#JFSP 9 spoilers

[timespanner]

"Since you insist upon asking me, Gally, I don't have the least use for the whole silly business. Leaves me entirely cold."

— John Finnemore's Souvenir Programme, s09e06

[lothiriel84]

I mean, I don't think I'm ever going to write actual fanfic about it, but (spoilers for JFSP 9 under the cut)

I have been projecting my own aversion to having kids onto Uncle Newt so hard I cannot reconcile myself with the (equally valid) headcanon some people have of him regretting being unable to reveal himself/act like a father towards Vanessa.

It's not to say that I cannot see the appeal of him sacrificing his own happiness for Gally and Susanna's sake, and bearing it all with quiet dignity; but I have a mighty need for "absolutely against having kids and still a good person" representation, and if I were a better writer (and a much better understander of human nature) than I am, I absolutely would write something about it.

[lothiriel84]

A Nightingale sang

It starts with a record.

A Good Omens 2/JFSP 9 crossover. Spoilers for Good Omens season 2 and John Finnemore's Souvenir Programme series 9.

It starts with a record.  

(If you ask Nina, it all started a week before, with the uncommonly tall bloke sitting in a corner of her coffee shop, quietly snickering to himself as if to a joke no one else was in on. He asked for a black tea, and refused to take off his hoodie the entire time he was there.) 

Maggie leaves it on his doorstep early one morning, but he does not pick it up until late afternoon the following day, as he’s been working his way through several bottles he pilfered from the bookshop after Aziraphale – after he left, and he’s nothing if not meticulous in his self-appointed task. He’s nowhere near as drunk as he wishes to be, but at least it’s a start, and he’s got half a mind to go back and polish off the rest of the Angel’s alcoholic reserve when he trips on the record and face-plants right onto his Unwelcome Mat.  

For a whole thirty-four seconds he thinks about crushing the blessed thing, post-it addressed to him and everything. Then he shoves it under his jacket and snaps himself right in the middle of the bookshop, and he must look about as terrible as he feels, for even Muriel thinks better of doing so much as opening their mouth.  

“Right,” he mutters to himself, not quite as steady on his feet as he would have liked to believe. “Where’s the thing? The thing you play the – thing, on.” 

Muriel shoots him a careful look, their eyes lingering on the vinyl he’s holding onto for dear life. “Oh! You mean the gramophone, yes?” they offer, helpfully. “It’s over there, right where – where it’s always been, I mean.” 

Crowley grumbles something that might be anything from a word of thanks to a curse, and flops into the armchair – record slipping from numb fingers and very obediently landing onto the gramophone, which starts playing all by itself. Judging from the sound quality, it’s quite an old recording, and not a professionally made one, either. It’s a two-minute-and-a-half duet, something or other about two idiots in love too stupid to figure out each other’s feelings, and it feels pretty twisted a joke for someone so sweet and naïve as Maggie to play on him.  

“Well, fuck,” he says, and immediately must fight the impulse to apologise for using such language in Muriel’s presence. They’re a grown-ass angel, for Satan’s sake, he reminds himself amid the alcoholic fog that’s clouding his human brain. Stop thinking of them as if they were some sort of Lost Child out of Peter Pan. 

He snaps himself back into his flat, throws himself onto the sofa, and decides he might as well sleep off the worst of his hangover. When he wakes up three weeks later, his head is still throbbing, and there’s someone in his flat. 

“Who the Heaven are you?” he demands quite brusquely, pretends not to notice the knowing smile playing on the human’s lips. “How is it even possible you managed to get in?” 

“Oh, He let me in,” she shrugs, pushing a glass of water within his reach. Crowley glares at it for a long moment, then proceeds to down it in one go. “He gets everywhere, as you must know.” 

“Stop speaking in riddles, and just – get out,” he all but growls, and that’s when he feels the blasted record jabbing at his side. “And take this blessed thing with you, while you’re at it.” 

The woman’s eyes suddenly light up, and it’s a matter of moments before she snatches the record from his grasp. “I had no idea there were any physical copies of our songs still in existence,” she smiles fondly, her long fingers tracing the handwritten cover with something akin to reverence.  

“Oh, so you’re one half of Midnight & Noone, I take it?” he snorts, somewhat uncharitably. “Sold many records, did you?” 

“Not a one,” she grins. “Susanna had this done for my birthday, you see, and it used to be my most prized possession, before it got lost during the War.” 

“Ah, so you’re,” he trails off, not quite sure if he wishes for his brain to fully catch up. 

“Dead, yes. Eighty-four years and counting.” 

Crowley pinches at the bridge of his nose, feeling a migraine coming on. “Why are you here, then?” 

“He said I might as well leave early, to avoid the rush.” 

“Fuck,” he says, again, but does not experience any particular urge to apologise this time. “Still does not explain why you’re here, though.” 

She shrugs. “He said that was for you to figure out.” 

“Oh, for Satan’s sake,” he mutters under his breath, and point-blank decides he’s way too sober for this. “I need a drink.” 

“Jolly good,” she calls after him. “Be a darling and make it a large whisky for me, will you?” 

Crowley lets out a string of curses in some long-forgotten language, but still brings out a bottle of the best. “Let’s be crystal clear,” he enunciates at length, half-full tumbler dangling from his fingers. “You said Azrael spoke of it as of you ‘leaving early’; does that mean –” 

“The Second Coming, yes.” 

“Fuck.” 

“Well, quite,” she agrees, and downs the rest of her whisky. “Ah, that was good. They haven’t got any booze up there, you see.” 

“I can imagine,” he says, tone as dry as the scotch he’s sipping at. He tries very hard not to look like someone who’s been digging his nails in his palm the whole time, just to physically stop himself from asking about him. (And by that, he does not mean Azrael, of course.) 

“My brother says he misses you, too,” she tells him offhandedly, and he drops his glass. He watches it smashing to pieces, too stunned to do anything about it, booze spilling everywhere. 

“I don’t think I ever had the pleasure,” he replies somewhat blankly, pushing his sunglasses up his nose. “Must have been a lovely chap, I presume.” 

“Don’t play dumb with me,” she scoffs, waving off his pathetic attempt at deflection. “I know what it’s like to pretend to be something you���re not, day in day out, for the entirety of your life.” 

“You know nothing,” he spits back, jumping to his feet as if he cannot keep still a moment longer. “And there’s no point in either of us pretending anymore. He made that very clear the last time we spoke.” 

“Yes, but did he?” 

“Listen,” he warns her, too tired even to be properly furious at Azrael for playing such a trick on him. “I don’t know why he sent you here, and I do not care. I want you gone, this instant.” 

“Or what? You’ll drop a bomb on me, again?” 

Crowley blanches, his mind immediately drifting to that blessed church and the bag of books dangling from a not-so-dead man’s fingers. “When did you –” 

“Leeds, 1939,” she promptly fills in, as if talking about the weather. “Sometimes, you’ve got to stop running, figure out what matters the most, and take a stand for it,” she adds. “No matter the cost.” 

Fuck, Crowley thinks, but doesn’t say. He won’t break down and cry in front of a human, for Hell’s sake – not even one that’s been dead for as long as she has. 

“Is your brother,” he starts, stops, thinks better of it. “How do I even get in touch?” 

The woman shrugs, even as she pours herself another glass. “You look like a smart fellow – when you’re not in your cups, that is. I’m sure you’ll work something out.” 

Muriel. Of course. He grabs his jacket and his car keys, more out of habit than anything else, and he’s halfway to the door when he remembers the human still curled on his favourite armchair.  

“Make yourself at home,” he tells her, and he knows he’s babbling, but he’s way past caring. “Just – don’t mess with my plants, will you? I’ll be back – sometime before the End, I hope.” 

“Jolly good,” she calls over her shoulder, and as he shuts the door firmly behind him, he could almost swear he can hear her singing. 

[lothiriel84]

Poll containing spoilers for JFSP series 9 under the cut:

[timespanner]

[made by Twitter user @_jamiehumphries]

[lothiriel84]

[timespanner]

(thread)