#I didn’t even think Crowley and aziraphale were actually going to make any progress

[geekyanglophile]

God dammit… I’m gonna have to start reading Good Omens fanfiction again

[edosianorchids901]

Hope Rekindled

Ace Omens Hugfest 2024 prompt - "a reunion hug"

Utah, 1869

Really, Crowley wanted to be asleep. Preferably back in London, asleep, but asleep back in New York would do. Even asleep in any random hotel in the middle of nowhere would do.

But no. He’d gotten himself into this, by talking up how great railroads were for sin and crime and everything, not to mention how much they could expedite demonic work without as many travel expenses. And now, for some reason, Hell wanted a report on two railroads joining up. Big deal.

A twinge of grief tugged at his stomach, and he tried to ignore it as he steered his horse around a bend. Normally, he would think this was a big deal. He’d even tried to get excited about it with the aid of copious amounts of alcohol. But without Aziraphale in his life, everything just seemed pointless.

At least soon, he’d be able to stop riding around following the progress of the Union Pacific and go back to somewhere with a more reliable source of alcohol. Maybe he’d go investigate the rampant corruption of the railroad’s operations. That should make Hell—

“Awfully sorry, but I’ve gotten a bit turned around, do you know the way to—”

Slowly, Crowley raised his head. There, coming around the bend from the opposite direction, was Aziraphale. On a light palomino, dressed in fancy beige clothes that really didn’t belong in this rough and tumble territory. Staring at Crowley with the same shocked horror that Crowley could feel on his own face.

They hadn’t spoken since Crowley asked for holy water. It might be smarter to turn around, to head back in the opposite direction. Aziraphale had to be pissed off at him, for that whole thing.

Crowley gulped and scrambled for words. “Er. Hi. What’re you doing here?”

“Um.” Aziraphale’s lip trembled, and he fumbled with his reins. His horse pinned its ears at the restless fidgeting. “Heaven, um, sent me to witness this great act of unity.”

“‘Course that’s how they see it. Never mind the corruption or theft of land or…” Crowley cut off. Normally, he and Aziraphale would have a rousing debate, a fun debate. But it seemed too risky now. “Hell wants me to witness the expansion of greed n’ stuff.”

“Of course that’s how they see it.” A small, nervous smile tugged at Aziraphale’s expression, and he gestured. “Um, would you ride with me? I’m afraid you’ll have to lead, though. I’m lost. I’ve been following the railroad—”

“No, I’ve been following the railroad,” Crowley interrupted. “I’d definitely have seen you.”

Aziraphale pointed to the west, towards the Central Pacific’s line. “The other railroad, dear boy.”

“Oh. Right. Opposite Sides, of course.” Frowning, Crowley tried to figure out why Heaven would be backing them. “Are they somehow less shady than the Union Pacific? At least, in Heaven’s eyes.”

“I believe they’re both rather reprehensible. But I happened to be in San Francisco, fomenting peace.”

“Right. I happened to be in New York, fomenting chaos.”

They stared at each other, their horses now both looking impatient. Finally, Aziraphale gave a little sigh. “Well, do you know where we’re supposed to be going?”

“Er. No, actually. I’m slightly lost too.” Crowley looked around, but he couldn’t catch a glimpse of any of the trails or sections of rail from here. “Guess we could just ride until we find the railroad, follow that.”

A very familiar look crossed Aziraphale’s face now, shy but mischievous. “Or. We could, um. Share a drink and a snack. I still have a very nice bottle of wine that I brought with me from San Francisco. And some absolutely lovely little cakes that I got at the last town. I’m sure the newspapers will paint a vivid enough picture for us to write our own reports.”

“Really?” Startled, Crowley pushed his hat back to see the angel more clearly. Aziraphale was blushing a little. “Wow, am I just that bad of an influence, or have you been dodging your duties this whole time?”

“Well, you are a dreadful influence.” Aziraphale gestured to a shrubby patch of trees. “But in truth, I’d much rather enjoy the serenity of nature than to watch humans get into a measuring contest over whose railroad tie is longer.”

Crowley sputtered, and Aziraphale gave him an entirely innocent smile. As always, it was impossible to be completely sure whether Aziraphale was completely oblivious or fully aware of the innuendo.

“Right. Okay.” Yielding, Crowley tipped his hat and struggled off his horse. His hips and legs throbbed, and he gritted his teeth against the pain. Riding horses was always a torture of its own.

“I’ll tie the horses, shall I?” Aziraphale asked, already taking the reins.

His fingers brushed against Crowley’s, and both of them froze. Crowley battled the urges that barraged him. To babble apologies, to demand apologies, to wrap Aziraphale in a hug and never let go again.

Before Crowley could make up his mind, Aziraphale did. The angel dropped both sets of reins, stepped forward, breaths shaky, and wrapped his arms around Crowley’s waist. It was a tentative hug, shy and unsure, his fingers worrying at the fabric of Crowley’s jacket.

“I missed you,” Aziraphale whispered, and tried to pull away.

But Crowley had finally regained his senses. He hugged Aziraphale back, holding him close, and pressed his face into the soft curls. Their hats knocked together, his own nearly sliding off. “Missed you too.”

Apparently, Aziraphale found this just as embarrassing as Crowley did. When they let go of each other and stepped back, they studiously avoided each other’s gaze. Aziraphale took the horses over and tied them to a sturdier tree, and Crowley snapped a blanket into existence for himself and Aziraphale to sit on.

“Here we are.” Still avoiding eye contact, Aziraphale joined him with the wine and cakes. “I don’t suppose you have any goodies to contribute?”

“Unfortunately not. Haven’t been hungry lately.” Crowley’s hand shook, but he held it out anyway. “Today, cake sounds terrific.”

As Aziraphale passed him a little iced cake, their eyes met. Aziraphale smiled, just a little, and Crowley smiled back.

At first it was awkward, talking again after all that had happened. They skirted around any complicated topics, mostly just updating each other on things. But after only a few minutes, it became easier. And in no time, as they drank wine, ate cakes, and laughed together, it was as if they’d never been upset with each other at all.

[vidavalor]

SamBucky people... a balm for the broken-hearted here...

About what the producers/directors, etc are saying...

I’m not going to say that their approach to this does any service to anybody-- *including* the studio morons who can’t see that they could make $ by having more LGBTQIA characters in their stories (and that seems to be their primary motivation so...) 

The thing is, once the people involved in the show define a character’s sexuality, they are also doing something else-- they are also specifically saying what a character *isn’t*. If the producers say that Bucky is bisexual, then there are fans out there who are going to feel betrayed. I’m fairly certain there are maybe like I dunno five? fans who actually think that Bucky is straight (lol) but fans tend to ascribe whatever their wishes for a character are onto that character. They project far, far more than what a show’s canon actually suggests. Think about how, as SamBucky shippers, if the producers said in an interview tomorrow that Sam is asexual, you’d be disappointed because then it would feel in violation of canon to ship SamBucky in the way you already were. (BTW, if a show doesn’t make *some* character asexual at some point soon.... grr.) Would it still be a great show? Of course! Would we still love Sam? I would hope so because Sam is awesome! But you can see my point which is that confirming one thing eliminates something else. Producers don’t want to do that because they don’t want to alienate fanbases. They want as many people as possible to watch their stuff so they traffic in vagueness with most characters, with only cishet ships really getting any daylight as canon because that is still how the majority of people identify. Is this good? God, no...

Marvel is also really the worst with it. The comics, often written decades earlier, were often more progressive than the MCU is. But this doesn’t mean that there is a lack of *intent* in how something is made. As a writer, I can tell you that TFATWS is written with romance beats-- not the story beats even of a buddy cop drama. That could maybe get you through the first two episodes. Past that, it’s a romance. More than that, it’s a damn *Hallmark* romance, minus a Christmas tree. TFATWS is one cookie baking scene away from Sam & Bucky having made out under a gazebo at the Delacroix Dancing Reindeer Festival or something. The actors are clearly acting with intent-- this isn’t just Stan & Mackie’s “natural chemistry” or what have you. There is no universe on earth in which the actors, the director, the producers, the *studio*, looked at the dailies (early rough cut of filmed scenes) for the boat scene where Bucky reaches for Sam’s hips and went “oh, this will definitely come across as Bucky isn’t the slightest bit interested in men”. There is no way that a scene of two guys rolling in a flower field was not meant to contain a heaping dose of homoeroticism. And those are just two of the examples-- if I went on and got into actual subtle ones, I’d be recapping *every single Sam and Bucky scene* in TFATWS and you all saw it.

For an example of how this attitude can exist and not be kind of toxic to a fandom, anyone who hasn’t seen it already should go check out Good Omens. If you think SamBucky is a love story, wait until you watch an actual enemies-to-friends-to-married couple that includes a 6,000 year slow burn and is one of the most romantic stories ever filmed (all while being insanely smart and funny at the same time.) There’s no overt declaration of love, no kiss but there is also absolutely, positively zero doubt that this angel and this demon (who are each a little of both, really) are over the moon crazy in love with one another. When this is put to the co-writer of the novel & producer of the series, Neil Gaiman, he affirms that it is a love story-- that Crowley and Aziraphale love one another. Even though the vast-- and I mean vast-- majority of people watching it will see it as a romantic love, the Good Omens fanbase has people who see different things in the relationship. There are a lot of fans who are into the potential asexuality of the characters. (Personally, I don’t think this works-- not because I have an issue with asexuality because I don’t but because there’s some fairly overt examples of sexual attraction between the two. Anyone who has seen it or will see it... Aziraphale in the Bastille. Enough said.) Anyway, the point is that there are fans whose interpretation differs from the others and, in a spirit of a state of being supportive of the freedom to be who you are which is really a major Good Omens theme anyway, the producers will simply say that it is a love story and that the two male-presenting leads love one another. Sound familiar? 

It’s what Marvel is trying to do with TFATWS and SamBucky. The difference is the tone. Good Omens is a community full of positive LGBTQIA representation and love for all people and everyone involved with the writing of the novel and the production of the show really reflects that attitude. Marvel.... doesn’t have the best track record with this stuff. Granted, these are not comparable things. Good Omens is the ultimate in niche-y stuff-- it’s a long-running and large fanbase but compared to Marvel, it’d fill a thimble. Marvel is trying for a big tent approach to its movies and tv shows-- to have something for everyone eventually-- but the problem with this is that it doesn’t really give anyone much of anything that is well-defined... and that’s kind of their goal. They want you to be able to see what you see in things. It doesn’t mean that they aren’t actively trying to create things for you to see but it does mean that most of the stuff they make that is not a cishet relationship could have an entire romantic arc for characters-- and TFATWS does-- but it’s also going to leave open doors all over the place to try to attract the most viewers. 

By that definition, TFATWS is shockingly gay. There are an enormous amount of tells built into the story to lead the viewer in that direction. Bucky didn’t want to go on the one date he went on with a woman and ran out of it in the middle, after talking about guy profiles on dating sites. Sam has been in 89 pieces of canon and other than a howyoudoin? at Black Widow that goes nowhere-- in front of another guy who was from the 1940s-- Sam hasn’t blinked at a woman. Neither of them get actual love interests in TFATWS but for one another. They spend the entire series proving themselves to themselves so they can prove themselves to one another. The list is endless. 

No matter what they’re saying Bucky’s sexuality is or isn’t or what Sam and Bucky’s romance is or isn’t, they’re just dancing around things to try to keep from becoming “the gay Marvel show” in the media and keep viewership numbers up because, sadly, there are still too many people who won’t watch a show about hot, gay superheroes for some reason I do not understand...

So if you’re feeling a little faint of heart, just keep in mind that you can believe your own eyes and these two are in love, no matter what crazy verbal gymnastics the people who made this show for you are doing to try to pretend they didn’t just write you a six-hour long gay superhero Hallmark movie. 

[good-omens-classic]

Been thinking about the modernization of the narrative of Good Omens from the novel to the TV series prompted by those last posts.  DISCLAIMER: its actually been a while since i either watched the TV show or read the book so i might be misremembering stuff 😅

If i remember correctly, in the early stages of production of the TV show Neil Gaiman stated the aesthetics of Heaven and Hell were being updated to be less like countries at war, as they were in the novel, and more like factions of a corporation, with Heaven being the top office and Hell being the basement.  And he said this was to representing the shifting social anxieties of the time - the novel was written on the heels of the Cold War, and so has a lot of spy and soldier aesthetic to it, whereas nowadays we are all looking with a skeptical eye at Disney and Nestle as large corporations do whatever the hell they want without consequences.

I think this modernization is an effective one, but one that changes the flavor of the narrative slightly, and in a way that makes it less appealing to some people and more appealing to others.  One is not necessarily better than the other, and given one is a new TV show and one is an old novel so it’s hardly accurate to compare the size of fanbases, I can’t even say one is necessarily more or less appealing/popular than the other.  I think that the TV show was well-made, but there were a few small key changes in the writing that move the narrative away from the reasons why I got absolutely obsessed with the novel.  I think that David Tennant and Michael Sheen did a pretty good job acting the directions and script they were given, my main things I don’t like are kind of with the writing decisions (and tbh the costuming still but that’s petty 🙄)

I think it’s probably part of my upbringing, which was fundamentalist Protestant and honestly, obsessed with violence, that I don’t want to engage with a story where Hell is bad because it’s the dirty basement of an office building.  That’s a legit way to depict Hell, and one that has interesting thematical implications, but I personally want to read stories where Hell is fire and brimstone so that I can watch the protagonists defeat that.  I don’t fantasize about breaking free from an office job, or co-workers caught up in office petty politics, stories about finding softness and love amidst an actual war where violence is expected are what appeal to me.  The demons in the TV series are violent, but it’s just because they’re mean people, not because there’s a system put in place that forces them to be....which is honestly kind of part of why I liked the universe of the novel so much, because I liked to see Aziraphale and Crowley fight a system that tries to force them to be violent and fight and stuff?

The depiction of a narrative’s bad guy, even with subtle changes, can have some pretty significant impacts on how the audience feels about the narrative if what they’re looking for in the story is catharsis and wish-fulfillment.  For example, I often see people gripe about their DMs including homophobia and transphobia in their world-building in DnD, as though the ideal setting would be free from those things (and indeed, that’s the ideal setting for someone who wants escapism), but if you want to roleplay a character who struggles and overcomes those social issues, because they affect you in real life and you find it cathartic, constructing a world where those issues are very mild is not going to provide the same outlet that being victorious in a truly grimdark world is going to.  It’s not for everyone, but due to the novel’s vagueness about certain things, it allowed the fandom some level of flexibility in interpreting their version of the supernatural in whatever way they wanted (the only other angel we see “on screen” other than Aziraphale is Metatron, for like 3 pages, so it was really whatever your imagination cooked up to fill in those gaps), whereas the TV show fandom is working with more concrete building blocks.

This leads me to another gripe I have--making God female.  I understand this appealed hugely to a lot of people because they love the progressive implications of God not being male, and how it upsets religious bigots, but I honestly did not think this was super revolutionary or groundbreaking for the reason that Good Omens is a work of satire--it is criticizing God, and honestly?  I don’t think God is super kind and loving in either version of the story, Heaven is harsh and filled with asshole angels, Crowley was thrown out for just asking questions, and God plays games with his/her servants.  Not everyone sees it this way but I honestly feel like God in the GOmens universe is borderline abusive and gas-lighty, as a proxy criticism of the Christian Church, and the church has historically also been extremely misogynistic, so I think that aspect of it kind of falls apart when God is suddenly female.

That line about dinosaur bones being a joke that God played on humans hits differently when child-you went to a school that taught creationism in science class and thought you were going to hell if you didn’t believe what they told you.

But getting back to my main point, the TV show had the narrative updated for the times much more significantly than the radio play that came out in 2015--for that one, it was mostly cosmetic changes, such as tossing in a mention of X-boxes, whereas the TV show updated the basic narrative structure to reflect changing culture.  I think it was an effective change, but one that made the narrative less appealing to me personally.  A lot of people who were in the fandom before the TV show came out, or who just read the novel after watching the show to compare, seem to agree that the worldbuilding and the characterizations have subtle differences between the two incarnations, which to a casual consumer is not really that noticeable, but if you like one or the other because it hits a very specific sweet spot it might make a difference.  For me I liked it mostly because it provided a blank canvas with some very good building blocks for, like, my imagination to run off with, and the TV show closed a lot of those avenues by filling them in with something more concrete.  That’s not necessarily a bad thing and I can see myself experiencing this from the opposite side when I go into fandoms having just consumed the newest incarnation of a thing and quite liked it, only to find the fandom has people who liked it before that adaptation and hate it a lot!  That’s just the nature of the beast and an inevitable side effect of obsessing over something way more than you’re meant to, but it’s also why I’m not really interested in reading or writing fanfiction set in the TV ‘verse.  Anyway Im kind of rambling now but this is just kinda my thoughts and my onion so if anyone has any other thoughts on it feel free to share your onion with me too :)

[asgardian--angels]

Some more Good Omens Book minutiae

There have already been some good posts highlighting trivia and changes between the book and show (a couple are here and here) so I thought I’d add in some more that might be useful and haven’t been overdone yet. Ones I think are most helpful are bolded!

Crowley can see in the dark (because he’s a demon, not because he’s a snake)

Crowley does eat (and notes that sleeping is enjoyable after a heavy meal), but on at least one canonical occasion Aziraphale takes Crowley’s portion of food for himself (angel food cake, to be exact, and he does it without needing to ask) so infer what you will about how we never see Crowley with food in the show

Crowley does read, or at the very least it mentions him attempting to calm his nerves by reading a novel

Aziraphale learned magic when he took a class in the 1870s taught by famous stage magician John Maskelyne

Aziraphale takes his tea without sugar

Crowley does not like to shapeshift, because he is afraid he’ll forget how to turn back 

It’s not terribly clear but somewhat implied that Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis were NOT Crowley and Aziraphale (they reference a ‘team’ working for them) but that the two did exchange and compare notes on Warlock’s progress frequently. So thank Neil and Co. for the screenplay choices. Additionally, Brother Francis never actually did any real gardening, he just miracled everything to look perfect

When Warlock was 6 years old, nanny and gardener left and were replaced by two tutors, Mr. Harrison (evil) and Mr. Cortese (good)

Aziraphale will employ any means “short of actual physical violence” to discourage customers in his bookshop, including unpleasant damp odors and glowering looks to anyone who walks in

That clunky watch Crowley wears was custom-made to have the time in 20 world capitals as well as the time in Hell, which was always “Too Late”, and whose battery burned out years ago but he never noticed so it kept working

In 1653 Aziraphale added his own annotations to the proof sheets of a Bible published by Bilton & Scaggs Publishing (the same as who published the Nice and Accurate Prophecies), adding a bit about losing his flaming sword (basically the dialogue in the scene of the series where God confronts him at the gate in episode 3), and is now known as the Bugger Alle This Bible, one of a special collection of misprinted Bibles Aziraphale is proud to own

Aziraphale does watch films. This includes one documentary about gorillas making nests. He also makes an Exorcist reference.

For 6000 years Aziraphale thought dolphins were fish

Crowley watched Mary Poppins on TV at Christmas one year

Aziraphale buys his clothes, while Crowley manifests them

Anathema refers to Crowley and Aziraphale as “two consenting cycle repairmen” :)

Anathema’s bicycle is named Phaeton

Aziraphale’s bookshop is situated directly next to another bookshop called ‘Intimate Books’ and he occasionally gets confused customers that wrongly come into his shop

Anathema is British, not American, in the book

Adam has an older sister named Sarah

Aziraphale is the first angel to own a computer

After the non-Armageddon, Adam alters reality to send Warlock on a plane to America, because Adam thinks America is a cool and magical place and that Warlock deserves something good. (We do not find out if Warlock’s life improves, only that he liked England because it was ‘a good place to be an American’)

Crowley was so impressed by how diabolically mundane the warranty conditions for computers were that he sent a stack of them down to Hell’s ‘Immortal Souls’ agreement department with a memo saying ‘Learn, guys’

When Crowley trapped Hastur on his answering machine, he considered taking the tape and playing it in his car until it became Freddie Mercury, but he decided even that was taking it too far

While NOT show canon, in the book the combination to Crowley’s safe containing the holy water is 4-0-0-4, the year he “slithered onto this stupid, marvellous planet” (Neil has stated that the combination in the show is meaningless and was the default for the safe they bought)

In the book, it does NOT expressly say that Crowley destroys the plants he deems failures, just that he leaves and returns an hour later with an empty flowerpot

Crowley’s flat contains a bedroom, office, kitchen, lounge, and bathroom, each “forever clean and perfect” because he doesn’t really “live” there, as well as a fridge stocked with gourmet food that never spoils and the fridge isn’t even plugged in

Shadwell believes that Aziraphale is a Russian spy

Crowley and Aziraphale had both visited Shadwell’s apartment exactly once (and Aziraphale was rather disgusted by the state of the place)

In the book (as opposed to the show) Aziraphale is full aware (and nonplussed) that there’s only a 50/50 chance Heaven would win against Hell in Armageddon, and that it doesn’t matter for humans so much anyways because everyone will be killed horribly as civilian casualties during the war itself (a hilarious and very bitchy speech absolutely worth reading, when he possesses Marvin the TV preacher)

The road to Hell isn’t paved with good intentions, rather with frozen door-to-door salesmen, and young demons go ice-skating down it on weekends

Madame Tracy’s real name is Marjorie Potts

Aziraphale has “neat, copperplate” handwriting

Crowley is an optimist

It turns out, Hastur’s murder of the telephone salespeople prevented a Crowley-esque domino effect of thousands of people getting angry from the calls and passing that anger on and on, thus actually spreading a wave of low-level goodness across London

In the book, the M25 wasn’t actually on fire, but rather an inexplicable glowing combination of “pain and dark light” called infra-black, and was both 700 degrees Celsius and -140 at the same time. The Bentley spontaneously combusted when crossing it.

When Crowley meets Aziraphale-as-Tracy, he does say ‘Is that you? Nice dress’ but the TV version added the ‘It suits you.’ However in the book he also says ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new body?’ :)))

When Adam acknowledges Crowley at the airbase, Crowley feels true terror for the first time in his life, because while Hell could make you cease to exist, the Antichrist could make it so you never existed in the first place

When Aziraphale makes the soldier disappear, he actually was transported back to his childhood home in America where his family lives

In the book, to get them both home from Tadfield Crowley steals a Jeep from the airbase

Crowley and Aziraphale are deadass just referred to as ‘the couple with the bottle [of wine]’ one time

There is no body swap scene at the end, because there didn’t need to be; in the book, the stakes of Aziraphale and Crowley’s Arrangement were not nearly as high. A big deal was never made of it, as they were too unimportant to warrant the attention of their superiors. Retribution never came. While they could get in trouble (and Crowley was threatened many times) for defying orders concerning the Apocalypse, little mention was made of their friendship being a crime. Thus, they never had any real reason to deny being friends, and were much more comfortable with their loyalties and each other. This lack of tension marks the biggest divergence between the series and book, and creates a starkly different (and interesting!) dynamic for the characters in the show.

Just me but I get the distinct sense that book Aziraphale and Crowley are already an old bickering married couple and this explains the distinct lack of pining lmao.

Anyway, I hope these were enjoyable or helpful!

[ineffablegay420]

Hello!

I know in my last chapter post I would try to get back on a more consistent schedule with posting chapters for You’ll Always Be My Angel, but that kind of went to pieces😅. It has been a little more than a month than I posted and I’m really sorry about that. And I do have reasons for it I promise!

Part of it is these next few chapters were giving me a little bit of writers block! So it did take a while to figure out what I wanted to write. But unfortunately by the time I figured that out, some stuff happened. My mental health went into a small decline and my dysphoria kinda got the best of me for a while. And some chapters were particularly hard for me to write. And then add some personal stuff to the mix, that I would rather not put on the internet for right now. But it did involve some trauma from a few years ago resurfacing.

But I have slowly been getting back into the rhythm of writing and I’m making some progress. I think I’m going to try to have some chapters completed and ready for when I have times like this so I don’t leave you guys hanging.

But to keep you guys entertained until the next chapter, I’ve decided to answer some questions I’ve gotten! Whether it be from my friends or family who read my story, or you guys messaging me with them. But you guys have asked some really good questions! So I’ll go ahead and answer some of those now!

1) Why is Crowley’s scar golden?

I love this question! And there are actually two reasons behind this! The first being I liked the idea of body marks and traits that are holy being golden. Like angels who have moles or freckles and they’re golden. So it made sense to me that any scar left by someone/something holy be golden as well. Even on a demon. The second reason is it was also inspired by Kintsugi. Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold. It’s meaning is to learn to embrace your flaws and imperfections. And seeing as Crowley is insecure about his golden scar, he will eventually learn to and be comfortable with embracing this part of him!

2) Why didn’t Aziraphale take Crowley to a hospital?

Well, I think it would have been a little awkward for the both of them. And how would they fill out the forms? No birthday or insurance provider. And I’m not sure how any medical exams would play out. It would cause a lot of issues if Crowley’s wings suddenly emerged. And also the process of Aziraphale explaining how this happened to Crowley. So having Aziraphale take care of Crowley himself seemed more logical. Also, I’m a sucker for couples tending to each other’s wounds🥰

3) How long will this story be?

You know, i’m not really sure. I have about twenty chapters structured, but there’s still a lot more to add. So it’s safe to say this will be a long one!

4) Will the reveal of season 2 effect the story at all?

I’ve actually answered this before I think, but I’ll answer it again! Seeing as I already have a plot and ending in mind, I have no plans on letting season 2 impact it. But who knows that may change! But for now, the answer is no :)

5) When will we find out what happened to Crowley?

Soon! But not for a few chapters, so stay tuned!!! ;)

6) What inspired this fan fiction?

It was actually an animatic on youtube by Magismol-v (if you know if they have a tumblr, please tag them!). It was to the song Icarus by Bastille. I instantly fell in love with the idea of Aziraphale Falling from Heaven for Crowley. And thus, this fan fiction was born!

7) What’s with the content warnings? They just spoil things. (Yes this is a real question I got)

In this fan fiction, there will be a lot of things that might have the potential to trigger someone. And the last thing I want is for someone to be upset or triggered by something I wrote. So, I include the warnings. But seeing as a can’t prepare for every warning, I am always welcome to warning suggestions. If you suggest a trigger warning to me, it will be added. If you don’t like the trigger warnings, too bad. They’re not leaving. So. You can either skip past them or just not read. Yes, spoilers suck. But so does being triggered.

8) What communities, religions, identities, cultures, etc are you planning on including?

I don’t have any specific plans for representation right now. It’s mostly based on what each chapter is about. I don’t want to add representation where it doesn’t benefit the community I’m trying to represent. But I am also open to hearing about representation you the reader want to see! And if I ever write any representation wrong or offensively, please let me know so I can fix it!!!

I love hearing questions from you guys, so keep them coming! As always, have a tickety boo day and keep an eye out for the next chapter!!!🖤🤍

[sparkkeyper]

Whumptober 2020 Day 17: Dirty Secret

Aziraphale is repressed as heck where Heaven and his bosses are concerned, but drunken rambles with Crowley are cathartic.

***

"Aziraphale!"

Aziraphale nearly jumped off the park bench as the archangel clapped him jovially - too hard, always too hard - on the shoulder. "Gabriel!" He had a smile pasted on his face in record time, trying to cover up the shock of his boss' sudden appearance. "What a pleasant surprise! I-I wasn't expecting to hear from you for some time yet."

"Well, looks like your lucky day." God's messenger beamed down at him - it never reached the eyes quite right, must be a defect of the corporation - keeping the principality's shoulder in an iron grip. "It's been a while since we had a good chat, so I thought I'd stop in to give you your next assignment personally."

Aziraphale's face hurt from the smile. "How thoughtful. You're, ah, you're always welcome, of course!" He gestured to the bench beside him but Gabriel remained standing - he didn't even acknowledge the motion - his eyes alighting on the book in the principality's lap.

"Aren't you done that by now? I thought you were reading that...thing...last time I popped in, half a century ago?"

"Oh, this?" Aziraphale closed the pages to show off the cover. "I-It's a new book, actually. Much different than the one I was reading before. That was fiction, this one is an educational work on--"

Gabriel grabbed the book right out of his hand and every muscle in Aziraphale's body tensed up - to keep from doing something stupid, anything stupid, stay still, and don't let him see how stupid you can be if left unchecked too long - as the archangel flipped through the pages. "'A Brief History of Time'. Why would you ever need to know this? You've lived through Time since She began it. You haven't misremembered significant events from history, have you?"

Aziraphale chuckled - too tremulous, too nervous - but Gabriel did not smile back. "No, no of course not! I remember everything perfectly, as She intended." He swallowed. "The book is an introduction to quantum physics: the current science humans have developed in an effort to understand the workings of the universe. Quite a bit of it is wrong, of course, all that silliness about the galaxy being billions of years old, but they try. And they have managed to get some of it right. They've made such a lot of progress in the past few thousands years, for such short-lived individuals it really is remarkable--"

"Why do you need to bother reading this?" Gabriel's expression was blank - not blank, condescending, judging - "You know the workings of the universe, or at least all those that we need to know. The rest She has decided to keep to Herself, and we have no need to understand."

"Of course, of course!" Aziraphale's fingers itched to grab the book but it hadn't been offered back to him yet. He straightened his bowie instead. "But I...I must know how humans think the world works, you see. In order to communicate with them properly. I can't go giving away Heavenly secrets when humans haven't figured them out yet, can I? I've got to keep abreast of what they know and don't know so I can...speak to them on their level, as it were."

"I gotcha." Gabriel tossed the open book back to him, and he fumbled to catch it without scrunching up the pages. No such luck. "They're so bafflingly simple! It must be exhausting for you, having to dumb down every conversation you have with them. Don't know how you do it."

Aziraphale dared to smooth the pages by hand exactly once in Gabriel's presence - don't care too much for material things, don't care too much for the people who make them - and smoothing them by miracle was out of the question. "I manage."

"Excellent. And you can keep managing." The archangel handed over a folded slip of paper with a golden seal. "Next assignment. We'll need you in Algeria next month. Big earthquake planned, you'll have the opportunity to do a lot of Good there."

"I'm...looking forward to it."

"I bet you are. See you at your annual review." And with a shimmer, Gabriel was gone.

Aziraphale tucked the assignment into his pocket and closed his eyes, the only outward reaction he allowed himself to show. Inside he was hollering. Inside he was sagging and baring teeth and kicking up a fuss.

Stop it.

Of course he wasn't doing any of those things because he had control of himself, and after all they were completely uncalled for. Completely. It was just a visit from Gabriel. He had no reason to react in such a way.

It took several minutes of sitting perfectly still on the bench to convince his body of that fact. It was difficult when his heart was racing and his fists were clenched but he managed. He always managed. He had to.

When he opened his eyes to return to his reading at last, he found a small scrap of paper tucked between the pages like a bookmark. It certainly hadn't been there when Gabriel handed - threw - the book back to him. Flipping over the note, he recognized Crowley's untidy scrawl.

Dinner tonight? If I don't bitch to someone about my coworkers I'm gonna explode. -C

Aziraphale did sag this time. Just reading the words was like a weight sliding off his shoulders. He tried very, very hard not to think about that fact. Or the fact that such a note had shown up right after a visit from Gabriel.

He gave himself a moment to exist - revel - in the feeling of relief, then very carefully collected himself and reached into his pocket for a pen. He scribbled a reply on the paper and with a snap, willed it back to wherever it had come from.

Be here by six and not a minute after. - A

***

Dinner was Italian, and delicious. The wine afterwards in the bookshop's back room was equally Italian and equally delicious.

Crowley sprawled across the sofa, one leg up on the back and several bottles in, and ranted about Hastur in a series of increasingly-less-eloquent turns of phrase. Aziraphale leaned heavily over the arm of his own chair, an equal number of bottles in, and agreed emphatically to the insults the demon heaped on his boss. It was relaxing to listen to Crowley ramble. If his unfortunate interactions with his lower downs seemed familiar... Well, best not to think on it. And he didn't have to think on it, not with Crowley. He could sit back and listen and add in a few scornful words against whomever had ruffled Crowley's feathers this decade.

"Not an ounce of doco...decorum between them," the demon was saying. "Not a one. Rude as...rude things. And your higher ups, bet they're just the same. How've they been lately?"

"Oh, you know," Aziraphale waved the question away, steadying himself on the chair as the motion overbalanced him. "Can't complain." It was true, he thought, and giggled a bit at his private drunken joke. He couldn't complain. No matter how much... Well. He couldn't.

"Aw, come on, I gave you all the juicy bits." Crowley hung his head backwards off the arm of the couch to regard the angel upside down. "There's got to be something ol' Gabe does that gets on your nerves. Or Michael! Real stick in the mud, that Michael. Stick in the mud and straight up the arse."

"Oh hush, you." The angel tossed a coaster at him. "They're perfectly stand-up people, as they're supposed to be. Divinely dictated and...and such." The demon, still upside down, pulled a face to let Aziraphale know exactly what he thought of that. "Although, d'you know--" Aziraphale hiccupped, "--Gabriel doesn't even know to clip the...the whatdyoucallits. The thread on the back of new coats that keep the tails closed. The ones you're supposed to clip. Just...walks around with the thread still in like...like someone who doesn't know how to clip things."

Crowley cackled, rolling upright again and contorting on the couch in a manner Aziraphale didn't know was physically possible." Bet he doesn't know to clip the thread holding the tiny pockets closed either."

"He doesn't!" the angel exclaimed with far more delight than was necessary. Something warm and petty and satisfying was settling under his ribs. Threads and pockets were good. Safe. Unsafe thoughts still hovered just beyond the edges of his mind, but he didn't have to look too closely at those when there were safe things like fashion faux-pas he could inject their venom into. "He was telling me just last month how silly humans are to make pockets that are decorar...dectora...just for show, and he used his own coat as an example! I tried to tell him, I said, I said 'Gabriel, you can cut those open you know' or at least I would have said it but I couldn't get a word in edgewise. And he still hasn't figured it out!"

"Point for me!" Crowley stabbed the air like a contestant on a game show. "I came up with those, didju know? Sewing the tiny pockets closed? And I got an archangel with it, so plus one to Hell!"

Aziraphale barked out a laugh that was too loud, too explosive, but heavens did it feel good. "Did you really? Or did you just take credit?"

"Absolutely came up with them." Crowley puffed up his chest with pride. "Annoys loads of people when they wear clothes out for the first time and go to put something in the pocket but find they don't have any scissors. I wrote a whole report on it for Hastur--" he lowered his voice to a hiss and leaned in conspiratorially. "But mostly I just think it's funny." He broke into a drunken giggle and Aziraphale followed. "Pro'lly never read the report anyway, Hastur." The demon tried to pour himself another glass and missed, missed, got it. "Tha's another thing that drives me up the wall, nobody reads the blessed reports half the time!"

The angel groaned in commiseration.

"I spend all that time putting the thing together, crossing the I's, dotting the T's--"

"You don't dot T's," Aziraphale interrupted.

"Dot my T's if I like," Crowley shot back.

"They'd look very silly."

"I'll dot your T's."

"Suppose we'd look silly together at least."

"Damn straight." Crowley paused. "What was I taking about?"

"T's," the angel supplied helpfully.

"Reports! Right, nobody reading the fu- You spend all that time on them and nobody appreciates the work!"

"Aggravating," agreed Aziraphale sourly, because of course it wasn't against any rules to repeat someone else's whinging back to them.

"Exasperating!"

"Infuriating!"

"And you know what else is infuriating?" Crowley put both feet up on the coffee table and stretched. "They had me Downstairs doing paperwork all last month and Ligur comes by while I'm trying to cross reference soul contracts and just snatches the ledger away while I'm working."

"The nerve!" Aziraphale snorted disdainfully, taking a long pull from the wine.

"I know! Had so many ways I wanted to react I couldn't choose!" Crowley gestured to him, and if Aziraphale had been a touch more sober he might have caught a glint in the demon's eye. "What would you do, angel?"

"What?"

"You. Imagine you're in Hell, doing paperwork and minding your own blessed business, making sure all the T's are dotted, and Ligur comes up out of nowhere and snatches your book away! What do you do to him?"

"I should like to snatch it right back!" Aziraphale slapped the cushion next to him. "And then give him a good whack with it! Serves him right!"

"Aye! Serves 'im right!" Crowley echoed in fierce delight, lunging forward to clang his glass against the angel's in a sloppy toast.

And when the wine wore off several hours later, Aziraphale would admit to himself that he felt so much better.

***

*The book is 'A Brief History of Time: From the Big Bang to Black Holes" by Stephen Hawking

**The 2003 earthquake in Algeria killed ~2200 people. Gabriel is an asshole.

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - I Was Given Four Rules to Follow ... I Broke Every One: Chapter 3/3 (Rated PG13)

Summary: When Warlock Dowling is summoned to the old South Downs cottage of Aziraphale and Crowley to help clean out their attic, presumably after their deaths, he is given four rules to follow.

... He breaks every single one.

Read on AO3.

January 15th –

He opened his eyes!

He opened his eyes and looked at me!

After hours of waiting in the dark and in the cold, despairing every second and wishing I was dead myself, he opened his eyes.

But it came close to being all for naught because I almost died myself right then and there.

It was good to see him with his eyes wide open, but the golden eyes I loved so much are gone. 

These new eyes are white on white, the pupils infinitely dark, the irises torn. They stare without blinking. They look into me, into my soul, it seems. They connect to the love that runs deep within me, to every touch he has ever left on my skin, to every promise we both made. 

But they do not recognize me. 

Am I, at all, familiar to him?

I don’t want to reject him, whether he knows me or not. But those eyes unnerve me.

There’s so much about them that’s innocent and frightened.

So much about them that’s desolate and dead.

We literally spent the morning just looking at one another.

I would give anything to know what’s going on in his mind. 

What does he see when he looks at me? 

I want to reach out and touch him, but I’m afraid. I know it won’t be the same. He won’t be warm, won't be comforting. What could be worse than a dead copy of a once alive and loving creature? I don’t know. 

But whatever this is, it might be. 

He won’t smell like Crowley. He won’t have his cheek, won't have his soothing voice. It’s almost as if I adopted some wild animal and decided to make it my husband.

What have I done?

***

January 16th –

All day long, he tried to move, grunting with the effort of struggling to stand up and get out of bed. He didn’t speak words; he just groaned. I wanted to help him. I wanted to pretend that he was simply convalescing after a horrible illness. I wanted to bathe him and dress him. I wanted to sit him down in front of the television, prop up his feet, and feed him brandy and ice-cream. I wanted to put this chapter behind us and get on with our lives.

I wanted to make believe him dying had never happened.

But I’m not that good an actor.

He behaves exactly the way the old woman warned me he would. He reminds me of a child.

I never wanted children.

This is the ‘in sickness and in health’ part of the marriage package, which I agreed to without hesitation.

Never mind the ‘till death do us part’ portion.

This comes with my vows, and I will honor them.

My love will help him. I know it will.

…

Can I really do this, or am I fooling myself?

***

January 17th –

I’m trying my best to take the bad with the good.

I managed to get him to the living room sofa. His legs were stiff, and he couldn’t seem to bend his knees.

He had been declared dead-on-arrival because of the injury to his neck. But I wonder if anything else is broken. I wasn’t really paying attention to the doctor when he went over the extent of Crowley’s injuries. After I heard the word dead, I tuned out.

I should get a copy of Crowley’s hospital records.

But if his legs are broken, how will I deal with that? Will the potion magically fix everything? It brought him back to life. Could fixing broken legs be more difficult than reanimating a corpse? What is the extent of the potion's effects? Do I need a secondary potion of some kind to repair internal injuries?

Maybe I should call the shopkeeper back and ask.

We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

He stumbled numerous times and fell on me. I did my best not to cringe at his touch or accidentally drop him. But those eyes, so close to mine, were like looking into a nightmare. I could see through them to the veins and arteries behind, the blood inside them black and unhealthy.

The fourth time he stumbled, though, I got the feeling that maybe he was falling on purpose so that I would be forced to catch him.

I even thought I saw the shadow of a smile cross his lips.

I watched him as he sat in front of the TV and renewed his passion for The Golden Girls. That show had been one of his favorites since he was a small boy.

He sat so still. 

He didn’t swallow. 

He didn’t appear to breathe.

The only time he moved was when he looked over to where I sat, I think, to make sure I was still there.

He sat for hours and watched TV. 

There was nothing else for him to do.

I fed him salad for dinner, let him stay in front of the television instead of making him go to the dining room table. I didn’t see any reason to move him. He leaned down and sniffed the cold lettuce leaves, but he did not eat.

Neither did I.

***

January 19th –

After a full day of limping him around the house, Crowley is surprisingly steady on his feet. He can make it from the bedroom to the living room sofa by himself. It takes him a while, but he can do it.

His body is still in rigor, but he seems to be getting more comfortable with it.

I should be jumping for joy at his progress. The more mobile he becomes, the less dependent he will be on me. Every day that he improves, even a little, he is closer to becoming the man he was.

But I don’t know how comfortable I am with that anymore.

***

January 21st -

He doesn’t sleep. And now that he doesn’t rely on me to get around the house, neither do I. I know he sees me as a parent-figure, so he won’t hurt me. But he’s such an alien creature. Not like the old Crowley at all.

It’s strange having this version of him around the house.

When Crowley was

Before the accident, Crowley was so independent. He didn’t need me, didn’t need my help with anything.

But now, he needs to be near me all the time.

I understood there would be a change in our dynamic, but it’s such a striking change that it’s difficult to get used to.

I took a shower for the first time in days. I left him in the living room watching TV, but when I finished and opened the curtain, there he was, standing there … staring.

I fell asleep for about an hour afterward, and when I woke up, he was kneeling beside me, again staring at me.

He’s always staring.

What does he think about doing when he stares at me?

***

January 22nd –

I finally broke down and gave Crowley a shower. He didn’t stink, but there was something about him, something that smelled … well, I can't seem to find the words to describe it. 

I just wanted it gone.

I’ve seen the injuries to his chest numerous times, but I haven't paid much attention to his back.

When I saw them, I almost threw up.

And he noticed. 

He heard me gag. 

I gasped, held in my urge to be sick.

He turned to face me, and for the first time, he had an expression on his face different from his blank one … but also different from that smile I thought I saw when I was helping him walk around the house.

He looked hurt.

***

January 27th -

Each day that he improves, I debate telling our friends that he's here. I know they miss us terribly. But in the end, it would be too cruel. He’s not himself anymore. He never will be. Most days, I curse myself for doing this to him. My motives were selfish. I wasn’t thinking of anyone but myself when I made the decision to bring him back. 

I wasn’t even thinking of him.

Our lives are unrecognizable. We’ll never travel the world like we'd planned. Who knows if I’ll make it back to my bookshop? Should probably shut it down and have my books transported here. The way things look, the rest of our days will be spent in this cottage. 

I have to be okay with that.

But what about Crowley?

If you asked rational me if I think he wants to live this half-life, with no potential to be anything other than a human puppet, who only barely resembles the man that was Anthony J Crowley, I would have to say no. Absolutely not.

But I can’t turn back now.

What am I expected to do? Poison his tea? Smother him in his sleep?

Would attempting to kill him even work?

And what about his soul? 

If there is a Heaven, I surely pulled him out of it with my cock-eyed plan. What if there is no going back for him? 

I can only hope that my love for him is enough to keep him from hating me when he’s able to comprehend what I’ve done to him.

***

February 1st –

I’ve finally gotten him to eat – bits and pieces mostly, bites of vegetables and corners of bread. It doesn’t seem like he likes it, but he eats it, and that’s good. He eats because I tell him to. It shows that he trusts me.

He’s more self-sufficient now. 

He showers and brushes his teeth on his own. He picks out his pajamas and dresses himself. Sometimes he tries his hand at making the bed. He is attempting to be more vocal, but he has yet to say a single thing that isn’t a grunt or a moan.

I’ve been looking up the subject of speech delay on the Internet, trying to find ways to help him learn. I came across one website in particular with fun, creative ideas. I started making flashcards of consonant blends and one-syllable words. I felt so accomplished, so hopeful, like I was actually doing something positive toward the goal of moving us forward. I felt confident that after a little work with them, everything would be all right. I was so excited to show them to him, but then I realized …

… I have no idea if he can read.

***

February 3rd –

I tried calling the old woman at the antique shop in Soho to ask about the effects of the potion, but the phone has been disconnected.

I guess they went out of business after all.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing appears to be broken. Or maybe it’s that he doesn’t feel pain.

I was teaching him how to cook, hoping it would bring a bit of the old Crowley back. We used to cook together all the time. Honestly, we weren't all that good at it, but that didn't stop us from trying. We had just gotten the hang of a decent souffle before ...

Anyway ...

I started him small. 

I had him grating cheese. 

Seemed simple enough. The grater stands on its own, so not much to juggle. But he pressed too hard, ran the grater over the backs of his fingers, scraped off skin. He didn’t so much as flinch. I think it bothered me more than it bothered him. I bandaged it up and, without thinking, I kissed the wound. I looked at him in utter shock …

… and he smiled.

My heart leapt.

It’s so nice to see him smile again. 

I never thought I would.

***

February 4th –

I took off Crowley’s bandage, and his wound from the cheese grater is gone! There’s not a trace of it left!

I guess that answers that question.

I should be relieved, but it bothers me, and I don’t know why.

***

February 21st –

Today was the most unexpectedly intense, depressing, and wonderful day all at once.

It started when Crowley woke this morning. He got up before me and tried to make me crepes. I had no idea why. He hadn't tried to cook by himself before, didn't even show an interest in cooking without me. He burned them, himself, and the stove all in one go. The fire alarm woke me, blaring in my ears. I managed to get to the extinguisher in time, but poor Crowley looked heartbroken over his ruined pan of blackened food.

Then, before lunch, he wanted to go outside. I think he was trying to sneak out, but I caught him jiggling the front doorknob (he has yet to master the bolt - thank God). When I caught him, he slammed his hand on the door in frustration and sprinted for the back one. I followed him, knowing it was locked and that he wouldn’t be able to open it. When I reached him, he was trying to wedge his way out of the old cat flap. (Note to self - board up the cat flaps! I don’t know why we kept them. We’ve never owned a cat.) 

I patted him gently on the shoulder and asked him what he needed. He stood up and groaned, moving his mouth and wiggling his tongue, making nonsensical sounds. When he couldn’t say what he needed to, he pointed out the window to the garden. I assumed he wanted to check on his dahlias. I’m a disaster with flowers, and, unfortunately, I haven’t been able to keep them up the way he could. 

Of course, it's one degree outside. The poor things are frozen solid. They're not even flowers any longer, I don't think, but the frigid remains of what they once were.

But he’d had yet to show any interest in them, either, before today. 

I shrugged, repeated that I didn’t understand. He pointed more forcefully, jabbing at the window with his index finger.

“I don’t know what you're trying to tell me, my dear,” I said. “Do you want to go for a walk?” 

I've taken him walking around Soho a few times. I've been trying to tie up loose ends, decide if selling the bookshop is the road to take. I wrapped him up in a full-length coat and scarf with just his eyes peeking out. I guess he enjoyed it, but he’d never asked to go outside. He shook his head and pointed again, this time at the dying rose bushes that I hadn’t had time to deadhead. I didn’t get it. I shook my head, and he stormed off to the bedroom.

I followed him there, but he blocked the door.

I could hear him inside, moaning. It was horrible. It sounded like pain and embarrassment and frustration, all rolled together. And I couldn’t help him.

He wouldn’t let me.

I tried to lure him out several times, but he didn’t come out till dinner time.

And when he did, he was dressed in a black Bergdorf suit.

Crowley has dozens of expensive black suits, and he looks stunning in all of them.

But this suit.

This suit in particular.

This suit had been hanging front and center in his closet.

Because it was the suit I had planned on burying him in.

It threw me for a loop, dragging me kicking and screaming back to that day I found out he had died, before I’d decided to try bringing him back, before I knew that I could. I took out the suit to air it. I guess I hadn’t put it back with the others because there it was, standing before me with the living corpse of my husband inside.

The sight took all the air out of my lungs.

“Take it off,” I said quietly, trying not to alarm him, but how was I supposed to explain to my somewhat dead husband that I didn’t want to see him dressed in the suit I had planned on putting him in the ground in?

He looked confused and shook his head, opening his mouth and groaning.

“Please, Crowley,” I begged, hoping he would hear my anguish and understand, “take it off.”

He stomped his foot and shook his head, the way a petulant child would. It should have been cute, but I couldn’t handle it. I've had issues getting used to his looks lo these many weeks, but for the first time since he came back to me, he looked dead.

“Take it off!” I screamed. I ran at him, grabbed the lapels, trying to tear it off his body. He held me, pinned my arms, and I could feel his renewed strength. I hadn’t really let him touch me before, but now I knew that if he wanted to, he could probably hurt me.

I stared up at him, realizing that he was hovering above me, and I was lying on my back on the floor. My heart stopped. He had never looked menacing before. Even in death, he seemed so innocent. But now, he looked like a monster. He had a piece of paper balled in his grasp, and he tried to make me look at it, but I couldn’t take my eyes away from his face – pale and cold and lifeless, regardless of the fact that he was my Crowley.

He stared at me, trying to speak.

It hit me like a pile of bricks.

Speak.

That’s exactly what he was doing. 

His lips were moving in exaggerated, grotesque ways that shouldn’t be able to turn sound into words, but they were.

“A … Az … Azi …”

Crowley blinked and shook his head.

“Azir …”

“Aziraphale?” I asked in awe that he was trying to say my name.

Crowley laughed. It was a glorious, hollow, frankly frightening sound, but I couldn’t help smiling when I heard it. He put his fingers to my lips. 

I guess he didn’t want me to steal his thunder.

“Azzzir-uh-phale,” he said, smacking his lips. “I … lo … I lov …” Crowley swallowed again, closing his eyes, trying to make the words in his head match the movement of his lips. “I … love … you … Azzzir-uh-phale.”

Crowley tapped again at the paper on the floor. This time I did what he wanted and looked. He had torn off the current page from the calendar and was poking at a box circled shakily in red. I peered down at it.

I could have cried.

“Our ... our anniversary?” I asked, looking into his broken eyes. He sighed, nodding.

It was our anniversary.

He’d wanted to make me breakfast in bed … for our anniversary.

He’d wanted to get me roses … for our anniversary.

My husband had wanted to do something nice for me … for our anniversary.

My husband had spent all day teaching himself how to say, “I love you, Aziraphale,” because there was nothing else he could do for me.

My husband remembered our anniversary ...

... even when I had not.

***

June 4th -

Five months-ish later…

I can’t believe it! 

I cannot believe it!

Five months later and we’ve made it! Despite the odds. Despite the difficulties and the heartaches. Despite every time I thought about giving up, here we are.

Happy.

Together.

We spend our days wrapped in each other’s arms. We watch TV. I read books out loud - he sits and listens. Crowley is re-learning how to drive, and I’m on the hunt for a new Bentley. Our lives might not be what they were before, but they’re perfect for us.

We’ve managed to go to the city more, spent a few glorious nights at our flat in Mayfair. We've even interacted with one or two of our old friends. It's a wonder what some foundation and blusher can accomplish! I told them it was a medical miracle, and they believed me.

Because that's what Crowley is.

A miracle!

Okay, maybe I am tempting fate. But maybe fate needs to be tempted from time to time! 

His vocabulary has expanded immensely, and a hint of his old suave confidence has come back, along with the muddy accent I so often teased him about.

I am finally at a point where I am optimistic about the future.

Because I’m beginning to think that there might actually be one for us.

***

August 13th –

I woke this morning to a strange squealing noise. At first, I thought it might be the smoke alarm again - odd since we got the cooking situation sorted, I thought. The longer I listened to it, the more I realized it wasn’t the smoke alarm. It didn’t sound familiar at all, so I didn’t worry too much about it. As long as an errant sheep didn’t get hit by a car, there was really no reason to jump out of bed and investigate. After a few minutes of listening to the goings-on outside, I determined that wasn’t the case, so I considered going back to sleep.

But then I noticed that Crowley wasn’t laying beside me in bed.

That isn’t too unusual. He’s normally the first one up on any given day. I just curl back into a ball holding his pillow to my chest until he returns.

He always returns.

The squealing wasn’t really that weird. I’ve thought for the last few months that we might have rats. Or squirrels. Or possums. I’ve heard that same squealing a few times before. But seeing as I can’t find any evidence of rodent-caused destruction anywhere in the house, I haven’t been too aggressive about hunting it down.

My stomach began to growl. I guessed I had been asleep for longer than I thought. Instead of returning to bed, I decided to make some waffles for breakfast. So I got up and went out into the kitchen.

That’s where I found Crowley.

He was crouching on the floor …

… covered in blood …

… biting into the spine of what used to be a raggedy old Maine coon …

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

He grinned his old, sly grin, licked his bloody lips, and said, "Hello, Aziraphale. Can I get you a cuppa tea? I know just how you like it."

He winked at me, and my heart stuttered.

…

I may have a problem.

***

Those are the last words on the page.

A page where the ink is smeared from tears, and the edges crusted in blood.

I haven’t seen Aziraphale or Crowley in decades. They used to send the occasional letter, but those stopped a while ago, and they never call. But something tells me neither of them ever left this house alive.

I’m afraid my time, too, has run out. I came to this house alone. But huddled in the darkest corner of the attic, I hear footsteps coming closer, a sour voice on the wind calling my name …

Ka-thunk …

“Warlock …”

…

Ka-thunk …

“Warlock …”

…

Ka-thunk …

“Warlock …”

…

KA-THUNK!!

***

“Warlock Dowling!” Crowley calls, barging into the attic, footsteps heavy on the worn floorboards. “Are you recording another one of those Clip-Clop thingies again?”

“It’s TikTok, Nanny,” Warlock replies, rolling his eyes, “and no. I’m reading a story for my YouTube channel.”

“Well … you done getting a costume together or wot?” Crowley asks, changing the subject, saving face that he actually understands anything Warlock just said. “Adam and his hooligans are gonna be here in a minute. Aziraphale is gonna have kittens if you’re not ready to go Tricks or Treats!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Warlock says, gathering up his camera. He loves Halloween with a passion, but he’d been eyeing this one journal in Aziraphale’s bookshop for some time now. This video he’s been putting together promises to be epic - the crowning achievement of his burgeoning story channel. Most horror story channels get their material from the Creepypasta Reddit, but he has a unique source of original material … when he can get out to Soho, that is. “I’m coming.” He pulls the lapels of the leather jacket he’s borrowing for the evening together in front to tighten it up. 

It’s slim fit as it used to be Crowley’s from back in the day, but thirteen-year-old Warlock still swims in it. 

Warlock marches to the door under Crowley’s watchful eye. Before he can make his way through, Crowley stops him, slipping a hand underneath the jacket and rescuing an extraneous prop - an antique journal.

“Have you been snoopin’ through Angel’s old manuscripts again?” Crowley asks, wiping the cover clean. “You know how he feels bout that.”

“I know,” Warlock admits sheepishly, “but my audience loves them! I get thousands of hits off his stories! Besides, I put my own twist on them, freshen them up a bit.”

“Do you now?” Crowley asks with an unamused eyebrow notched.

“Why didn't he get them published?” Warlock shifts gears before the lecturing can start. “He’s an amazing writer!”

“He had his reasons,” Crowley mumbles, flipping through the pages. After skimming a passage or two, he puts it down on a pile of similar journals, a shiver sliding down his snakey spine. “Oof! Those things’ll give you nightmares.”

“They should terrify you. He’s murdered you in every single one!”

“Ah, but he does it with love.” Crowley grins wide enough to swallow his whole face. “It’s an honor.” 

[toastedbuckwheat]

Hello! May I ask how you draw? I'm currently learning how to myself and would be highly interested into a step to step process by you! Like from sketch to the done thing (no color necessary)

Hello there!

I dunno how I feel about showing how I work/giving advice to someone who’s learning (and I say it as a pro artist who went through years of traditional art education) because when I do the illustrations you see here on my tumblr I BREAK THE RULES you’d learn though life drawing routine, and give in to bad habits, and my methods are rather unplanned and chaotic which makes it difficult to pinpoint significant stages. But I used my portable potato to take some photos during working on my last piece, so I’ll throw it here with a bit of an explanation of what’s going on.

Before I begin - and because you’re about to look at a mess of a WIP - I’d like to give you some general advice that generally makes life easier when you draw (again, things that I learned in traditional arts education - another artist might advise you the complete opposite, dunno!)

Work holistically. Forget them satisfying-to-look-at clips on instagram showing someone produce a hyperrealistic portrait starting from an eye, with each and every element emerging being finished before they proceed to another part. It takes a lot of talent, yes, but these are ppl redrawing a photo in a kind of a mechanical manner. Most artists don’t work this way. Especially if you’re working without a reference, or if you’re doing a life drawing - your process will be layering and changing and finding what works best to give an impression of what you’re drawing rather than reproduce the exact image, and your artwork is likely to look messy most of the time.That said: don’t start with the details. Don’t spend too much time on a particular part while neglecting others. Your goal is to keep the whole piece at the same level of ‘finished’ (even though it’s unfinished - do I make sense?) before you’re confident that everything is where it should be and proceed to the details. So sketch out the composition first. See how things fit, what’s the dynamics. You’ll save yourself from limbs sticking out from the frame, odd proportions etc etc.

Because it’s a game of relationships between different parts of the picture/scene. I ask you not to worry about finishing a single element before laying out the rest because you’ll find that said element will look different once the other part appears! For instance - you might think that the colour you picked for a character’s hair is already very dark. But once you’re done with the night sky background, you’ll find that it’s in fact too light, and doesn’t work well with the cold palette. You’ll have to revisit different parts of the image as you go to balance these relationships and make the picture work as a whole.

Give an impression of something being there without actually drawing it ‘properly’- because details are hard, mate. You’ll see that my lineart usually has hardly any, and my colouring is large unrefined stains, but the finished thing looks convincing. Like, fuck, I can never focus on how Crowley’s eyes are really shaped. So I just turn them into large glowing yellow ellipses crossed by a line, and heard no protests so far.

Don’t panic if you messed up (you probably didn’t anyway). It might turn out to be a completely unnoticeable mistake - because, remember, things work together to balance each other, so another finished off prominent element will probably drown that badly placed line that looked so visible and out of place a second ago. 

It might not look good before it’s finished. I’m mostly immune to it after years of drawing, and my recent illustrations all follow a specific method (ykno, my sunset glow effects and all that) so I can kinda predict the next stage. But I do my linearts on a specially picked crap paper, I don’t bother erasing the smudged graphite, and it looks messy af until I make the background white in Photoshop. Conclusion: you might have a moment of doubt as you work through a piece, but try to break through it - I often suddenly start to like what I cursed a minute before! - and try to finish it even if it’s meant to be bad. This way, looking through your past pieces, you’ll see the progress. And trust me, I can’t even look at my art from literally three months ago. It’s normal.

Now, pics! The sketches are paler in real life, but I increased the contrast a little so you can see something.

1. Laying out the composition! 

I wanted to just show them kissing, but I got carried away due to some Art Nouveau inspiration. As you might have noticed, most of my illustrations are quite self-contained (ykno - they look like a sticker on a plain background). So I wanted a tight swirl bordered by Aziraphale’s wings creating a sort of rounded, yin-yang like bubble around them. Consequently I made the whole composition revolve around their heads. 

2. Adding more details to the sketch. It’s messy af. It will be messy until I’m done. It’s fine.

3. These are the fineliners I use for the linearts! They are made by Uni-ball and come in light and dark grey. I also sometimes use the guy on the left - ‘Touch’ sign pen by Pentel, when I want more brush-like, wider strokes. I work in grey because when I scan it and do my usual boring trick with sunlight highlights - which is an Overlay mode layer in Photoshop - the highlights ‘burn out’ the lines too and make them vanish a little, and the lighting effect gets more striking. I also like to use the light grey ones to make something look pencil-y without actually using pencil, because pencil fucking smudges.

4. It smudges! So because I am right handed, I start inking from the right hand side, no matter how tempted I am to do their faces first.

5. You can see the composition directions here. I made it intuitively, but ofc some ppl actually use grids etc to lay out their drawings.

6. See how pale ans thin the lineart was at first? I kept adjusting it as new inked parts were appearing. It starts to look nice and consistent now! 

7. Finished lineart? There are some mistakes which I later corrected in PS. Notice that Aziraphale’s face has hardly any details on it - I tried to make the drawing suggest his expression rather than risk overdoing it. 

8. Photoshop time!! You can totally do what I did here even if you don’t have a graphic tablet. I used Curves tool to enhance the lineart, then Quick Selection Tool to select the background around around my sticker-like piece and filled it white (on a new layer ofc). I keep this white layer on top of the layer order so it works as a mask as I colour. I decided I did not like the hatching shading underneath Aziraphale’s halo, so I erased it with a Stamp tool (because I wanna keep the textured grey fill my crap paper naturally gives me!). It’s done roughly but won’t be visible once the thing is coloured. 

9. And the reason why I keep the grey shade instead of easily getting rid of it by using Curves/Levels is because when I set this layer to Multiply mode and colour underneath, it gives me this nice desaturated look like from an old cheap paper comic page. It works as a natural filter! But of course I can’t do bright colours this way, so all my glowing highlights happen ABOVE the lineart layer - on a separate layer in Overlay mode! 

Finished thing here!

_____

Commission infoBuy Me a Coffee - help me with my transitioning expenses!Prints and stickers and things on my Redbubble!

[justkeeptrekkin]

Hi M anon!! I’m so sorry this took me so long. I’ve played around with the idea a bit, hope you don’t mind. Tagging @a-shipping-life who requested something similar. Enjoy!!

***

“This is....”

Crowley’s voice trails off as he views his surroundings. When he’d imagined post-armageddon, he had always thought of fire and brimstone. Or, depending on how the war ended, sickening rounds of celestial harmonies, on repeat- listening to it all from behind bars in a pit. Instead, three years into the Third Testament, the New Era, the Age of Satan’s Spawn, and Crowley’s attending children’s birthday parties. Apparently.

The back garden of the Young family household is perfect for a party- according to Azirphale. A nice little closed off area, with some nice bunting and nice cake and a nice view of the Cotswolds rolling in the distance. Kids and family friends, together, having a nice time. All a bit too nice for Crowley’s taste, who’d preferred the bratty parties Warlock’d had, with nasty children and inappropriately dangerous presents (Nanny Ashtoreth had been the one to anonymously give Warlock a bow and arrow set).

Crowley takes his stand beside Aziraphale, wincing at the ensuing fourteenth birthday party. He needs a shot of insulin with how sweet this event is. He eventually manages: “This is. Ugh.”

“It is not ugh,” Aziraphale tuts, rolls his eyes. “Birthdays are nice.”

“Exactly. Nice is ugh.”

Aziraphale casts him a reprimanding glance, but a smile is pulling at the corners of his lips. He looks Crowley up and down judgmentally and passes him a plastic cup. “Here.”

“What’s this?”

“Punch.”

“I’m assuming not the alcoholic variety.”

“It’s a fourteenth birthday party, Crowley.”

“What? The Youngs could be more progressive than you think. What harm did a bit of vodka do a teenager. Do teenagers not drink nowadays? I find it hard to keep track.”

“Not till his sixteenth,” Aziraphale says. Eyes scanning the party with as much wariness as Crowley’s had. Adults eating cake from paper plates, teenagers sitting on the grass and sulking at how lame this is.

“I can- I can almost guarantee that lot will have had a cheeky WKD before sixteen,” Crowley mutters into the plastic cup of punch.

Their gazes find The Them, who are sat on the garden bench and on the grass, conspiring amongst themselves. And Crowley thinks that whilst a couple of them aren’t really that badly behaved, Adam has a mischievous streak about him, and the others follow suit. The Youngs are probably struggling to keep up with their teenage son. But then, better the little devil use his powers to make a fake ID to grab a six pack of Strongbow from the corner shop, than to destroy the world.

Just as he’s considering this, the four of them look up at Aziraphale and Crowley. As if they’ve been talking about them.

Crowley sighs, peering at them over the rim of his glasses. “Yep. That lot are trouble makers.”

“It- are they talking about us?”

“Looks like.”

Aziraphale pouts his lips. “Teenagers.”

For a moment, they simply stand at the periphery of the party and survey. Newt and Anathema are here, who they could probably hold some awkward conversation with (“So… world didn’t end then.” “Apparently.”), however, they’re currently occupied by some of the guests from the village. And there’s a lot of other people who’ve been invited by Mr and Mrs Young who seem to be here for their benefit rather than Adam’s.

“Why are we here again?” Crowley whines.

“Because we’re his godparents.”

Crowley wrinkles his nose, peers down at the red juice that’s calling itself punch and doesn’t have nearly enough rum in it. “Not officially.”

“You were the one who assigned us that term, remember?” Aziraphale prompts.

“Suppose.” Then, because he’s feeling brave. And he gets these bouts of bravery when he’s in Tadfield. “How’s about after this we find the nearest pub and pissed. You can crash at mine afterwards.”

There’s a moment when he looks like he’s going to argue, twisting his lips primly and casting fleeting glances at Crowley. All coy. Crowley loves every daft bit of him. “Yes. That does sound good.”

“We can wash down the niceness of this pa- uh-oh. Here they come.”

Aziraphale picks up the slice of cake that he’d laid on the table behind him. A forkful hovering just in front of his mouth. “Sorry?”

“Teenagers, twelve o’clock.”

Aziraphale reluctantly lowers the fork, puts it down on the paper plate and surveys The Approaching Them. Adam at the front. And then the others disperse- going inside to do something more interesting, Crowley supposes. Now, with just Adam, it feels less like they’re about to be ambushed. The boy looks at them with that quietly expectant look he has, and has had since he was eleven when they first met. Though he’s a few inches taller than he used to be.

Dog trots by Adam’s side, and looks up at Aziraphale, pleading silently. Aziraphale brings the plate of cake closer to his chest and narrows his eyes at Dog.

“Thanks for coming,” Adam says, though he doesn’t look massively excited.

“Are you having a nice time?” Aziraphale asks pleasantly.

Adam shrugs. “Not really. Mum and dad invited all their friends and none of mine. Apart from you two, and Anathema and Newt. And obviously Pepper and people. It would be a lot nicer if there weren’t all these annoying old people, too.”

Crowley nods in grim understanding, curls his lips in disregard for said old people.

“Oh,” is Aziraphale’s reply. Then, smile wavering, “Well, it’s nice to see at least that there are people here who care about you, no?”

“They don’t even really know me,” Adam shrugs. “They aren’t here for my birthday. They’re here for the free cake and to boast about their lovely little middle class lives. It’s the perfect opportunity for bourgeoisie posturing under the guise of a birthday party- it’s actually really shallow.”

So this is teenaged Adam. And no less, Adam as a teenager being influenced by Anathema. Aziraphale looks a bit lost for words, but Crowley’s grinning like a loon.

“Well said,” he drawls through his smirk. “Any good presents?”

“Got a Nintendo Switch.”

“Very good,” Crowley replies seriously.

“Anyway,” Adam sighs, “The others have gone inside to find lactose free snacks. I should go help.Brian’s lactose intolerant now.”

“Oh, what a shame,” Aziraphale says sincerely.

“See you later.”

Adam traipses inside, and Dog follows chirpily. Aziraphale and Crowley watch them disappear.

“He’s going to be…” Aziraphale shakes his head, exhales through pursed lips.

“Ball-buster, that one.”

“Yes.”

Some very nondescript music plays distantly. It looks as if Mr Young is attempting to hook up his phone to bluetooth speakers and is struggling, crouching on all fours to inspect the wiring. There isn’t any wiring, is the problem. It’s a wireless speaker system. But that doesn’t seem to have occurred to Mr Young- bum in the air and face buried in Apple technology.

“Oh- oh bother. Why am I like this?”

Crowley turns to see Aziraphale has dropped cake down his waistcoat. He’s holding out the offending plate of cake and frowning at the mess- multi-coloured frosting and sprinkles everywhere. Dog is absolutely delighted, eating the scraps by Aziraphale’s feet.

Aziraphale gives Crowley his sad, cherub eyes. Crowley looks back, pouts his bottom lip. Oh, diddums.

“Would you…?” Aziraphale asks. Looking at him through his lashes.

He gives it a long moment- gives Aziraphale a few seconds to enjoy himself, gives Aziraphale the impression that he needs to work to convince Crowley. He doesn’t.

Crowley snaps his fingers, cake gone. More than that, he turns to fetch him another slice.

And he makes that little flustered smile. The one that makes Crowley putty in his stupid angelic hands. “Oh, thank you.”

“Alright, alright,” Crowley waves a dismissive hand over his shoulder as he goes to get more cake.

There’s the cake- half of it left, at least eight slices. There’s the stack of paper plates. He looks up- no one around. He takes a slice as quickly as he can, not wanting to be cornered by any of the horrifically boring guests.

Then:

“Can I ask you a question?”

Crowley spins round to find Adam. Oh, that’s fine. Adam’s not a boring octogenarian. “Questions? Love questions. Shoot.”

“None of the others believe me,” Adam starts, hands in his pockets, expression as cool and collected as ever. “I’m pretty convinced, but it seems rude to tell them I know when I haven’t even asked.”

“Asked what?”

He’s busying himself with cutting a slice of cake, paying attention but not feeling the need to give Adam his undivided attention. That is until:

“You two are married. Aren’t you?”

A perfect slice of cake had been balanced on the knife in Crowley’s hand. And then Adam had said that. So now, he’s got a perfect slice of cake splattered all over the table. And Adam’s got a speechless demon, steaming from the ears. Literally, steaming from the ears.

“Wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-”

“So,” Adam’s eyes widen a little, and he nods slowly. “You’re… not. Married.”

“I’m- you’re- what? Who- why’re- listen,” he says, pointing a paper plate at the son of Satan, “You have no- what did- did he? Where did-”

This could take forever, and they both know it. Crowley’s mouth is a broken record. His brain has disconnected itself entirely from the rest of his body. For a demon who can speak multiple languages, who can speak tongues, he can’t for the life of him speak any of them well. Thus, Adam makes the executive decision of saving him from this never-ending, hellish loop of inarticulacy.

“Sorry for making it weird,” he says, not looking that sorry, “The two of you are just so obviously in love, I figured you guys were married. And gay marriage was only legalised recently, cause, like, homophobia and stuff. So I figured that you didn’t have rings because- are you OK? There’s smoke.”

“What?”

“There’s smoke. Coming from your head.”

Right, so he’s progressed straight from steaming from the ears to smoking. Fantastic, perfect, excellent. It’s probably from the speed that his thoughts are spinning; his brain going so fast, so out of control that it’s generated enough mental friction to cause a fire. Thoughts like-

-me and Aziraphale married a wedding what would we wear where would we live would we live together perhaps we’d have a garden and I could cook for him and he could knit me socks like the socks he gave me for Christmas two years ago and oh holy fuck is it that obvious that I love him does he realise does Aziraphale know does he love me back he loves me he loves me not he loves me he loves me not he loves me-

-OK, he can smell the smoke now. Just wonderful.

Then, from across the garden, Crowley hears Aziraphale exclaim: “Married?”

Pepper is staring at him like he’s an idiot. Aziraphale’s staring back at her like he’s gone catatonic. Holding an empty paper plate. Mouth hanging open. Eyes widening slowly, like the THX theme music should be playing in the background.

And then Aziraphale’s head snaps round to look at Crowley. Looking, as far as he can tell, absolutely mortified.

Crowley stares back.

Adam stares.

Pepper stares.

Crowley puts down the cake knife and takes a deep, nerve-steadying breath. Because whilst the world hadn’t really ended three years ago, it feels a bit like it has now.

Time to face the music, he thinks.

***

Part two possibly will be written if people want one...

[ineffable-endearments]

Waking up in July

(Rating: G. Approx. 1917 words.)

July 1, 2020.

On reaching for the snooze, Crowley discovers an envelope he definitely didn’t leave on top of his phone. (Mail doesn’t usually get delivered to his bedside, of course, but given the handwriting on the front, Crowley has the impression divine intervention was involved this time.)

Dear Crowley,

I am writing to you in frustration. Not with you, you must understand, but with myself. There are a few things I do believe need clarifying.

Given everything that’s happened, I feel strongly that I ought to be behaving in solidarity with the guidelines the people of London have set for themselves. I must admit, it was a surprise to hear you express the same sentiment. I’ve always known you aren’t cruel enough to want to see innocent people fall ill (don’t you roll your eyes at this letter; you said it yourself), but I thought surely you would have your own ways of getting around the lockdown, carrying on outside the rules and indulging in mischief as you always do. Were this the case, it would only be responsible to invite you over here, to decrease your bad influence.

And yet, this was not the case. Still, after declining your offer when we spoke, I felt somehow unsatisfied, or perhaps at loose ends. It would have been very nice to share my baking with someone who is not attempting to steal my cashbox.

If you read this letter before July, do know you’re encouraged to reach out. We could at least speak telephonically. And if you don’t read this before July, know I will be immensely happy to meet with you again as soon as you awaken.

(There’s a long gap between the end of the paragraph and the end of the letter itself.)

Crowley...I suppose the truth is I miss you very much.

Yours, always,

Aziraphale

“Sentimental old sap,” Crowley says out loud. How else is he going to dislodge the painfully fond lump in his throat? “Right. Time to see what’s going on, then.”

=

Continue below or read the rest on AO3

One rushed mobile search and five minutes later, Crowley has an approximate idea of where the humans stand. They haven’t done the greatest job of getting the virus under control, but they seem to have made...progress? Arguably? Ugh, they could have done better. At any rate, if he and Aziraphale want to see each other, they’re going to have to form a...a “support bubble.”

The notion of asking Aziraphale out loud if he would like to be in something called a “support bubble” together almost makes Crowley want to turn around and go back to sleep.

On second thought, the angel would probably get a kick out of it, and the awful naming scheme would give Crowley something to gripe about, so all’s well that ends well, really.

The bookshop phone barely rings before Aziraphale’s voice is on the line. “Hello. I’m afraid we’re closing early--”

“Good,” Crowley says. “I’m not calling you to buy books.”

“Crowley!”

Oh, that’s a familiar delight in his voice. That’s rescuing-from-the-Bastille, cleaning-paint-off-his-coat, showing-up-for-Armageddon-in-a-flaming-car delight.

“Good morning, angel.”

“So very much has happened. I’d like to fill you in, but oh, I don’t even know where to begin...”

Crowley frowns at his phone, worried. “A lot has happened? What, at the shop?”

“No, no, I mean in the world.”

“All right. Well. Just start in...I dunno, start off from our last conversation, I fell asleep pretty much right away--”

“Come to the shop,” Aziraphale blurts. “You have to wear a mask, and-- and don’t go anywhere else, but it’s allowed. It...it’s okay now.”

“I’ll be there in five,” Crowley says, grinning, ready to ignore any admonishments about speed limits.

“Wait! Crowley?”

“Hmm?”

“Actually. If you come see me before July 4, we...we have to be in, ah. A support bubble.” There it is. “Have you heard about that yet?”

“Sure I have.” Crowley does his best to sound gruff and unaffected.

“You couldn’t be in anyone’s place but mine, you know. And even after the fourth, you couldn’t...get closer than two metres to anyone but me, even though you could visit--”

“Aside from the fact that all this is totally for show anyway, stop worrying, it’s fine,” Crowley insists. He miracles himself the least-ugly mask he can contemplate and bustles out the door, hurrying irritatedly back a minute later to grab the “something drinkable” he forgot.

They don’t even sit down right away, much less get within the 2 metres of each other. Aziraphale does, however, give Crowley a long, pleasantly intense look (it appears to be a proper drinking-in) when he enters the shop.

“Did you, ah,” Aziraphale clasps his hands together. “Did you get my letter?”

“I did,” Crowley says. “Got a bit bored, did you?”

Aziraphale sighs, impatient. “I suppose you could put it that way.”

“I’d have come over, you know,” Crowley says softly, just loud enough for Aziraphale to hear. “You could have called. Had my phone right by the bed.”

“I know,” Aziraphale responds, not any louder. He looks away to the table next to him, makes a show of studying a book that wouldn’t have moved from the shelf since 1949 if it weren’t for Adam’s reorganization. “But if you’d...stayed here, wouldn’t you have been bored?”

Crowley shrugs. “Maybe. I’m sure being bored here wouldn’t be worse than being bored at home.”

“If you were here, hunkering down as you put it, we might have got in each other’s way. I’m sure it would have been lovely for a while, but what about after a day or two? Or after a week? A month?”

“You have always liked being left alone with your work,” Crowley muses. “I could have gone to sleep here, too, though. I know you’ve got that little flat with the single bed you haven’t used since 1993 upstairs.”

At this, something in Aziraphale’s face loosens, and he looks almost as if he might smile. “Oh, now what kind of host banishes his guest upstairs for bedtime?”

“You absolutely would. Or I could just come visit and leave. Rules only apply to us if we decide they should, right?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Aziraphale says. “I was stuck. It seems silly, I know, I know, but it’s such a strange time, everyone out there struggling - I would have felt terrible for choosing not to align with the humans’ rules myself. I was hoping…”

“That I’d help you get around them,” Crowley finishes.

“As you always have,” Aziraphale admits. That confession alone pushes the air out of Crowley’s lungs, a surprising sensation even considering his breath is optional.

“Those were...stupid rules. Dangerous for an angel to break. I felt like I was sort of doing you favors while also being a proper demon when I did that. This isn’t quite the same.”

Aziraphale nods. “No. Perhaps it’s not.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, urgently needing eye contact. Aziraphale cooperates, drifting even a little closer as he does. Not quite 2 metres away now. “This is our side.” Crowley gestures vaguely at Aziraphale and everything around them. “I can sneak around other people’s rules all you want, but I’m not gonna force my way around yours.”

“I don’t know what’s right,” Aziraphale says, plaintive. “People aren’t supposed to be seeing each other, so if we’re going to live here, neither should we. I missed you every day, though, Crowley. Isn’t that strange? We don’t even meet every day under normal circumstances, but something about being forced to stay apart reminded me so much of old times - bad old times…”

The angel is getting himself worked up. “No point worrying about it now,” Crowley interjects. “We’re a...we’re a ‘bubble,’ aren’t we? We’re following the rules just fine and I’m even allowed to come and go. Problems solved.”

Aziraphale purses his lips. “For now,” he agrees, smiling in earnest this time. “It did get me thinking about an awful lot of things, though.”

“And none of them have to be resolved this second,” Crowley reassures. “Would you like to talk over wine? I’ve been thinking about this bottle since April.”

“Certainly, yes.” Aziraphale waves his hand. “One more thing before we do, though. You know, it’s alright for people in a bubble to get close to each other.”

“You sure?” Crowley asks, not because he doesn’t know the rule, but because he doesn’t know what Aziraphale’s rule is going to be.

“Yes. I was actually hoping you might - and you can refuse, Crowley, really, it’s a bizarre request - but I was hoping you might allow me to hug you.”

Crowley feels a big, undignified grin breaking out on his face. He schools it into the best semblance of a smirk he can manage, but he’s definitely not going to fool Aziraphale. That’s fine. “All right,” he says. “If it makes you happy.”

There is a different sort of delight on Aziraphale’s face as he sidles nervously up to Crowley. It’s not as blatant as what he’d sounded like on the phone. It’s quieter, but deeper. It’s rescued-books-after-a-fallen-bomb delight.

“Come here,” Crowley murmurs, pulling his very favorite fusspot into a hug. Upon resting his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, breathing in that cologne and the scent of various baking experiments, soaking in Aziraphale’s warmth like a...well, like a serpent in the sun, Crowley realizes this is as much for him as it is for Aziraphale.

And he doesn’t want to stop. Sod the wine; let this take hours.

“Do you still get the feeling we’re not supposed to be doing this, no matter how safe it is?” Aziraphale asks, voice muffled. He’s sort of talking into Crowley’s jacket.

“Not really the same for me,” Crowley says. “My lot weren’t big on guilt. Fear, more like. Terror, yes. Not guilt.” He lifts his head so he can rest his cheek against the angel’s ridiculous fluffy hair.

“Oh. Yes, that makes sense. Sorry.” Aziraphale presses his head into Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley rolls his eyes, knowing Aziraphale won’t see it, more attempting to reassure himself that he hasn’t gone completely, entirely soft. “Let’s take it one moral crisis at a time,” he whispers, stroking Aziraphale’s back. Aziraphale shifts and breathes out, snorting very lightly (although he’d never, ever allow it to be called a ‘snort’ out loud) in a way that indicates he’s trying not to giggle.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, apparently regaining his composure, “they might tighten restrictions again.”

“It’s possible. It might be the smartest option,” Crowley agrees.

“We should consider what we’re going to do if that happens.” Aziraphale has not removed himself from Crowley’s grip. “If you’re really sure you wouldn’t mind…”

Crowley finds himself chuckling, progressing to a full-throated laugh. “What, sleeping upstairs?”

“Well, no--”

“We’ll cross that bridge if we get to it, but if there’s one thing I can guarantee, it’s that I wouldn’t want to sit around and chatter 24/7. You’d have your reading time.”

Aziraphale sighs. “And wouldn’t you miss your things?”

“Sure, possibly. Not like I was using them when I was sleeping the months away, though, was I?”

“All right.” Aziraphale pulls away enough to gesture toward the sofa, leaving Crowley wanting more. Days. Days more. Aziraphale is beaming, though, and Crowley might be, too, and Aziraphale doesn’t end the hold entirely because now their hands are clasped. “Now, bring the wine over here and let’s go sample the desserts. I’m especially interested to hear what you think of the devil’s food cake.”

[cleverlittlejay]

Raphael anon back once again with a hilarious thought: Family therapy with Crowley, Lucifer, Gabriel, & Micheal and it’s just so wild & the poor therapist is so confused. They assume it’s just rich people scandals & shenanigans but all of these drama queens in a room together trying to work through over 6,000 years of family issues while some poor human tries to keep everything from becoming a chaotic nightmare without the full story of what’s going on is infinitely funny to me.

hello, anon! this was such a delight to write! also, fun fact, i’m a psych major and took one (1) intro to counseling psych class, but that actually helped in writing this, so that was fun! This is also super long (1k words!) so it also goes under a read more. (another fun fact: i stole the name Dr. Martin from Lucifer on Netflix because why not.) 

(one more fun fact, i genuinely hate the Neflix!Lucifer stereotype that a psychiatrist who went to med school would be a therapist. it’s two different fields. ok sorry, it’s fic time)

Dr. Martin was good at her job. She worked hard to become a therapist, and she genuinely believed that she could help her clients. It’s why she started her private practice. 

Her next appointment was a family therapy session. She briefly wondered how her secretary forgot to mention that she had an appointment or that she had new clients at all, but these mistakes happen. Sometimes computers just don’t want to work, deleting emails and not saving the clients’ last names in the file. 

The family consisted of four siblings. Lucifer, Michael, Gabriel, and Anthony J Crowley. Anthony, she learned, preferred to be called Crowley, and the other three siblings did not share that last name. 

The four siblings did not get along. At all. And they wanted to, Crowley explained, but they just couldn’t see eye to eye. 

“It all started when Mother kicked me out,” Lucifer said. “More specifically, she had Michael kick me out because she’s–”

“Because,” Michael interrupted, “you were an awful son who refused to listen to her. Causing trouble, thinking you’re better than her. Asking questions.” That last part was clearly directed at Crowley, who offered a light shrug. 

“Interrupting isn’t kind, Michael,” Dr. Martin said. “Please let Lucifer talk, and then you can say your part.”

If looks could kill, Dr. Martin would’ve died a hundred times over in her career. Michael’s glare was terrifying, but she’d seen it all before. 

The final picture was that their mother kicked out Lucifer and Crowley due to rebelliousness. The two questioned her authority and so they had to be removed before they corrupted any others. Now, after the disappearance of their mother, the siblings decided to get together again and reconnect.

A cult, Dr. Martin realized. She was working with the aftereffects of a cult. The religious names, the absolute authority, the punishment that included some kind of fire, the isolation from others, it all painted a very clear but dark picture.

She thanked them for their openness and had her secretary book their next appointment. 

Then, she realized how much she didn’t know about cults–she owned a private practice, she didn’t work with law enforcement or social services–and began her research. She read articles on cult-related family dynamics and trauma. She even called her old colleague for some direction. 

The next session, the two eldest siblings focussed on each other. As Lucifer and Michael went on, Crowley and Gabriel seemed content to watch them argue as Dr. Martin futilely attempted to control the session. 

“Even now, you’re a pest,” Michael sneered, ignoring the no-interruptions rule. “Your demons cause nothing but trouble and you barely control them.”

Inner demons were difficult to control, sometimes spiralling and causing issues in real life. It took strength to admit that you need support in fighting your battles.

Lucifer spoke before Dr. Martin could voice that. 

“Maybe you should control your angels, Michael. Always wandering into trouble, making friends with demons and then getting hurt. It’s almost as if they don’t respect your command.”

“Tell your demons to stop fraternizing with the enemy!”

“Hey,” Crowley interrupted. “I thought that sides don’t matter anymore. I can fraternize with an angel if I wanted to.”

“Now, yes, but not before,” Michael said patronizingly, as if she was leading the session rather than Dr. Martin. “But you endangered yourself and Aziraphale by being with him.”

“Not like Aziraphale was in danger,” Gabriel grumbled. “He got away with it.”

The session ended without any of the siblings making any progress. It was fine, Dr. Martin rationed. Progress is not always linear, and she needed to first create a safe space where they were comfortable speaking up. 

She also realized that her original theory was wrong. It wasn’t a cult. It was the mob. 

Different sides, angels and demons, both told that the other is the enemy. Perhaps Lucifer and Crowley disagreed with their “mother’s” rule and were punished for noncompliance. Michael was clearly the enforcer, punishing those who stepped out of line. It blurred the definition of “sibling,” but it explained the disdain that Lucifer and Michael had for each other. 

This realization led to a new line of research. The mob was harder to research from a psychological or counseling therapy perspective, and Dr. Martin ended up making even more calls to colleagues and old professors. 

“First a cult and now the mob,” her old classmate laughed. “You have some interesting clients.”

Dr. Martin refused to admit that she was wrong about the cult. No one had to know. 

She changed her strategy during their next session. The past was important to understanding a person, but perhaps it was better to focus on the present. 

“Despite everything that happened, Lucifer and Crowley being kicked out and you being forced to lead, how do you feel about Lucifer right now?” 

Michael didn’t answer immediately, which was a good sign. When she answered, she didn’t look at Lucifer or speak to him directly, but she knew that he was there and listening to her.  

“I don’t hate him,” Michael said slowly. “He’s still my brother. I didn’t have a choice, you know. I had to do it.” 

Dr. Martin could imagine the lack of choice. It was likely that if Michael didn’t do as told, she would’ve also been punished. It was coercion, and Michael couldn’t be held fully accountable. 

“I don’t hate you, either,” Lucifer said. There was a forced air of casualness around him, protecting Michael from rejection. “You’re still my baby sister. No fall can change that, Micah.”

Progress. It took three sessions and a lot of pain and bitterness, but they were making progress. Michael and Lucifer finally broke through their hard shells to admit that there is a possibility to move forward in their relationship with genuine love and affection. That kind of hope was why Dr. Martin was a therapist in the first place. 

Dr. Martin scheduled their next appointment. She was hopeful for their next session, creating an outline that would include more dialogue and encourage the younger two siblings to speak more often. The four of them had hope yet. 

Dr. Martin was good at her job. She would help bridge a 6000 year old gap of pain and misery to create a new era of peace. Not that she knew that, of course. She was just a therapist to a weird group of siblings. 

Humans, She thought in amusement, were clearly Her best creations yet.

[collaborationandresearchproposal]

Thursday 29th April, Research Report: Lycanthropy and the hays code

Notable points * lycanthropy seems  to be synonymous with homosexuality- parallels between Teen Wolf and Buffy The Vampire Slayer's respective coming out scenes. * The Queer-ness of the character Remus Lupin from the Harry Potter books and film series. Many fans head cannon and write slash fics about Remus and Sirius' romance and relationship, reading the characters as queer. The ship, named 'Wolf Star' is quite popular and well known within the fandom. Many fans feel there is enough evidence to build this relationship on; Remus and Sirius' ghosts stood next to each other in the resurrection stone, mirroring Harry's parents,  a canonically married couple. They also bought Harry a joint present for his birthday and know the intricacies of each others personalities. Dumbledore also infamously told Sirius to 'lie low at Lupins.' But the problem here, as the article points out, is that Rowling doesn't acknowledge Lupin as queer, despite the homoerotic cues in the writings,  and instead gives him a female love interest and admits that Lupins Lycantrhopy is a metaphor for AIDS/HIV. She has further dismissed any alternative readings of the character, disappointing fans' hopes of there being a shred of representation in a queer monster who is actually queer. This sort of behaviour from authors and creators is what turns Queer-coding into the more harmful and frustrating Queer-baiting. A large majority of queer representation comes from connotations and interpretations. the clues are there and queer audiences do pick them up. However this grey area allows allows straight culture to use queerness for pleasure and profit in mass culture without admitting to it. Modern examples of this are CW's Supernatural and BBC's Sherlock. I can't personally speak for Supernatural but having watched Sherlock with the advantage of a queer eye, I can say with confidence that it is a prime example of queer-baiting. there is clear homoerotic subtext between Sherlock and John and even Sherlock and Moriarty. I Personally think it's entirely romantic as I head cannon Sherlock to be Asexual or at least on that spectrum but the point is, it is not just wishful thinking or pushing of a narrative. It's manipulation. Queer-baiting takes advantage of an already vulnerable group of people by preying on their desire for representation in the media.

In modern media werewolf's are often portrayed as having chiselled bodies and looming over each other. The 1985 Teen Wolf received a television reboot and it's fair to say it got reasonably more progressive.  It seemed interested in queering the werewolf narrative and in a sly moment of gender-bending the traditional Little Red Riding Hood narrative, protagonist Scott receives the Bite from a male werewolf while wearing a Little Red Hoodie (‘Wolf Moon’). Additionally, the show features LGBTQ characters while Scott’s human best friend Stiles visits a gay bar and makes friends with a group of drag queens in startling contrast to the gay panic of the 1985 film’s version of Stiles. By midway through the show’s second season, the slash pairing that had proved dominant in the fandom was Stiles and wannabe-Alpha Derek Hale. The two characters, who operate in the narrative as belligerent and begrudging allies, rapidly became a slash phenomenon, due, in part, to the chemistry and comic timing between actors Tyler Hoechlin and Dylan O’Brien. The narrative is further subverted when Derek is raped by an adult  human woman.

The pair 'Sterek' gained so much traction that it caught the attention of MTV and the cast and crew behind the show. So much so that they released a video of Hoechlin and O'Brien cuddling on a boat, asking fans to vote for Teen Wolf for this  years Choice Summer TV Show at the Teen Choice Awards. This  was big as it acknowledged fans and slash flics and the pairing itself as a possibility and many queer voices who watched the show felt heard and validated. However this didn't last long. MTV released a video on the official Teen Wolf Facebook, this time featuring O’Brien asking fans to vote for Teen Wolf in a TV Guide Poll. O’Brien joked that if fans did not vote, then the show would kill off its sole remaining gay character and one of the few remaining non-white characters on the show, Danny. The Teen Wolf Facebook released the video with the following caption: ‘Keep #TeenWolf in first place! Heed Dylan and Linden’s advice or we might have to. #KillDanny’ (Teen Wolf). The show’s social media team then attempted to make the #KillDanny tag go viral on Facebook and twitter, but fans, understandably, were not amused, primarily using the tag for outraged tweets to MTV (Baker-Whitelaw).Such blatant disregard for fans’ concerns about queer representation on the show alienated a large number of fans, especially when coupled with Jeff Davis’ more frequently dismissive and condescending comments about the Sterek pairing where he had been enthusiastic and even encouraging of the ship. As seasons wore on without any indication that Sterek would indeed become canon, it became clear that MTV and Jeff Davis had been queer-baiting Sterek fans as a marketing technique and that the unique interplay that fans had enjoyed with Davis, which offered a new kind of truly interactive fandom had, in fact, been something of an illusion. ' serial killer Hannibal Lecter and his love interest Will Graham in Hannibal, and reanimated gay corpses Kieren, Simon, and Rick in In the Flesh. Notably, both series have received an overwhelmingly positive response from fans and critics who have applauded the series for taking their queer monsters beyond mere coding and into explicit text. The warm reception of Hannibal and In the Flesh’s handling of queer representation by fans, and the continuing frustration with Teen Wolf’s queer-baiting and the appropriative nature of Remus Lupin’s narrative in Harry Potter, belie a desire not only for better queer representation, but also for more complex re-articulations of queer monstrosity' the symbolic and narrative trappings of monsters are often used as metaphors for queerness without actually acknowledging the positive behind that queer identity or even confirming the queer identity at all. Another positive example is the miniseries Good Omens. Based on the book of the same name, written by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Pretty much the whole fandom believe That the two leads, Crowley and Aziraphale are in a romantic relationship. They've known each other for centuries and perhaps what was the main fuel to this ships fire was the episode 3 cold open. Even fans who have only read the book seem to support these two as a couple and what's perhaps even more amazing is Gaiman’s response on twitter. "I wrote it as a love story. They acted it as a love story. You saw it as a love story. How much more proof do you need?" and "I wouldn't exclude the ideas that they are ace, or aromantic, or trans. They are an angel and a demon, not as make humans, per the book. Occult/Ethereal beings don't have sexes, something we tried to reflect in the casting. Whatever Crowley and Aziraphale are, it's a love story." It's beautiful because not only does it confirm that they are in love but it also leaves room for interpretations of what kind of relationship they have together.

https://dialogues.rutgers.edu/images/Journals_PDF/2017-18-dialogues-web_e6db3.pdf#page=164

In the year 1922, when cinema was gaining traction and popularity, The Motion Picture Producers and Distributors Association (MPPDA) hired a devout Presbyterian, Will H. Hays as its head. Eight years later, in 1930, the MPPDA ratified the Motion Picture Production Code. Also known as the Hays Code, these guidelines were set up as “a list of rules that studios could follow to avoid the censors’ wrath” one specific line read “sexual perversion or any inference to it is forbidden” This era in censorship set the stage for a culture in which the stereotypical behaviour of homosexuals, or any behaviour deviating from the traditional gender roles, is seen as dangerous, evil, and even fatal. By representing coded homosexual characters as depressed, perverse, and succumbing to punishing ends, it shifted social subconscious beliefs of LGBT individuals in real life to those represented on screen. Media often teaches us how to feel about others and ourselves – e.g., it promotes specific body types and clothing styles. In the same way, by promoting gendered behaviour and banning homosexuality, it spread a message that homosexuality was not fit to be viewed openly. Although themes of homosexuality were banned they were definitely alluded to and that continues today.

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

The Whole Truth - 5

(As promised - some answers this time, as well as angst, and fluff, and a bit of sap. It’s a long one, so get comfy, here or on AO3. Enjoy!)

Thursday

Aziraphale paced the shop, wringing his hands.

What on Earth had he been thinking yesterday? With any of it?

Crowley would think he’d gone mad. Probably already did.

Had he actually touched Crowley’s arm during dinner? Repeatedly? Let their knees brush together under the table? Ordered a shared dessert? His stomach hurt to think of it.

Not that the cake hadn’t been lovely, but he’d insisted on feeding Crowley a bite and, oh –

He pressed his hands to his mouth, wanting to remember every moment, wanting to forget entirely.

What if Gabriel had come to check-in? He’d said Friday, but it was always a possibility, always. He would have caught them, sharing a table, laughing over cups of coffee about humans they’d known through the ages, leaning close, so very close. Or walking back to the Bentley, hands brushing against each other, smiling like…

He picked up the telephone for the third time this morning, desperately dialing Crowley’s flat. He needed to tell the demon not to come. Needed any excuse to keep him away, or he…he didn’t know what he’d do.

But again, the line rang, and rang, and the foolish machine picked up, asking him to leave a message. He waited for the tone, then snapped, “Crowley. It’s me again. Do not come. Don’t – you need to stay as far from me as possible. I can’t—”

The roar of an engine, the muffled sound of Queen, and he looked up just in time to see the long black car stopping in front of his door.

A moment later, Crowley stepped out, another bag from the bakery. And…were those flowers?

It was worse than he expected. Aziraphale backed away in horror.

“Angel?” Crowley called through the door. Was it too late? Could he hide in the back room? “My hands are full, could you…?”

This shouldn’t be hard. Open the door. Tell him you don’t want to see him today. Don’t accept the lovely flowers. Don’t thank him for the pastries. And whatever you do, don’t pull him through the door, slam him against the wall and –

Oh dear.

He opened the door a crack. “Crowley. I. Oh, did you…change your hair?”

Crowley tossed his head, and now all his hair was loose and free, gleaming in the sun, and of course one strand got caught across his face and Aziraphale wanted to tug it free, to set it in place, to run his fingers all through that dazzling mass of red until—

“Just a bit. Thought I could use a change. Do you like it?”

“I do, I really do.” He slapped his hand over his mouth.

Crowley smiled, and it wasn’t sarcastic, it was genuine and heartbreaking. “Good. I – I thought you might. I, um, I got you these.”

Aziraphale’s eyes fell on the white-and-yellow bouquet. “Daisies? Oh, I adore daisies. So bright and warm…”

“Yeah, I know. And they, um, remind me of you.” Crowley shuffled his feet, still on the doorstep. “I thought, if we’re going to be poring over that book for two more days, might as well brighten the place up a bit.”

“I.” Send him away. “I thought.” Send him away right now. “I don’t believe I…invited you.”

If the smile had been heartbreaking, the way it fell nearly destroyed Aziraphale on the spot.

“You. Aziraphale. You never invite me, I just…come.”

“I know.” He tried to keep his face straight, his resolve firm. “And that’s…that’s very much the problem, isn’t it? You just show up whenever you wish, unannounced, regardless of how I feel, or what I’m doing or – or who might be visiting!”

“Is someone there now?” Was Crowley even aware of the way his whole body tensed when he worried, coiled, preparing to spring into action? He wasn’t a fighter – he always preferred to flee and hide – but somehow any time his mouth pressed into that line of resolve, Aziraphale just felt safe. “Do you need me to cause a distraction? Just say the word.”

It was the perfect out. Tell Crowley Gabriel was here, that he had it under control.

“No. I’m alone.”

“Then what’s the problem? I told you last night I’d swing by as early as I could. Yes, I should have called first, but it’s not that big a deal, is it?” He moved as if to step through the door, though Aziraphale still stood in the way.

“Yes, it is!” Aziraphale pushed the door almost completely shut, so he could see nothing but Crowley, and the flowers. “It is very much a ‘big deal.’ You never think about these things, Crowley, and I have to worry on my own. You never change. What would you have done if Gabriel were here? Hmm? Do you even remember the time you almost walked straight into him, or did you conveniently forget that as well?”

“Of course, I remember.” Crowley’s voice was a low growl. “But you just said he’s not, so it does not matter.” He took a step back at least. “What’s he going to do, anyway? Put a bad comment on your quarter-century review?”

“He might! He might do a lot worse than that! Do you think anything like this—” he gestured between them “—this has ever happened before?”

“I don’t know, Angel. What is this? Tell me that!” But under the anger there was a note of desperation, and Aziraphale had to gnash his teeth to keep from saying something that would make the situation worse.

“Crowley,” he finally managed, sounding half-strangled even to his own ears. “I don’t want you to come in.” There was a strained silence, broken only by the crinkle of the paper around the flowers.

“Angel. Just tell me—”

“No, Crowley. Don’t ask me any more questions.” He was terrified of what answers he might give. “Just leave. Go – go far away, and do not contact me until I ask you to.”

“Fine.” The bundle of daisies tumbled to the step. “Fine.” Crowley strode back to the Bentley faster than Aziraphale had ever seen him move. “And don’t think I’ll be standing next to the phone when you call. I have better things to do with my time than wait for you.”

“I doubt that!”

But he was gone.

Aziraphale let the door drift open, as the flowers scattered and blew away in the wind.

--

He glanced up from the book, blinking blearily at the light. It must be afternoon by now.

Aziraphale didn’t remember much after the fight with Crowley – he rarely did, not for the serious fights – and the cup of ice-cold tea and stack of notes four centimeters thick were the only real indicators that time had passed at all.

He folded his arms across the book, leaning against them, breathing in the spicy smell. Tried not to think about how much he missed Crowley’s jokes and snide comments, the way he would bend over Aziraphale’s shoulder to look at the page, breath warm on his cheek.

“Don’t think about that. He wasn’t helping.” He scolded himself. But, really, for all his notes, he’d contributed as much to this translation as Crowley. Aziraphale was getting nowhere, and he only had another day.

What would Crowley do, if he were here?

Terrible question. Better to ask what Gabriel would do, or one of the Scribes of Heaven. They would surely have some wonderful idea for a new angle to attack the text from that would force it to reveal its secrets, and not a moment too soon.

But Crowley would suggest going for a walk. Feeding the ducks. Getting something to eat.

It took ten minutes of searching to find a satchel, just the right size for the book. He slid the heavy tome inside and headed out.

--

“Seven, huh?” Eliza smiled, sliding the last tiropita into the customer’s bag. “Guess you like these.”

“Oh, yes, they’ve been my favorite mid-afternoon snack for the last two millennia.” The customer – she recognized him as the old man from the bookshop down the street, the one that was never open – seemed startled by his own joke. “Only they’ve been rather out of fashion in this part of the world until recently, so it’s nice to have them available again.”

“Right,” she smiled, punching the order into the till. “Well, I hope they’re as good as you remember.”

“Oh, the modern recipe doesn’t use nearly enough honey, but I find I enjoy them nonetheless.”

Weird bloke, she thought, fighting to keep her customer-service-smile in place. Probably harmless, though. “Going for a walk?”

“Yes, I’ve been rather caught up in a project, but I’ve made no progress on my translation for several days. I’m hoping a change of scenery will help.”

“Oh, translation, huh?” she showed him the total, and he handed her a few notes. “I’m taking German this year. Supposed to help with the grad program I want. What’s yours?”

“It’s a text of no known language that foils every attempt at decipherment,” he said as she counted out the change. “Furthermore, there is a curse upon it which could destroy half of London if tampered with.”

“Yeah.” She handed over the coins and bag, trying to make sense of that one. “My sister said the same thing about her Latin class, but she’s always been a bit mad.” Eliza glanced out at the sunny street, wishing her shift would end already. “Enjoy the weather.”

“I hardly think that possible, as I had a terrible fight with a very dear friend this morning, and I don’t believe he will talk to me again for quite some time. I would much rather it were raining, to suit my mood, but the nearest storm clouds are over France. Summoning them now will almost certainly have unforeseen consequences to the regional climate. Good day.”

He backed out of the shop and hurried up the street. Definitely weird. “Can I help who’s next?”

--

Up and down the streets of Soho he walked, unable to stop himself from talking.

Waiting for the light to change, he told a family how the Trojan War wasn’t entirely his fault, but things had gotten rather out of hand. “I never should have let him tell me the apple would make a good prank. My word, did everyone take it so seriously.”

Wandering past the duck pond, he explained to a confused group of students that, had he really known who Dante was, he never would have given the job to Crowley. “I just thought, poor chap needs a vacation, he’d had a terrible century, might as well spend a few weeks in Italy, all he has to do is go drinking with a poet and cheer him up a bit. And, frankly, if my orders were just a bit less Ineffable maybe I would have seen this coming!”

Sitting on a bench with an older couple, he tried to describe the outfits he and Crowley had worn in that church in 1941, though the couple seemed confused and kept interrupting to ask questions about the flowers or guests. “No, there weren’t any guests, just these awful people I thought I knew. But Crowley arrived and got me away from there, oh it was really something. Dancing all down the aisle.”

Leaning against the wall outside a bar, he pleaded with every passerby: “I wasn’t really thinking, I just – they didn’t have any way to protect themselves, it was going to be dark, and raining, and the lions. So, I handed over my sword. I didn’t mean to disobey. I didn’t mean to, I just – it was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?”

He didn’t pay attention to where he walked. But it was no surprise at all when he found himself in Mayfair, staring at a long black Bentley and a tall, modern block of flats.

--

His fist pounded on the door. “Crowley? Crowley, please.” Aziraphale knocked again. “Crowley, I just – I need to talk to you, please, I know you’re here.”

The door opened so suddenly, he nearly toppled in. Crowley scowled at him, blocking the entrance, hair slicked back once again. “Oh. Aziraphale. I don’t remember inviting you.”

“I know. I know, please, I – I need your help.”

“Oh, now you need my help? Is that how it’s going to be? I just sit around waiting until you need me—”

“Crowley, this is serious! Will you just listen?”

The demon leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms. “Go on then.”

“In…in the hallway?”

“Yes, in the hallway. Seems fitting.”

Aziraphale nodded, watching his own hands twist and wring against each other. “I deserve this, of course. After the frightful way I treated you, and not just this morning. So many times over the years—”

“Oh, spare me the passive-aggressive speech,” Crowley groaned. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

“I am, Crowley. This is what’s wrong. The – the curse. It’s started to affect me, quite – quite frightfully.”

He glanced up, just in time to see Crowley swallow. “Are you dying?” His voice was painfully neutral.

“No, nothing like that.” Yes, it was easier to address this whole conversation to his shoes. “I just…can’t seem to stop talking.”

“Well. It’s a terrible curse, but I’m sure you’ll survive somehow. If you’ll excuse me, Golden Girls is coming on—”

“It isn’t just that, Crowley, I can’t – I can’t lie.” Icy silence. “I’m compelled not just to speak, but to say the truth, the absolute truth. I’m finding it nearly impossible to conceal anything at all.”

He waited for the door to slam in his face.

“Get in, you idiot.”

Head jerking up, Aziraphale found that Crowley had stepped aside and opened the door wide. Nodding his thanks – knowing if he tried to voice them out loud, he’d say something he truly regretted – Aziraphale entered the flat.

--

He looked around in every direction, trying to avoid Crowley’s gaze. The demon was still tense, still leaning against the wall with arms crossed. “I say, this is the exact opposite of cozy,” Aziraphale commented cheerfully. “You seem to be missing nearly all your furniture. The walls are very white, aren’t they?”

“It’s called minimalism,” Crowley grunted. “You should try it.”

“Oh, is this the modern style of decorating?” There was a black sofa facing a television, a broad plain desk, the top of it a thin plate of glass, and an oddly shaped chair. A few pieces of sculpture were scattered around, though they didn’t seem to fit the general look of the place.

“It was. Bored with it now. Maybe go retro next, I don’t know.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale bit his tongue. He pulled off the satchel holding his book, placed it on the floor next to the sofa, trying to find something polite to say. He failed. “Only, it seems a very strange color choice, as it makes your whole flat rather look like—”

“Don’t say it,” Crowley snarled, pushing off from the wall.

“I can’t help it! I told you, I can’t seem to stop talking. Half of Soho now knows things about me I’ve never said before, and I just…I can’t stop.”

“Really?” he stalked forward. “So, if I asked you a question right now, you wouldn’t be able to lie, or avoid the subject or any of those other things you do?”

“Crowley, your expression right now does not at all make me feel safe.” He stepped back and closed his eyes. “But I suppose…yes, that’s fair. You can ask.”

“Oh, thank you for the invitation. Tell me, did you lie when you said you like having me around?”

“No, I…I think it had already begun to affect me.”

“Interesting.” Crowley’s voice was coming closer, but Aziraphale kept his eyes firmly shut. “Then you lied when you told me you wanted me to leave this morning?”

“No, of course not. I was quite incapable by then.” He stumbled back another step. “I knew letting you in the shop would be disastrous – not that I was fully aware what was going on – so it seemed the best thing was—”

“The best thing was to get rid of the demon, not to tell me that something was wrong? Bless it, Aziraphale, even when you tell the truth, you’re so – so twisted!”

“I didn’t – I don’t—” He stepped back and collided with the table; nowhere else to go. Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered open, and Crowley stood so close, towering over him, teeth bared, and the angel trembled like a mouse before a serpent. “It’s not that I like deceiving you, Crowley. I don’t. But I’m not – I don’t feel safe without them. My lies. I feel…exposed…naked…” He closed his eyes again. The words cut deep wounds across his heart.

“So, that’s why you didn’t trust me this morning? You don’t feel safe around me? What, do you think I’m going to take advantage of this? That I’m going to hurt you?”

“Of course not! I’m not afraid of you I’m—” He struggled to hold on to the one secret he had left. “Crowley, if I can’t break this curse by tomorrow, I’ll – I won’t be able to stop myself from telling Gabriel—”

“Telling him what?”

“That I love you!” The words tore through Aziraphale’s last layer of defense, shredding him, leaving him open to the world. He sobbed, leaning against the desk behind him, practically sitting on it as his legs gave way. “I love you, Crowley,” he repeated, much quieter. “You’re my best…you’re my only friend. And I love you so very dearly. And I can’t…can’t ever let anyone know…not even you...”

He heard something click onto the table beside him, and looked up to see Crowley, glasses gone, eyes brighter and wetter than Aziraphale had ever seen them. “There. Now we’re both naked,” he said softly.

“I’m…I’m sure this comes as – as something of a shock…”

Crowley chuckled. “What, that? I’ve known for centuries. Millennia, Angel. I just…I didn’t think you knew.” His hand slid up and cupped Aziraphale’s cheek, and the angel leaned against it, drawing on Crowley’s warmth and strength.

“I…I hid it, even from myself, for so long. I never let myself acknowledge…but, no, I’ve known since…the church. The bomb. Couldn’t really deny it after that.”

“And you know I…I feel the same.” His serpent eyes almost blinked. “That I have…for so long.”

“I hoped so?” Aziraphale’s voice was tight, straining. In Crowley’s movies, these conversations didn’t hurt. They were always full of laughter and smiles. Instead, Aziraphale felt torn to shreds, he felt raw, and he saw the same pain reflected in Crowley’s eyes. “I worried, every time I lied, that this would be the last straw, the thing that sent you away for good.”

“I’m not going to leave—”

“Sometimes I wished it would be. That you would just – just go. Because it would be…so much easier…”

“They would punish you, if they knew,” Crowley said slowly. “Hurt you. Make you Fall.”

“I don’t care about that.” Aziraphale felt the first tear slide down his cheek. “It’s not – I don’t lie, and hide, and shut you out to protect myself. They would destroy you, Crowley. And I would rather die than…than see you hurt…”

Suddenly, Crowley’s arms were around him, pulling him into a surprisingly strong embrace, one hand cradling the back of his head. “Oh, you stupid, stupid Angel. Don’t worry about me.”

“One of us has to.” Aziraphale pressed his face into the curve of Crowley’s neck, felt his arms slide across Crowley’s back. Pushed himself fully onto the desk so he could wrap his legs around Crowley’s, pull him close, keep him safe. “I will protect you, my dear Crowley. I will. Anything to keep you safe.”

“Aziraphale. I don’t – I just want you to trust me. Talk to me. Let me help you." The angel shook his head, burrowing deeper into Crowley's embrace. "We can keep each other safe. You don’t have to do everything on your own.”

“I…I don’t…I don’t want to be alone,” Aziraphale managed.

“You never will be. Let me be there for you.”

“Crowl—” he tried, but all that he managed was a throttled squeak. He nodded, face still buried in Crowley’s shoulder, and let himself be entwined - engulfed - absorbed in that love.

“Aziraphale,” his demon whispered after a moment. “I want to kiss you.”

“I…want you to…” Crowley’s hands cradled his face again, pulling him back until their eyes met, and oh, that look on Crowley’s face now hurt even more than the sappy, hopeful smile this morning. “But you can’t,” Aziraphale ground out, despite his raw throat, his heart straining to burst free.

“Why not?” He leaned closer, until Aziraphale could feel his warm breath.

“Because…my dearest…if you kiss me, I’m never going to stop.” Crowley chuckled. “No, I mean it. I love you. So much. Every moment that I’m not kissing you is a lie. It’s why I’ve been so blasted affectionate the last few days. I need - I’m compelled - to express my love. To say it. To show you, and it hurts to stop.”

“I can stop us.”

“We can’t risk it. I can’t. Not when it’s your life at stake.”

“That’s my choice.” The lips were so close, he could practically taste them already. If he just leaned forward the tiniest bit…

“Please,” Aziraphale begged. “Don’t.”

The hands holding Aziraphale’s face tightened – and tipped his head down, pressing his forehead against Crowley’s. “Alright, Angel. Anything you want.”

Aziraphale tried to find his breath again. He didn’t think his heart would ever stop hammering.

“And we will find a solution to this, Aziraphale. I’m not going to lose you now.”

“I don’t think you’re going to have much choice in the matter. I will betray us both. By tomorrow I won’t be able to resist telling everyone I’m madly in love with a gorgeous, kind, wonderful demon, whose soul sings like the sweetest music, whose heart burns with the passion of the stars, and – oh, there I go again.”

Crowley growled, playfully. “I’m not any of those things.”

“Well, I hardly could have lied, could I? So, it must be true.” Aziraphale sighed. His heart and head ached, he just wanted to sit here leaning against Crowley forever, but there were things to take care of. He let go, allowed Crowley to step away. “I’ve had no luck with the book at all.”

Crowley pressed his lips into a line. “I…I told you I asked around Hell. Not one word about this raid.”

“Well, it’s entirely possible they’re keeping it from you.” Aziraphale stood, stretching. “No offence, darling, but you’re not exactly a high-ranked demon. According to Gabriel, your side was quite soundly defeated. Perhaps they’re covering it up.”

“Yeah, maybe, but,” Crowley backed away, pressing a hand against his hair, smoothing non-existent fly-aways back into place. “Even then, they’d never keep it a secret for long. Any time one of the lords of Hell weakens, the others swarm like…like…some sort of…blood-thirsty insects…”

“Sharks.”

“Sharks aren’t insects,” Crowley reminded him.

“No, but they do swarm. Quite ravenously. You remember that film we saw.”

“I don’t think Deep Blue Sea is a documentary.” Crowley frowned, but without his glasses, Aziraphale could see how his eyes danced. “Anyway. Maybe someone low-ranked was trying to organize a coup but…doesn’t feel right.”

“Perhaps it was some sort of ruse,” Aziraphale considered. “Pretending to lose in order to get the book captured. That would mean,” he realized with alarm, “the text itself is false, entirely untranslatable. Just a way to lure a researcher in, while the curse takes effect. But who could it be intended for?” He began to pace, struggling to focus through the whirl of emotions. “It might make sense for the target to be one of the Archangels, but they don’t do their own research. And how did the demons plan to capture the angel, once the curse was fully developed?”

Crowley cleared his throat. “I, uh, I have an idea, but I…need to be sure first. I need to see the book.”

Aziraphale picked up the bag, but hesitated. “Gabriel told me not to let anyone touch it. I gave him my word.” His fingers brushed down the leather spine. “What if…being touched by a demon sets it off?”

“It won’t,” Crowley soothed, but didn’t reach for the book. “I know how to handle cursed objects. Do it all the time for Hell. And if I’m right…” He glanced down at the bag. “I’ll be careful, I swear.”

The book felt heavy in Aziraphale’s hands – heavier than any book had a right to – heavy enough to drag them both to destruction.

“I trust you, Crowley.” He held it out, letting the bag fall to the floor. “But. Be careful.”

The moment Crowley touched it, his golden eyes went wide. He quickly placed it on the desk, wiping his hand on his shirt. “Well, that’s…” He glanced at Aziraphale. “I’ll know by morning. Why don’t you get some rest? When was the last time you slept?”

“1941. The ride back from the church, remember?”

Aziraphale never slept, usually. But sometimes, on particularly thrilling days, days fraught with too many emotions, his mind would buzz, overstimulated, until it felt numb. Then, he would lie down and drift away, and wake in the morning feeling himself again.

He’d felt that edge of over-exhaustion as they walked out of the church fifty-eight years ago, terrified by the newly recognized emotion that had bubbled under the surface for so long. Crowley had brushed a finger across his forehead and invited him to sleep, and he’d dozed off in the passenger seat of the Bentley, feeling warm and protected in ways he’d never known, not in all the long eternities of his existence. He woke the next morning on the shop sofa, bag of books resting on the floor beside him.

He felt it again now, that exhaustion, and knew it would only get worse the longer he fought it.

“Come on. This time you can use a bed.” Crowley put an arm over his shoulders and steered him, past a room full of vibrant green plants, and into another as empty as the first. A single bed pressed into a corner, white duvet and black pillows; a plant in a white pot on a black bedside table. That was all.

“Honestly, Crowley, this is where you sleep? It’s so infernally drab I can’t imagine how you manage.” He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his shoes off.

“Eh, it’s fine. All bedrooms look the same with your eyes closed.”

When Aziraphale was comfortable under the thick duvet, Crowley sat on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing his forehead as they had in 1941. “Sleep, and dream of—”

“I’ll dream of you,” Aziraphale said. “Damned honesty curse. I always do, though.”

“Well, then.” Crowley leaned forward and pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s hairline, just for a fraction of a second. “Too much?”

“No, dear. Never.”

--

Crowley stood beside the bed in the dark.

He’d found his answer just before midnight. He knew who Aziraphale’s enemy was. A solution had already started to form in his mind, but it was a terrible thought.

Would Aziraphale believe him? Would he agree to what needed to be done?

Could Crowley go through with it?

No choice, he reminded himself. Aziraphale needs you. It was all he ever needed to steel his resolve.

“Angel.” He reached out and gently shook Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Time to wake up.”

“Crowley. C’m to bed.”

His heart rattled in his chest like a busted engine. “No, Aziraphale, we need—”

“Need you.” One eye opened just enough to reveal a gleam of blue. “Just…few hours. Let me have that. Please.”

Crowley wasn’t in the business of denying Aziraphale anything.

He lay down on top of the duvet, curled on his side to watch Aziraphale sleep. “Like this?”

The angel struggled a moment, until his arm came free, groping weakly in Crowley’s direction. “Can’t find you.”

“I’m coming.” Crowley wiggled closer, turning around until his back was pressed as close to Aziraphale as he could get it. The angel’s arm looped around, crossing his chest, pulling him closer, until his breath brushed warm on the back of Crowley’s neck. Until their hearts beat together. “How’s that?”

“Love you,” Aziraphale whispered. “Safe…” but soon he was asleep again.

Not long after, Crowley drifted off, into the best night’s sleep he’d ever had.

--

Aziraphale woke the next morning with Crowley in his arms.

He held Crowley and cried, quietly, his heart overflowing with love.

--

(Alright! One more long chapter to come, and it’s going to be another emotional rollercoaster. Look for it on AO3 or comment “tag” so I’ll tag you here!) @black-velvet-roses-tea @witchingwhovian

[his-mother-is-lightning]

If you enjoyed my nonsense about Aziraphale loving grad students then look no further, I have something even better.  That’s right, I have some ‘furiously doting Crowley’ shenanigans for you

- If you ask Crowley, he will say that he loves college kids because they’re an amazing source of bad ideas and poor decision making. They’re hormonal, stressed, and usually inebriated right at this pivotal moment in their lives - what more could a demon want? And best of all? It was programmed in humans at the very beginning. It was enough to make you wonder what a certain Someone was thinking when they made that decision.

- Aziraphale does not wonder. It’s part of the great Ineffable Plan. The reasoning will become clear to him… eventually. Hopefully.

- Many drunk students over the decades have stumbled out of a bar or party alone, miles away from their beds. They may notice a taxi cab idling just around the corner, light on, waiting for passengers. The window is open and the driver calls out to them as they pass by, offering them a ride home. When you wake up after a night of heavy drinking, you can’t expect to remember much of anything but you can’t help wondering how you paid or why the driver didn’t ask for their address. But with a massive hangover and some social damage control to do, it’s quickly forgotten

- Days or even weeks later, you will find a little business card tucked away in their bag or pocket is black with the words ‘Don’t Be An Idiot’ and the number of a cab company. This company will bring drunk young people home for free, thanks to charitable organization that funds the program. If pressed for details about this charity, the employee will offer to transfer you to the person in charge. You can listen to the tinny, musak cover of ‘Margaritaville’ as long as you want, it doesn’t matter. The call always drops.

- There are tiny slips of paper hidden all around the Fell & Co. bookshop. Between book pages, tucked underneath coasters, crumpled up at the back of a desk drawer. They are coupons, every one unique with its own uniquely hideous design. If you find one, you will be surprised to see that it’s 75%, 90%, off for college textbooks at your local (non-antiquarian) bookstore. It’s always your local bookstore, actually, regardless of where you live. [1]

- Crowley likes to remind everyone that he is a very mean, nasty demon who causes chaos and destruction wherever he goes. Aziraphale likes to remind him of that incident in the 1890s when a young theology student’s beau stormed into the store. He was shouting and threatening violence and shoving books onto the floor as he advanced on the poor, trembling student. It was obvious something had to be done but before Aziraphale could do anything, the awful man cried out in pain and started hopping on one foot, shouting about something biting him.

He still remembers the look on the students face (Jim? Or Jill, he can’t recall) when the brute screamed in terror as a long, black snake slithers across his chest and out behind his neck. There was a moment of shock before Jim or Jill burst out laughing. As the snake slithered down his arm to the shelf nearby, the whole store erupted in laughter. This snake avoided the human hands that tried to pet him, hissed at their cooing compliments and bared his fangs, but no one was afraid. Especially not when it took to napping on the table by the door and hissing at new customers.

- Crowley has no idea what the angel is talking about. On a completely unrelated note the student’s name was Meredith and they went on to teach a course on demonic symbolism in literature at Cambridge. Or so he heard.

- it’s not until the whole “Prepare to Die Fools you shall all peri-, psych! did you really think we were going to end the world? oh man, you should have seen your face” mess was over that Crowley spent any time in the bookshop when it was actually open. That is, not as a snake. It was only after they all didn’t die that Crowley came to the shop shaped like a person.

- those students that recognized the Bentley parked outside started to pack up. The man came inside, calling out ‘Angel’ and waving his hand vaguely in their direction. Suddenly, those students were very interested in staying for a while, maybe play games on their phone for a few minutes as a well deserved break. They returned to their work eventually, annoyed with themselves for procrastinating. Mugs of cocoa appeared, sloshing a little as they ‘thunk’ed onto their coasters. Mr. Fell had asked his friend to serve cocoa which he did as dramatically as possible, sneering at everyone and ‘thunk’ing mugs as loudly as possible. You might have been afraid of this angry man but you can see Mr. Fell in the background smiling fondly at his friend. That initial unease evaporates and you smile at the man. He makes a face and sticks out his tongue at you before turning away. If you noticed that tongue didn’t look normal, you decide it’s not important and go back to work.

1. Crowley invented coupons. The trick, he had explained to the brainless masses of hell during his bi-annual progress report, was the expiration date. You get the human’s hopes up, they think that they’re going to save a little money. Feel oh-so-clever until WHAM. It’s past the expiration date. Humans are so easily distracted. they forget all about it until it’s too late. And there’s that lovely moment of frustration when they find it at the bottom of their bag, reminding them it’s all their fault. It’s just like when one sidewalk segment is slightly taller than the other - a little nudge of anger and frustration ripples outwards all day, passing from one angry human to another. And they do it to themselves!

Hell had not appreciated Crowley’s idea about the sidewalk pavers, and considered the coupon-scheme too complicated to have any real affect. In protest, Crowley invented the manufacturers coupon but that went south quickly, arguments and fights breaking out faster than he predicted. Heaven quickly retaliated and invented the gift card. At this point, it is considered a draw with no points to either side.

#az fell & co #valued customers tag #bc students are the only costumers aziraphale wants in his shop #crowley misses the kids during holidays#but then they bring xmas gifts #crowley tries to make some scathing comment about commercialism and jesus' actual birthdate #but a bunch of them pooled their money together to buy crowley a nice big rock to sun on #err #not for crowley #for the snake #it's a snake gift #for snakes #who miss sunning out in the Garden# i'm not crying angel #you're crying #shut up

[snek-snuggles]

A band au where nice demons are in a grudge/rock band with FemCrowley as the lead singer and the FemZira who recently broke off from their band and is going solo with a Hozier like vibe songs. The recording company is late so the demons have to wait and watch Zira until she gets done and Crowley falls in love with her voice. Zira is curious about their band and stays behind to listen.

This is a really great idea but my brain rearranged it a bit and well...here, havve some Crowley and Aziraphale in separate bands who hate each other. 

Aziraphale sits at the mic, listening to the playback of her most recent take. The rest of the band is on break, standing around and gossiping quietly while she continues to try to get the second verse right like she wants it. 

The album deadline was quickly approaching, and they were nowhere near ready. The label had already extended the deadline once, she couldn’t stand the thought of asking again. And nothing was right- they still had three more songs they had yet to even attempt a rough cut for, one of them wasn’t even technically fully written. Half the album still needed to be mastered, and no one could seem to focus long enough to sit down and give a serious take on the song they were trying to record now. 

The band’s first album had been an absolute smash success. After that, the res tof the group had really stopped trying. They seemed to be under the impression that they were too talented to have to try anymore; and thus, what they did have done was, in actuality, utter garbage. And Aziraphale was well aware- her lyrics could only carry them so far. She tried to put that to the back of her mind for now. If they didn’t finish the album, there would be no contract renewal. And without that, she would have to go back to what she was doing before, using any means just to get a few square meals a day. 

Suddenly, there was a high-pitched commotion in the hallway. Akin to cats, or nails on a chalkboard. Screaming and shouting erupted into the studio, as a few members of The Sisterhood came barging in. The tall one, the redhead who sang lead, tried to calm everyone down, pulling her drummer off of Gabby, the keyboardist to Aziraphale’s band Beneficence. 

The redhead leaned into the speaker and pressed the button, interrupting the playback and speaking into Aziraphale’s headphones in a genuine-sounding apologetic tone, “Sorry love, your time’s up. We’ve got the studio booked from four on today.” Her Liverpool accent thicker than ever. 

That can’t be, Aziraphale thinks. Bernie promised them the studio all day. She put down her acoustic guitar and stood, intent on figuring this out. But as she stood, the two bands continued to fight and brawl viciously back out into the hall. Aziraphale tried to reply, but she couldn’t be heard over the screaming. The redhead seemed to have had enough, slamming the door shut and blocking them all out.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said Bernie promised me the whole day. Can you check the schedule for me?”

“Course, love.”

The tall one picks up the phone, dialing down to the front desk and asking for the schedule. The fighting continues outside as Aziraphale tries to breathe deeply. If they lose the space today, they stand no chance of finishing on time. 

“Right...right. Yeah, right. Cool. Thanks Karen.”

She hangs up the receiver, turning in the chair to face Aziraphale.

“Sorry, then. Our bad- it’s all yours. We’re across the hall.”

“Oh, oh good. Oh, thank you.” Aziraphale sits down, closing her eyes and breathing in relief. She looks towards the hallway, and back at the clock. Four already, and almost no progress today. She bites at her lip, desperately trying to hold back the tears that have been heavy behind her eyes all day. 

The other woman sees, though. She rolls closer to the sofa where Aziraphale sits, head in hands, and puts a gentle hand to her knee. 

“Alright, sweetheart?”

Aziraphale snaps, “I’m not your sweetheart!” And then immediately bursts into sobbing hysterics. The redhead moves to the sofa, the two of them folding together into an embrace as Aziraphale cries. The redhead soothes at her back and holds her gently, stroking her hair. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry,, that was rude. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I appreciate your kindness, I do.”

“Somethings’s not right then, yeah? You wanna tell me about it?”

“Oh, it’s just...we’re nowhere near done and we’re almost out of time. Everyone expects an even better album then the last one, and no one wants to put in the effort. It all falls on me, since they’re my songs, and if I lose our contract I’ll have to go back to...”

“Back to...?”

“Well...it was very unpleasant. Let’s just leave it there. I can’t, I can’t go back, we have to do better, and no one...seems to care, they’re all too busy-” She gestures towards the door. The sound of a smashing bottle startles her, cringing against the redhead’s shoulder. 

“It’s awful of me, but sometimes I wish I could just...just...”

“Make your own shit?”

Aziraphale sighs, wiping her nose. The redhead dabs at her eyes, trying not to smudge her mascara. 

“Yes.”

“yeah, me too. I love them, but none of them are serious about it. I put so much into the music, but no one writes anything worth half a listen to sing with it. I’m Crowley, by the way.”

“Aziraphale.”

Crowley takes a long look at her. Bright, blue eyees, long blonde hair. Dressed in pastels and flowing layers. She’s heard their stuff, it’s not half bad (although her band mates sure love to trash their music). Aziraphale sings like an angel and her lyrics are straight poetry. And here she is, breaking down in Crowley’s arms, on a gross old sofa in a rented studio on Sunset. 

Crowley gets up- Aziraphale assumes she’s leaving. But she locks the door instead. 

“I’m in the same boat, ya know. But fuck them- do you wanna write something? With me, jsut for fun?”

Aziraphale looks at her with confusion. Crowley is dressed in black jeans and a black t-shirt, with scary looking metal chains on her jewelry and these big black leather boots. Her hair is pushed back messily, and she looks like she hasn’t slept in days. Why would she want to write with me? Aziraphalle wonders.

But she hasn’t written seriously with anyone who actually wanted to be there in months, and right now she can’t stand the thought of trying another take at that other song.

“Yes, alright.”

They sit on the floor of the studio, talking and writing for several hours. Crowley pulls out a bottle of wine, hidden behind a false panel in the wall. “Put that there last year, thought it might come in handy someday.” They pass it back and forth, swigging from the bottle (Aziraphale tries to be prim about it, but as she relaxes, she takes bigger, less delicate pulls from the bottle neck. 

Eventually, they notice the screaming has stopped. They call out for Chinese late tha tnight, and finish the song back at Crowley’s place as the sun rises. 

In the morning, they both go back to their bands. But after their contracts both end a few months later, the two sign to a new label as a duo, and release their first single. 

They become synonymous with sapphic love songs infused with a bbit of edge, and catch the attention of Hoxier’s management, who book them to open for the UK and european legs of his next tour. 

(yeah...I might have to add this to my writing list.)