#and I should learn the proper demarcations of sound in the words so I can sing it more nicely and without my usual stumblemumble

[chiropteracupola]

regular achievable plans (what if we learned a language simply because we wanted to get better at cataloguing different versions of johnny has gone for a soldier/siúil a rún...)

[cinebration]

Cordial (Napoleon Solo x Reader) [Part 15]

Solo takes you on an excursion.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Epilogue

Tagged: @ly--canthrope, @maan24, @eefjedegraaf, @omgkatinka, @tiffanypooh, @ramenyul, @crispysublimecupcake, @cavillhavoc, @martinafigoli, @illbegoinhome​

Warnings: none

Gif Source: chrs-evanss

Solo knocked on your bedroom door shortly before nine. The morning sun slanted into the building through the window behind him, backlighting him in fuzzy, weak tones at that hour. He wore a turtleneck, slacks, and a light jacket for the excursion.

The door opened.

Solo smiled as charmingly as he could.

Your lip curled up into a sneer. “It’s early.”

“Early bird gets the worm and all that,” he answered, though he noted bags still ringed your eyes.

The nightmares, he guessed, his gut twisting.

He kept the smile in place, however, and stepped into the room, slightly crowding you to do so. You grunted in dismay.

Sweeping his gaze around the room, Solo saw the tangled sheets. You still wore your nightclothes, your hair tousled and matted on several sides. Evidently it was still too early, jet lag and your fitful sleep rendering you poorly rested.

Setting these observations aside, Solo went to the closet and found what he was looking for: your suitcase. Placing it at the foot of the bed, he unzipped it and flipped it open, searching with deft hands through the articles stored therein.

“What are you doing?”

“Finding you appropriate outerwear,” he stated. He removed some of the clothes as he shifted toward the bottom of the suitcase.

“Hey,” you snapped, “I have a system.”

“I’ll put it back how I found it.” He pulled out a thin sweater and matching slacks. “Put these on.”

“No.”

Sighing through his nose, he said, “We’re going to the country. I can take you in your pajamas if you’d like.” He glanced at his watch. “If we’re going to make it back in time for the flight, we need to leave now.”

He extended the clothes to you. You frowned, a muscle in your temple twitching as you clenched your teeth, before snatching the outfit out of his hand and stomping over to the bathroom.

Pleased, Solo replaced everything back in the suitcase as he had found it—as promised. As he shut it, something slid in the front pocket. Frowning, he glanced over his shoulder at the closed bathroom door before unzipping the compartment.

Inside he found a sketchbook. Flipping it open, he discovered pencil and ink sketches of Kuryakin and Gaby. Even one of Waverly. The last sketch was of the three of them, Team U.N.C.L.E.: Kuryakin, Gaby, and himself. Gaby lounged in a chair with her arms crossed, peering over sunglasses, while Kuryakin stood behind her, somehow soft despite his imposing figure. Solo stood slightly apart, one hand in his pocket. He leaned against a railing, a coy smile dancing on his lips. He swore he could see mischief in his own sketched eyes.

Several pages had been torn out of the book. Solo’s fingers brushed the torn edges where they had been ripped free of the binding.

The faucet in the bathroom squeaked on. Solo slipped the sketchbook back into the suitcase pocket, zipped everything shut, and replaced the suitcase in the closet.

Leaning against the bureau, he mulled over the missing pages, wondering what you were trying to hide.

~~

The drive into the country took almost two hours. Solo gave up trying to draw you into conversation when your monosyllabic answers turned into sounds rather than words. Instead, he hoped the lush countryside would buoy your spirits—or at least smooth your prickly exterior.

He pulled into a secluded spot demarcated by a dirt road. A wood of widely spaced trees rose up around the car at the end of the road.

Climbing out of the car, Solo retrieved something from the trunk as you stepped out into the fresh air and late morning sun. Solo watched you inhale deeply, the tension in your shoulders lessening as you tipped your head up to the sun filtering through the trees. It flowed about your face in a medieval halo, made all the brighter by the scarf.

Solo eased the trunk shut. You glanced at him sharply, the spell broken.

“What are we doing here? Is this where you bury the bodies?”

“Why would I take you to a burial site?”

“Why do you do anything? For your own pleasure.”

Gritting his teeth, Solo schooled his piqued pride and started walking down a faint path through the wood. Reluctantly, you trailed after him.

At the end of the short path stood a small wooden table warped by exposure. Beyond it were cutouts shaped into the silhouettes of men riddled with holes.

Solo set the small case he carried on the table and flipped open the latches.

“Shooting,” you said, incredulity lining your voice.

“Yes. I thought you should learn how.” Solo lifted the pistol out of the case. “To protect yourself.”

Silence.

Solo glanced over his shoulder at you. You stared at the pistol as he placed it on the table. Something flickered across your weary features.

“This is ridiculous,” you said. Your voice shook slightly.

“After what happened, you should know how to defend yourself.”

“That won’t help me. It wouldn’t have helped me then!”

“It might in the future.”

“I don’t intend to be in a position like that again.”

Solo sighed through his nose again, closed his eyes while he struggled to remain calm. “You can’t account for everything.”

“I know what this is. This is because you feel guilty, and you’re hoping it’ll make you feel better if you teach me this.” Your voice rose a notch. “But you should feel guilty.”

Your words cut through him. Jaw clenching, Solo stared at you, his irritation exploding into exasperation, compounded by the truth of your words.

“I’m trying to help you,” he managed to say in level tones.

“You’re trying to help yourself.”

“That doesn’t mean you should deny yourself this information. It could make a difference.”

You stared him down. Solo stood his ground, trying to convey an imploring expression. It fell flat, too infrequently used to seem sincere. A conflicted look passed over your own face as your attention slid back to the gun.

You stalked over to him abruptly. “Show me.”

Breathing a sigh of relief inwardly, Solo walked you through the steps: load magazine, chamber round, unclick the safety. Proper stance and grip. He tried to reach around you to position you.

You shoved him off. “Just show me.”

“It’s easier if I—”

“I’m not one of your conquests. Your charms don’t work on me, because I know they’re just a shell.”

The dam within him broke. “It isn’t me living in a shell. It’s you.”

You laughed harshly. “Hardly.”

“Do you know what your problem is? You demand control because you are terrified. You’re in over your head.”

You jerked back as though he had hit you. The words hung suspended in the air, scathing.

Solo realized he was breathing heavily, his body taut with emotion. He couldn’t relax. Even in this position, he was still beholden to your response, as though you still had the reins.

For a moment, he saw the fear in your eyes, the hurt laid open to his stare. He felt the tension flee his body, taking with it the anger. Guilt and shame swept into place in its wake.

The iron curtain slammed back over your face. Somehow, the blank look—you shutting down—was worse than the terror he had glimpsed.

“Take me back.”

The words hurt more than Solo thought they could. He packed up the gun and drove you back to headquarters in silence.

[mishaelle-starsong]

A Tuneless Requiem

Scarred, callused fingers played over the harp strings with little direction, lofting gentle disharmonies into the air. She could have made something from them, could have chosen a piece to play, but why? There was no audience to please, no events worth praising. Something for Elune, perhaps? No, nothing for the goddess. The Moon received her worship in the aspect of the Night Warrior now, and Star had left offerings all over Darkshore.

The coincidental unsong continued unabated, doing little but providing a focusing outlet. Her mind was… not what it once was, she supposed. Not a deterioration of function; rather she felt the edges sharpening again. She'd been mostly feral in the past. As the remnants of "civilizing" fell away, she knew she was becoming so again. I shouldn't let myself go. It was a thought she acknowledged without necessarily agreeing to. There were reasons to be wary, yes, but they were few.

A sudden confluence of notes produced a chord she thought she recognized, sliding her play into a learned pattern before she noticed what was happening. The song was an old one, full of meaning, though she couldn't recall the proper name anymore. The words escaped her as well, though they felt on the edge of her consciousness. She couldn't blame them for being evasive: most of her mind was being drawn back through years of memory.

Most of what she saw was painful. Vae was there, her quiet strength filling the space in her mind that was now vacant in her heart. A decade wasn't much in the span of a Kaldorei lifetime, but their decade had meant more to her than any other. It hurt, but she let the memories in anyway. A little suffering was fine; what was a life without it?

"Do you remember how we met?" The voice was clear in her mind, a perfect crystallization of Vae's gentleness. "You arrived in Shattrath such a mess, covered in blood and mostly incoherent. Your friend was there, too, though she seemed in much better shape. You said you'd jumped out a window, using your own body to cushion her landing. None of us knew why you'd done it, and you never did explain…"

The story went on, flowing over and through her, narrated by the most important voice in her life and one she expected to never hear again. There had been some flirting, of course; back then Star had done so regularly and one's options became extremely limited while recovering from a broken leg. It had become more than that, of course. The drift from joking to hesitant to serious had taken nearly a year. She'd told Vae her real name shortly after that, providing a clear demarcation of the change in status.

"Misha," said the voice, laughter clear in the way the name was formed, "aren't we such a pair? Both too stubborn for our own good, intent on keeping even the worst promises we make, no matter how they hurt us. Oh, mush'al, we're the most perfect fools, aren't we?"

Star nodded slowly, a tear escaping her good eye. How long since she'd been called mush'al, beloved, in their shared tongue? How long since she'd heard it without the heartache caused by her actions? How long since--

She twitched aside, the arrow burying itself in the thick wood of the harp. Others were coming, she knew, but this was nothing to her. Star was rolling, turning, evading, even as she calculated the source.

"Very rude of you," she said, loud enough to be heard, "to interrupt a private performance with violence. I suppose undeath shouldn't be expected to improve manners, should it?"

Another arrow missed, narrowly; the next deflected from her blade.

"Come now, sister, surely you have something to say. I would like to hear it before I kill you. Believe it or not, I do care about our fallen." She paused to deal with a barrage of projectiles, weapons blurring with the speed of her movement. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

"You left us to die," came the accusation, twisted and hollowed out by the cruelties of undeath. "Keep your lies."

Under the hatred was something recognizable, something she'd heard years before. Familiarity. Where? When? She let her memory range as she continued her circuitous trek.

"Is that you, Myrastra? No, you don't have to answer, I know it is. Do you recognize my voice? It's understandable if not, we've both been through so much since then." Incongruously, she found herself laughing. "I guess we could say the same for the stronghold, too. Just a washed out ruin off the coast now. Rebuilt or not, it's not the same. The new one isn't really home for us, is it?"

The growl was quiet, off to one side, not as distant as before. It preceded the creak of a bow being drawn, also barely audible, providing better direction. Star dove from the ruined building in the opposite direction, fractional seconds ahead of the next volley.

"Shandris spoke highly of you. I should have been more open with my praise, too. I wasn't good at it then." Another chuckle. "Not that I'm any better now, but I sometimes manage to recognize when someone deserves to be told something clearly rather than assuming they know. I was never a good leader like that."

"Then shut up," the risen Sentinel hissed, an arrow accompanying her words. "Shut up and die."

Star ignored the request. "I can help you, you know. Not give back your old life, but at least free you from this one. It's bad enough to find yourself enslaved by the foolish descendants of the Highborne who fled rather than be reasonable. I can only imagine what it must be like to have them be undead as well. The levels of abomination are striking, no?"

A snarl, filled with words. "You're hardly one to talk, Illidari. How you even found time to betray us is-"

"Shut your fool mouth, Astra." Even she was surprised at the anger in her voice. "I'm as Illidari as you are Azshari."

Conversation paused briefly, arrows providing their own input.

"These runes," Star continued, "are not a sign that I follow the Betrayer. I helped recapture him, you know, and would have gladly removed his head given the chance. My tattoos exist because, like you, I would do anything to save our people and this world. Others fought the Legion. With these markings? I destroyed the Legion."

The fallen Sentinel was silent then, though her bowstring continued to sing. She was nearly in position. Star decided to delay her death, hoping to get through first. She owed one of Shandris's troops that much.

"You died for our home, as did so many before you. I sacrificed the only happiness I've known since the Sundering to keep this world whole. We share the same commitment, Astra, the same goal. I just haven't been twisted to serve the Blighter."

"I serve no one!" The cry of denial would have been more believable if the accompanying shot had been remotely steady.

"You're doing what Sylvanas wants," Star went on, "even after she burned Teldrassil. She poisoned our lands and murdered our families, and now you help her make it even worse. You can't blame this on being 'betrayed', Myrastra. Every one of us knows we may have to give our lives in defense of our people. I'm sorry you died like that, but don't make it worse."

She found shelter in the moonshadow of a great tree, waiting. No sound from her opponent for a minute, then another and another. Nothing at all until the keening wail split the darkness, standing every hair on Star's body on end. Hardened as she was, it still put a shiver down her spine. Beneath the cry, though, she heard something else and something more: the latter was regret, the former a bowstave snapping.

The one-eyed warrior rushed over to the risen Kaldorei, ready to kill at the slightest hint of deception. Myrastra was on her knees, staring into the sky without seeing, clutching at her eyes. Bloodless furrows had been gouged into the flesh of her face; the curls of skin were still stuck under her fingernails.

"Astra," she said as gently as she knew, "it's not your fault."

The blank gaze lowered to her, the undead expression still one of shock. "I… let her make me one of them," she whispered, horrified. "I became one of them. A tool, a… a traitor. Goddess help me, I…"

She trailed off, leaving it to Star to put more words between them. "You're not the only one. But you're not a traitor. You didn't get a choice. What she did to you is… irredeemable, but that doesn't mean you are."

Myrastra shook her head, unfocused once more. "I can't. I don't know what's happening anymore, I'm losing it all suddenly, I… who are you?" Her voice lowered further. "Who am I?"

"You're Sentinel Captain Myrastra Duskarbor, one of General Shandris Feathermoon's officers. You're a skilled archer, a good leader, someone your troops can look up to."

"No, I… I don't think that's right. I'm… I'm fairly certain, actually, that I… that I… that-"

A softer heart would have been caught offguard then, but Star had never been one of those. Whatever cruel magic Astra had broken free of reasserted itself, contorting her features once more into a mask of hate. She ignored the undead Kaldorei's dagger entirely, twisting so as to let it get buried and stuck in the part of her side where it would do the least damage. That left her free to cleanly separate the head and body with a quick stroke of her sword.

She cleaned her blades and sheathed them before removing the dagger, grunting as it pulled free. Star held it out without looking, knowing her constant companion was nearly there. "I don't think it's poisoned, Ora, but you should check to be sure. There's no burning indicating it, and most of the time they only apply it to arrows anyway, but assumptions get people killed."

The young druid resumed her elven form to take the weapon, turning her focus toward its bloody blade. "I sense no toxins on this or in your blood upon it. What about your wound, Shan'do? Shall I heal it?"

Star glanced down then back to her peculiar apprentice. "No, I don't think so. The runes would likely interfere and it won't slow me down while it heals."

"But it may leave blood that would allow us to be followed."

"Very true. Excellent thinking." She didn't smile but her eye reflected the approval. "No healing, though, we'll just burn it closed."

Orellanine nodded. "Will we also burn her?" She pointed to the decapitated remains.

Star shook her head, sighing. "No. We'll… I'll carry her with us and we'll make sure she's properly dedicated to Elune. Myrastra deserves that much for breaking through. I almost regret killing her."

Ora didn't ask why. Star didn't elaborate.

[ryanbaines]

Book Text

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fILORBS9DwA

We all come to stop signs and stops signs and the rules of stopping its not just the law its not just the rule it’s a way of life. But it fools a lot of drivers, what most drivers do is that they slow down enough so that they won't get a ticket. But in reality that’s not the whole purpose of it, its not just about law, its about observation, its about right of way. If you take a stop sign as a stop sign and then I'm going to check to see if it's clear I can look for cars I have to look for a cyclist I have to look for pedestrians especially the little ones. If we think about looking to see if it's clear first we probably going to stop, and its not about getting a ticket it's about making sure everything is safe, for people who only slow down, its not a slow and go its actually if they are slowing down they are not thinking about stopping. So if there’s a problem they won’t stop for it because they thinking about going to the rule of thumb is be safe. But part of being safe is following the rules and thinking about what-ifs, what if a pedestrian step out, what if a car comes out, you got to be prepared to stop not be prepared to go. It’s not a go sign it’s a stop sign

Scott Marshal

https://www.nytimes.com/2011/12/11/magazine/stop-sign.html?_r=0

In the early automobile age, American streets existed in a Hobbesian. “Not only were the streets in those days completely disgusting and filthy, but there were horses and bicycles, and it was just completely chaotic,” says Joshua Schank, C.E.O. of the Eno Transportation Foundation, whose namesake and founder, William Phelps Eno, is widely credited with conceiving the stop sign at the turn of the 20th century.

At a time when there were no driver’s licenses, speed limits or clear lane demarcations, the notion of a stop sign was revolutionary. In fact, aside from the occasional road markers letting riders on horseback know how far they were from the next city, there was no road or street signage at all. Eno, scion of a wealthy New England family who never learned to drive, helped change all that. In a 1900 article titled “Reforming Our Street Traffic Urgently Needed,” for Rider and Driver magazine, he proposed placing stop signs at intersections. It was a civilizing notion.“That was a new concept and really did introduce the idea that you had to watch out for other people,” Schank says.

Eno became a key figure in a traffic-control awakening that would make great strides in the early 20th century. In 1911, a Michigan road got a centerline. In 1915, Cleveland received an electric traffic signal. Detroit, the center of the automobile industry, is credited with installing the first proper stop sign that same year. According to Schank, it took the form of a 2-by-2-feet sheet of metal with black lettering on a white background.

We have the Mississippi Valley Association of State Highway Departments to thank for the stop sign’s iconic shape. In 1923, the association developed an influential set of recommendations about street-sign shapes whose impact is still felt today. The recommendations were based on a simple, albeit not exactly intuitive, idea: the more sides a sign has, the higher the danger level it invokes. By the engineers’ reckoning, the circle, which has an infinite number of sides, screamed danger and was recommended for railroad crossings. The octagon, with its eight sides, was used to denote the second-highest level. The diamond shape was for warning signs. And the rectangle and square shapes were used for informational signs.

It took a bit longer to determine the stop sign’s color. It wasn’t until 1935 that traffic engineers created the first uniform standards for the nation’s road signage, known as the Manual on Uniform Traffic Control Devices. It was 166 pages long and recommended a yellow stop sign with black letters. The 1954 revision, however, called for the stop sign to be red with white letters, in step with the color-coding system developed for the railroad and traffic signals. “Red has always been associated with stop,” Hawkins explains. “The problem was they could not produce a reflective material in red that would last. It just was not durable until companies came up with a product in the late ’40s, early ’50s.”

Today the stop sign is so ingrained in the collective international driving culture that some experts are, counterintuitively, recommending doing away with it entirely. (Ejby, Denmark; Ipswich, England; and Ostend, Belgium, are already experimenting with a post-stop-sign world.) “The theory is that people will pay more attention to pedestrians and other vehicles and slow down in pedestrian areas if there are no signs because they won’t know what to do,” Schank says. “That wouldn’t be possible if [Eno] hadn’t first introduced the stop sign.”

https://www.drivingtesttips.biz/stop-road-signs.html

WHY ARE THERE STOP SIGNS

Stop signs are often located at hazardous junctions. There are open and closed junctions – open being the type of T-junction that is easily determined whether it is safe to proceed without the need to stop as a clear view of the road that you are entering is available.

A closed junction makes the road you intend on joining obscured by trees, fences hedges, etc. See junctions for a further in-depth explanation.

A stop sign may be located at a closed junction or a junction that is particularly hazardous for any reason. They may also be placed in areas of high accident rates.

Give way signs may also be used at hazardous junctions, but unlike stop signs, it is the driver’s discretion whether they stop or not. 

STOP SIGN LAW

In terms of the Highway Code, the words ‘must‘ and ‘should‘ are often used. The word ‘should’ is advisory and the word ‘must’ is used when giving an instruction of a rule or law (regulative).

Motorists must stop behind the line at a junction where a stop sign is in place with a solid white line. It is the law that a driver must stop at least once before the line and wait for a safe gap before proceeding.

DO CYCLISTS HAVE TO STOP AT STOP SIGNS

The Highway Code states to cyclists ‘You MUST obey all traffic signs and traffic light signals’. Like motorists, cyclists must also stop at stop signs.

STOP SIGN PENALTY AND FINE

The penalty code TS30 – Failing to comply with a stop sign, will gain three penalty points on a driver's license which will remain in place for four years. Running a stop sign will usually see drivers faced with a £100 fixed penalty fine, though in more extreme cases, fines can amount from between £100 to £1000. 

Evaluation of Text

For my first piece of text, I chose a Youtube video as not only was it factual I found it entertaining as I felt it was humorous due to the way he worded it, it sounded overly enthusiastic for example, ‘We all come to stop signs and stops signs and the rules of stopping its not just the law its not just the rule it’s a way of life.’

For my second text, I found an article about the history of stop signs and why they are there color and shape, I found this interesting and think it works well with my subject I have chosen. 

For the final piece of text, I found this text on a website helping people pass there driving test it explains the rules and what to do at a stop sign and who has too and doesn't have to abide by it.

For the text of my book, I found it difficult to find information about stop signs, The vast majority of websites only had a small amount of information about how to use them. I didn't want my book to be all about how to use a stop sign but the history and information about the stop sign itself. Overall I'm pretty happy with the text I have chosen and will make for an interesting and informative book.

[lexicalbehemoth]

home is where love is

Fandom: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett Rating: General Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Developing Relationship, Post-Apocalypse, One Shot, Character Study

Summary:

After the Armageddon-That-Wasn't, Aziraphale and Crowley have a talk about the future, and Aziraphale confesses to some truths.

[ Read on AO3 ]

Aziraphale, for all that he never fails to remind that he’s of angel stock, knows Heaven isn’t where home is. This is, of course, after spending a couple millennia with humanity; it’s inevitable, isn’t it, to change? Perhaps it’s true that he’s gone native, even though it was something that had been said to him while in Crowley’s form. Perhaps he’s changed for the better (or the worst, depending on who’s asking), though it doesn’t change what he is at his core. He’s still an angel, wings and grace and all, even though his superiors are unsure after his little (or as much as one can call deceiving his superiors and letting a demon into Heaven little ) stunt.

But one gets an inkling, after a while, when one is with humanity often. When one grows to watch over them, to be with them, to try and be like them- one learns that the world and all Her creations are not so black and white as Heaven and Hell make it out to be. Home, for one, no longer means his place of origin.

Home is where he feels safest, if he abides by humanity’s varied definitions of home. Home is walking through St. James’ Park and finding his counterpart waiting for him, a story or two in mind to share of the latest thing humanity has done, be they foolish or remarkable. Home is letting Crowley tempt him to a spot of lunch down at the Ritz, miracling up a reservation for two because it’s his turn for a treat. It’s only fair, after all, as Crowley is often the one to do the treating- which is, in truth, something of his own influence.

Crowley does so like to say that he’s the one doing the tempting around his angel, but Aziraphale knows better.

(He wonders if Crowley knows it, and just lets him get away with it?)

“Did it give any other hints before the final prophecy, that book?”

Aziraphale blinks purposefully- it’s not as though he actually needs to blink, despite the human appearance of his form. He clarifies, “The Nice and Accurate-”

Crowley waves a hand. A server comes as though summoned, swiftly filling up his then-empty wine glass. “Yes, that. Or was it up until the Armageddon’t? Don’t suppose there was a sequel for that?”

He smiles in amusement, patting at his mouth with his napkin. It’s been a bit of a thing with him, lately, coming up with names for the Armageddon-that-wasn’t. He answers, “If there were, I wouldn’t know. The only one mentioned in existence was The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch, and even then, it was difficult to find; it’s no wonder we only came across it because of her descendant. Were you thinking that there would be something there, for the events after the Armageddon-that-wasn’t?”

Crowley hums that little unsure hum he does whenever he wants to say something, but is finding it difficult to do so. “Maybe. Wouldn’t put it past her, seeing as she was able to prophesize that last bit we did.”

“Perhaps it was more a hint, my dear? There being free will and all.”

Crowley perks up at his words mid-drink from his glass, a pleased smile growing on his face as he sets his wine aside. Aziraphale supposes it’s a testament to all their time spent together that he’s able to categorize this look, as it were, among Crowley’s other expressions- and even call it a smile, having realized that it’s the closest approximate term versus a smirk. Crowley says, sounding both unreasonably proud and sarcastic, “Why angel, are you implying that even occult and ethereal beings could have their free will to take action, without it being detailed by The Great Plan?”

Aziraphale lets the server that passes their table fill up his wine glass once more, giving him a smile of thanks. Then he takes a drink, deliberately letting Crowley wait, before putting down his glass and saying, “Well, it’s not that much of an impossibility, is it? I’m here with you, after all.”

Crowley hums, not saying anything more.

“An angel and a demon eating together, regarding each other as best friends,” Aziraphale goes on, smiling pleasantly despite the tiny, disgruntled noise Crowley makes for a flash of a second. “I wouldn’t think it was in the regulations for either of our previous sides to befriend someone from the other side.”

“Previous, huh,” Crowley says, swirling his wine a little, looking away from him. “I’d have believed myself saying that, but I didn’t think we’d reach a point where you’d agree. You’re particularly stubborn, for an angel. Or should I say,” he turns to Aziraphale, smirking, “as expected of an angel?”

“Well, it’s true that this is our side, isn’t it? Earth and its creatures,” Aziraphale replies, before taking a slow drink from his own glass of wine. “You and I, together. The End That Wasn’t certainly proved its point about the demarcations going beyond my side and yours.”

Crowley gives him a Look. Aziraphale doesn’t have to see behind his sunglasses to know, because the mere turn of Crowley’s head, the way he tilts his chin to him, is familiar enough. Crowley says, “I’m surprised it only took you six millennia to reach that conclusion.”

Aziraphale huffs at the teasing. “Really now, my dear…”

Crowley chuckles, shaking his head. He finishes off his glass of wine, before saying, “I’ve been telling you that since before the End Times That Weren’t, angel. I’ve been giving you question upon question on that blasted Ineffable plan, and neither of us have ever reached any absolute answers- even your answers to me were vague and half-baked at best. Don’t even try denying it.”

“I,” he begins, intending to argue, before sighing and shaking his head. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

Crowley tips his glass to him, before taking another drink. Once done, he says, “What now, then? Any plans for the unknown future?”

He hums, pressing his lips together in thought, as he’s sure he often does. Crowley would probably know- he sees Aziraphale’s face more often than Aziraphale sees his own. He answers, “Not entirely sure, really. I suppose we’ll just have to see what the future holds for us.”

Crowley looks away from him, face turned to his empty glass of wine. Likely, he’s thinking it’ll hide the growing smile on his face when he’s not looking towards Aziraphale, but it doesn’t, not really. Aziraphale, for all that he knows he comes off oblivious to Crowley with certain matters, is a bit more observant than Crowley likely thinks him to be. It’s just easiest, is all, to play at a certain kind of ignorance when it benefits him.

He’s said he’s soft, but Crowley?

Crowley is even softer, though he manages to pass as tough to anyone else who doesn’t know him well.

Innocently, Aziraphale says, “That is fine, isn’t it?”

“What’s fine?”

“I assumed we’d be doing less of that thing we do, where we coincidentally meet in places,” Aziraphale explains, setting aside his own empty glass of wine. “And, instead, meet up because we can. With Heaven and Hell letting us off for now, as it were, I feel we can afford to chat without the ruse of being adversaries, thwarting each other for the end times at hand…or not in hand, as it so happens.”

Aziraphale has a feeling Crowley is blinking at him behind his sunglasses, and he smiles.

“I…huh?”

“We could have that picnic,” he offers, reminded of his promises from before everything, before the Not-A-pocalypse, and before the dinners at the Ritz. “We’ve already dined at the Ritz a number of times, haven’t we? But I don’t recall us having done that picnic…though I suppose that may be because it’s easiest to just let other people prepare our food for us. Do you suppose it’s proper to buy food from restaurants and take them out for a picnic instead of dining the usual way? One usually expects to prepare one’s own food for this, if I recall correctly…”

“Wait, wait,” Crowley says, waving a hand as though telling him to pause, which he does. “Wait, angel. A picnic?”

Aziraphale smiles brightly at him. “Why, yes, a picnic. I recall I suggested it, along with dinners at the Ritz, some years ago.”

“ You go too fast for me, Crowley. ”

There’s a lull in their conversation for a moment.

Aziraphale watches as Crowley swallows- more for the human meaning it implies, than an actual need for it. Even though Aziraphale can’t see his eyes, he can see the hard way his lips are pressing together, chin jutting out, eyebrows furrowing, hand clenching on the table.

Oh, he owes Crowley so much more than a picnic, doesn’t he? It’s only fair, just from the look of him.

“I’d apologize for making you wait for so long,” he begins, hands clasped over his own lap, head turned to him. “But I’m sure I could do better than an apology, my dear. Humans say such a thing, don’t they? Actions speak louder than words.”

“Ngk,” says Crowley.

Aziraphale’s gaze goes soft, soft, soft at the way Crowley is gawping at him. Oh, how patient has he been, to be caught off guard by this? It’s like he hadn’t expected Aziraphale to catch up with him at all- which is a fair judgment, given how stubborn he can be, but still.

“Dearest,” he says, reaching out, wrapping a gentle hand over the nearest hand Crowley has on the table. “I’ve got one more favour to ask of you, if that’s alright?”

“A favour,” Crowley croaks out, as though he’d intended for it to be a question but failed to do so out of shock.

“I’d like a little more of your patience,” he says, thumb stroking over the back of Crowley’s hand. Crowley has lowered his head now, staring at their hands together, and Aziraphale can’t help a smile. He goes on, “Because there’s a lot I ought to catch up on with you, I’m sure. You’ve got…well, six millennia over me, isn’t that right?”

“Didn’t think you’d notice that,” Crowley mumbles, still staring at their hands. “Given how you could notice how loved Tadfield was, and not…”

“Hard to notice something that’s always there, isn’t it?”

Crowley frowns in that way he does when he thinks Aziraphale is being unreasonable, but also, “why do I find myself liking you anyway?” He says, “So…you’ve been able to feel it, all this time. And you never said anything?”

Aziraphale gives a tiny shrug of his shoulders, gaze turning to the side for a bit, before turning to their hands. Sotto voce, he says, “I wasn’t ready to confront it, then. I knew you wouldn’t push either, and…I suppose it’s a flaw of mine, to have abused your patience as I have.”

“Even ethereal beings can be imperfect,” Crowley says dryly, teasing. He turns his hand, palm upwards, curling his fingers into the spaces between Aziraphale’s own. “Though, I shouldn’t be surprised about that. We’re of the same stock, even if I am fallen.”

Aziraphale smiles fondly at him. “Thinking about it that way, I’d say you’re kinder than most angels would be.”

Crowley sighs, less motivated as is in defending his status as a demon. Perhaps that’s what happens, when you actively go against your employer by way of impersonation and utter deception. He says, “It’s a major flaw of mine, I know. Doesn’t make me a very good- terrible?- demon.”

“It’s what makes you so easy to love, really.”

It’s a pity that Crowley had finished his wine already; it would have likely been a memorable scene had Crowley gone for a drink and coughed the way he just did at Aziraphale’s words.

“You could warn a demon,” Crowley says, looking entirely like he doesn’t know what to do with his face. Is he happy? Embarrassed? Annoyed? Or perhaps all of the above, going by the way he’s struggling against a smile on his lips. “What would your employers say, angel? Consorting with a demon like myself.”

“Oh, I think they’ve known for a while,” he hums. “What was it that Uriel called you? My boyfriend?”

Crowley’s expression does another, dare he say it, Ineffable Thing. He says, “Your what .”

Aziraphale laughs.

“A bit juvenile, if I do say so myself,” he says lightly, rubbing his thumb over Crowley’s own. “But I think, given the stunt we pulled, that they’ll leave us alone for now.”

“No, go back to that boyfriend bit-”

“I think we’re quite done with lunch, don’t you? I’ll call for a server.”

“ Angel. ”