quirks a grin. He spares a glance at what she’s drawing, and stops. It’s the most beautiful drawing of a passenger pigeon he’s ever seen. The reds and blues of it, every detail in its feathers. They’d seen them together, before, before they’d all gotten hunted out. 

“It’s a lovely drawing, Nanny,” he says, voice a little more earnest than he means it to be. 

The pencil stops, then keeps going. 

Warlock looks up at him again. “Nanny says she ate the last one.” 

“I did,” Nanny Ashtoreth responds. “And don’t you forget it.” 

It’s the little things, the things that, by himself, Aziraphale might not remember. It’s the feel of the earliest silk, the thrill of his first moving picture, the clamor of a Roman marketplace on a hot day. Aziraphale is good at the experiencing, but Crowley has always been one for the remembering. Things stick with him. Things that, otherwise, would have been lost to time. 

They’re curled up in bed, two commas together, and it’s been one of those days. Every shine is the glint of a sword, every wayward noise a battle cry, and Aziraphale can’t seem to stop remembering. He remembers the mess and the horror of it, he remembers the loss. All six-thousand years of loss. 

Aziraphale swallows, and he hates how thick his throat feels. “Tell me good things,” he asks, meek, tired, and Crowley hums and presses a kiss into his shoulder. 

Do you remember? Crowley asks, and keeps going. Do you remember, do you remember?

Yes, Aziraphale responds. Yes, yes, I do now. 

They lay there, and remember together, six-thousand years of good and light, and fun and joy, and it’s easier. It doesn’t take away all the bad that he’s seen, but it’s easier. He remembers the food and the smells and the heavy cotton, and the music and the laughter and his first taste of wine. The bad isn’t gone, but there’s good, too, pushing it’s way in to make room. 

Do you remember when we met? Crowley whispers, their hands linking. 

Aziraphale pulls them up to place a kiss against his knuckles. It was so long ago, a lifetime, but yes, he does. 

I remember, he says. 

[myauntspen]

Yes! Something is amiss here. A few days earlier, when Maggie and Nina are in the coffee shop looking out at Crowley, Maggie calls him “that man”. Not even “Mr. Fell’s friend”. He’s just some stranger she sees out the window. A few days later she’s telling that same guy “You never talk”! How would she know!?

the scene with Nina and Maggie sitting Crowley down and telling him he needs to communicate better with Aziraphale is so funny to me for absolutely no reason.

Like imagine being as old as time itself and two mortals sit you down and tell you to get your shit together with your relationship. I don’t think I’d ever be able to live that down

[myauntspen]

This is so lovely.

The city of London.

Old and new. Cruel and charming.

Always changing, hoarding history, keeping stories under the bridges and in the dark alleys.

The city of London and its guardians, angel and demon, who have seen it from the very beginning - in the times of prosperity and in the darkest times. They have lived through it all.

Sometimes, maybe once in a year they just sit up there in the clouds and watch a billion lights being born on the streets as the sun goes down. After all that happened and before all that will happen, what a miracle just to be alive and watch the sunset together ❤️‍🩹