#because the ineffable husbands have not yet left my brain

[phantom-of-the-501st]

Fix the System vs Ditch the System

I just want to applaud Neil Gaiman here for how perfectly these two scenes parallel each other because I had noticed it before, just not how well. 👏 We were all shocked by the season 2 finale but really we should have seen it coming because that scene had already played out before in Episode 1.

"I think my your exactly and my exactly are different exactlys..."

Upon discovering that Gabriel has forgotten everything and has turned up at the bookshop, Crowley and Aziraphale have a shared goal: to resolve the Amnesiac Archangel Problem. Aziraphale wants to fix the issue, he wants to help. Crowley, on the other hand, wants to ditch it. Quite literally. He wants to take Gabriel to Dartmoor and leave him there, getting him and Aziraphale far away from the problem.

The thing is, while they both have a common goal, they both assume that the other will agree with their methods, despite having two completely different ideas about what to do.

Sounds very familiar, right?

"We can make a difference."

When you look at the season finale, it plays out in a very similar way. Crowley and Aziraphale have a common goal: protect each other. However, they both have different solutions but have assumed that the other has the same idea.

Much like in Episode 1, Aziraphale wants to fix the problem. He knows that Heaven is corrupt and he believes that he can restore the system to what it is supposed to be. But Crowley wants to get as far away from Heaven and Hell as possible.

And it isn't just the situation itself that parallels. The same character flaws are responsible for both issues.

"A group of the two of us."

Crowley and Aziraphale have existed alongside each other for a long time and understand each other more than most. However, their closeness has led to a lot of misunderstandings as they assume that the other will think the same way as them when it comes to certain situations and their expectations of one another can be entirely unfair.

While it makes sense for Aziraphale to want to fix both situations, it isn't right for him to assume that Crowley will be okay with facing his trauma like that. He knows what Crowley went through as a result of Heaven's behaviour and he can't expected him to want to face his past like that. Assuming that Crowley would want to help someone who has caused him huge amounts of grief is unfair in the same way that expecting Crowley to go back to a place that punished him for doing no wrong is.

Likewise, it is very reasonable for Crowley to want to ditch the system and yet he can't expect Aziraphale to make the same decisions when Crowley himself hasn't provided him with the same context that he has. Crowley was there when Gabriel told "Aziraphale" to shut his stupid mouth and die. Aziraphale wasn't. And Crowley never told him. Similarly, Crowley knows exactly how and why Gabriel lost his memory but he never explained it to Aziraphale. He has context that the other doesn't so he can't expect the same decisions to be made.

It's the same mistakes made over and over again.

So the new question is...

Will there be a change?

I think it is safe to assume that the answer is yes because otherwise there wouldn't be any character development and that would be weird. So I guess we need to assess the current situation. And the best way to do that? Look at the parallel scene in Episode 1!

In both situations Crowley walks out. They both realise that they aren't on the same page and rather than talking it through they go their separate ways. Crowley only comes back when he discovers that Aziraphale is in more danger but while he apologises, he never explains his reasoning, so Aziraphale just assumes that Crowley realised he was wrong and came back.

And because of that, nothing changes. Nothing was ever talked through, none of their reasoning explained. This is why the same thing happened again later in the season.

Looking at the current situation, this is where I think we are finally going to see a difference. I think that Crowley is going to go back when he realises that Aziraphale is in more danger than initially thought, but rather than going through a repeat of what happened before, I think there will be a change. Not necessarily straight away, but I think that this will be the time when they finally talk things out. It'll be the last time that this repeat problem happens and the first time when they realise that they need to stop assuming that they both want to go about things the same way.

Aziraphale wants to fix the system. Crowley wants to ditch it.

And the resolution will come when they both finally understand why.

[vavoomed-for-crowley]

Heard it's Fanfiction Friday

So here I am, promoting my works from different fandoms:

Living With(out) You (Good Omens) on AO3

Aziraphale x Crowley x Reader

Aziraphale went back to heaven and Crowley suffers from the loss, trying to drown out his emotions by ineffable drinking. But he forgot that he left an impression on the people around him that actually care and try to be there for him. When he finally accepts to let them closer, he begins to work out a life without his angel. At least until a certain point.

Story Notes:

This is my most recent work and still ongoing. I gotta admit that writing it is a slow process because there's so much to do in my life right now. And I find it certainly hard to add an extra character to the ineffable husbands but the idea is stuck in my brain. It's fun to be back in the game.

The focus of my story is on Crowley's way to recover. For him to learn how to live without his angel and what life can be like when you let people in. There's no unnecessary drama. It's a grown up story about themes all of us can relate to. (Also, this is my first story where I try to keep the reader gender neutral as to involve all genders. Like I said: trying. Don't know if I am doing it right).

A Feeling Of Normality (Marvel Cinematic Universe on Wattpad

Bucky Barnes × Female Reader

Who can understand the pain you had to go through better than someone who went through the same pain? The worlds of Bucky and Reader collide very soon. They develop a strong bond without needing many words but whilst the Reader learns to love Bucky's broken soul, he's still struggling to move on.

Story notes:

The story takes place in the Infinity Stone Saga between Civil War and Endgame. I tried to add the Reader without changing too much about the original story. I think my favorite detail is that I spent so much time watching different scenes to stay as close to the characters behavior and thoughts as possible.

Some Comments:

"Such an amazing story! Gave me amazing nightly reads."

"It's truly perfect. The way you describe the feelings of everyone made me fall in love with this. I also cried at many moments. [...] It was one of the best stories I read on Wattpad."

"I've loved the journey you took us on."

"This was fantastic and I loved every single moment of it!"

An Unknown Bond (Seven Deadly Sins) on Wattpad

Zeldris x female OC

The kingdom is freed from Hendrickson, when the OC named Yami feels a very strong power. The Holy War is not over. And the only way to avert the danger is for Yami to find Meliodas and fight against Zeldris and The Ten Commandments. There's just one problem: Thousands of years back, both brothers meant a lot to her and now it's time to choose a side.

Story Notes:

I'm particularly proud of this one, even though it has some writing errors. It was my first time writing an English fanfiction after a break of several years. But I hadn't finished the manga, the end of the final season hadn't been out yet and I was surprised at how close my story came to the actual storyline, even though an Own Character was added. So let's just say if you've finished Seven Deadly Sins, our endings were very similar!

Some comments:

"Been so long since I've read a wonderful book"

"I'm actually crying, thank you so much for writing this."

"Best book ever."

"I loved this book. The best fanfic ever read."

"Loved this story so much. It gave me the ignition I needed to keep writing stories, and I'm very thankful for it. So sad to see it end but so grateful to have found and read this book."

"This was great. I love the difference in the story. Not many can completely change a part of a story and not ruin it. You've changed the story so much but it's still a masterpiece. Thanks for the ride."

"Thank you for making this book. This is the type of story that can drive empty people on [...]. It was fun reading and definitely worth the time."

[blorbosondeck]

fic rec masterlist

canon divergent/finale fix its

Anamnesis

THIS! FIC! this fic lives in my head rent FREE it is so good and it makes so much sense in the narrative that the shitty finale concocted, as to why they wouldn't mention cas or anyone else and its just. so good and they write chuck in the most villainous way that i love!!!

"Chuck is depowered, Jack is the new god, and the world is free. Dean and Sam get into the Impala and chase down the miles on an endless highway, and their story is finally, finally their own to follow. At least, that's what Dean tells himself. But the diners and motels and painted interstate lines are blurring together and the smallest details keep catching at his brain like tiny fishhooks and he can't quite shake the feeling that not everything is exactly as it should be. Fix-it/alternate series finale. Canon-compliant through the end of 15.19."

Sunset Sound: Stairway to Heaven by @adhdeancas

GOD FUCKING CHRIST this is so good and sweet and im such a sucker for team ups and reunions!!! its 3:30 am rn and i just finished it and i love it SO much it made me laugh a lot and the last few chapters i had the stupidest grin just plastered to my face

The Closer the Star, the Greater the Parallax by @rocksalts​

repressed bastard dean submits to the mortifying ordeal of being known and receives the rewards of being loved but only after some miscommunication i LOVE this i read it last night and it’s a fast favorite. my interests have overlapped and i am INTO it

“When Dean sits down to watch some bullcrap Discovery Channel episode with Cas, he doesn’t expect to actually learn anything. Except, with Cas explaining, he makes an effort to connect the dots.”

Don't We All Deserve To Be Happy?

VERY sweet and a VERY good pick me up. all around feel good fic!!! 

"Post-canon fix-it, divergent from 15x19 where Jack stays and Dean doesn't die and Cas comes back and everyone is happy. Take a shot every time I'm salty about the finale."

Keep Your Love Alive

okay. okay okay okay this may be my favorite finale fix it just because of how well reasoned it is. like this feels what should have happened i love it SO much

"Dean gets to spend eternity sharing beers with Bobby on the Roadhouse porch and riding around in his Baby with Sam. He’s at peace… or he feels like he should be. But a few things nag at him: Where is Cas, and everybody else Dean had been hoping to see in Heaven? Why does he feel like he’s stuck in a loop, reliving the same memories over and over again? And who are the strangers wearing Sam’s and Bobby’s faces?"

The GoldenRod Revisions by @aethylas​

this is one of the most well written things ive ever read. the script format DID make it feel more real and honestly? this is better writing than this show deserves. the finale that could have been ♥️

“A rewrite of Supernatural’s final two episodes, expanded into a five episode arc - in which Chuck needs to be defeated, Castiel deserves to be saved, and the characters in this story get a very different ending.“

Ascend by @wanderingcas​ 

THEE finale fix it fic!!! written by the AMAZINGLY skilled and talented @wanderingcas !!! it’s 50k of angst and hurt/comfort and pure bliss

“Something in the world is wrong.

Demon activity is rising where mysterious black substance oozes and unusual ecological events are shaking the world. Dean, grief hanging on his shoulders, restlessly searches for answers that might lead him to the Empty… and to Cas.

But what Chuck wrote can’t be undone. The narrative thread pulls Dean along, forcing him to comply. Because once a story already has an ending, it can’t be rewritten.

Or can it?”

Things Happen (They Do, And They Do, And They Do) by THEE @sobsicles

i KNOW everyone has already recommended this and likely you’ve all already read it. but it has to go here bc REPRESSIOOOOOOOOON i LOVE this so much it is one of the most perfect things i’ve read. are you bisexual? did you have a kind of weird relationship with your best friend and not realize that how you felt about them wasn’t necessarily how other people felt about them and you were maybe a little bit in love with them but were too repressed to realize it? you’ll feel seen. maybe a little too seen

Closer (isn't close enough)

are you a sweet and sappy yet horny bastard? do you like cas exploding light bulbs? you will like this.

“the one where they finally talk about what cas said before the empty took him”

You and Your Husband

it is exTRMELY sweet!!! repression dean strikes again <3

"Five times Dean corrects someone about his relationship with Cas, and one time he realizes he doesn't need to."

Tall Grass

miscommunication and a slowburn! despite being written in 2017 and finished in 2018, it feels like a fix it. ft. plant obsessed cas <3 

Invictus

a LOVELY and short (relatively) finale fix it

“They saved the world. They're free. It's done.

Except it's not, and carrying on is the last thing any of them are thinking about.

They still have someone they need to save.”

Unchained Link

post finale- it’s a great case fic and i am compelled i want more!!!

"It's after the end of things. Life continues on while Dean is "livin it up" in heaven. But it's never that simple, is it? A freak occurrence sends Dean into another time stranded back on Earth. And he thought his hunting days were over. But, no worries. His knight in shining armor comes to the rescue. Hijinks, therefore, ensue."

fun and time unspecified

Ladies and Gentlemen, This is Love Potion No. 5

very funny and sweet! miscommunication at its finest ♥️

"Cas gets drenched with a mystery potion from the ‘love spell’ shelf and... Dean has a sneaking suspicion, angel or no— the spell may have taken effect. And Cas might be in love with Sam."

The Way We Were

Y'all. It is so good its a great mix of funny and serious- extremely fun to see dean as like a base bisexual

"Dean and Castiel pose as a couple to gain access to a gated community known as 'The Glen', a pleasant if secretive location that the boys believe might be linked to several dead bodies showing up over the years bearing signs of ritualistic sacrifice. All seems well until Dean's memory is affected from an incident during a solo exploration, leaving Dean convinced that their cover story is true. Castiel is left trying to resolve their case without taking advantage of an increasingly enthusiastic Dean"

While You Were Sleeping

this is basically just the movie but replacing sandra bullock with cas. this is my comfort movie and imo, one of the most perfect rom coms. the fic isn’t finished but i still have the tab open on my phone and i will straight up go back and re read it when i need a pick me up. 

aus/rewrites

The Harvelle Gospels: Offscript

i know everyone ever ( @jewishcharliebradbury ) has recommended this fic. and for good reason go fucking read it

“The Apocalypse is averted, the angels are in Heaven, and Jo is free from the threat of possession. Somehow it couldn't be farther from a happy ending.“

absolute riots

An Ineffably Profound Bond

i honestly would have put this in the finale fix it section! look. i know. i know you've been burned by crossover fics before. but this is Thee good omens/spn fic you want. its funny as hell and immensely satisfying. im weak for everyone working together tropes and that is this

"After Chuck sets 'The End' in motion, the remaining members of TFW make a miraculous escape. Not willing to waste any time, Castiel comes up with a plan to travel to one of the other worlds to try and get help from the angels there, but after a fight with Dean, it's the hunter who gets sent into an alternate universe,with seemingly no hope of return.

When a mysterious human with a heavenly weapon shows up in Aziraphale's shop, he and Crowley learn that their world is not the only one. Now it is up to them to decide whether or not they want to join forces with the human and help him save his world or simply find a way to send him home."

Somebody Up There Likes Me by @lafilleredige

cas is hit with a spell that turns his vessel into a woman, hijinks and sexuality crises ensue etc etc sam is a supportive and bitchy little brother and its all SO fucking funny and also. horny as hell i love it i love it i LOVE it

“’Dean doesn’t want to talk about your breasts, it’s making him uncomfortable because he hasn’t acknowledged the complex fluidity of human sexuality.’“

Stray Cat Strut

a long crack fic that IS one of the funniest things i’ve ever read and i can’t explain why. it’s so ooc but its so funny that i don’t care. if you need a laugh you gotta read this

"Sam and Cas are immediately in love with the adorable kitty they find outside the bunker door, and occupy their time planning how to convince Dean--who they believe is off sulking after a botched hunt--to let them keep their cat. Along the way, Dean learns to use a litter box and hears some confessions he maybe wasn’t supposed to hear, all while realizing just how much he loves Castiel.

Now all Dean has to do is convince Cas and Sam their new pet cat is actually him before they do something crazy--like neuter him!"

canon compliant or slight canon divergence

Give

by @doublestuffedimpala post season 7 episode 7, kind of ambiguous ending but truly a cas is happy to bleed for the winchesters fic

Punch Like Bones 

short, post 5x04 homoerotic moment that i wish we’d gotten

[earsofducks]

Awake the Snake but October Because of that One Neil Gaiman Post

(Have I already done this because of #ineffable husband au week? Yes. I have. Am I doing it again? Yes. I am.)

“Hi, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do; do it with style.” 

Message received June 2, 2020. 

“Hello, Crowley, this is Aziraphale. I was wondering - well, it was a bit silly of me, but I was wondering if perhaps you’d decided to forego the extra month of your nap. I understand, of course, why you feel compelled to sleep through all of this - dreadful things are happening, and I am completely powerless to stop them, and it is most unpleasant - but I had hoped... Never mind. I hope you sleep well, dear boy.”

Beep.

Message received June 10, 2020.

“Hello, it’s Aziraphale again. I presume from your lack of response that you’re still sleeping. But just allow me to tell you what has been going on...

Several minutes later...

And it’s been incredibly dreary to be facing all this alone. I’m sure you would understand if you were awake. And... well, never mind. I hope you sleep well, Crowley.”

Beep.

Message received June 29, 2020.

“Me again. I must say, my dear boy, I am so looking forward to seeing you in a few days! I - oh, dear. I do hope that you’re planning on waking up earlier in the month as opposed to later, because it all gets to be a bit... well. It’s a bit overwhelming without you, Crowley, to speak plainly. I quite miss our little chats. If you - well, I can’t imagine how overwhelming waking up to it all, but I’ll be here, you know, if you ever wanted to - er - discuss current events. Perhaps over a glass of wine? We can form ‘bubbles,’ now, you know. I’m sure it would be lovely to have you at the bookshop, if you were inclined to come visit. Which you could, because of bubbles. That is to say - oh, bother it all, Crowley, I’m sure you know what I mean. Please telephone me once you’ve woken up. There’s no rush, of course. But I would quite like to hear from you. Well, anyway. I hope the last bit of your nap is deeply restful.”

Beep.

Message received July 3, 2020.

“Hello. I know that you’re asleep again, but I was m - making some, er, cakes, and they’re - I’m waiting for - I wanted to speak - hrm. I appreciate you informing me on the extension of your nap, of course, and understand the motivation behind it, but I had hoped that maybe - well. Thank you very much for your call. I hope that you’re obtaining everything you wanted from the extra sleep.”

Beep.

Message received July 19, 2020.

“I can’t recall whether or not you mentioned receiving the numerous messages that I left when we spoke on the telephone at the beginning of this month, but I do hope that these voice recordings aren’t tiresome for you to listen to. Oh, dear. Probably I should have considered this before I started leaving you so many. You understand, though, don’t you? Oh, dear. I truly don’t want to be a bother, I simply... I miss you, Crowley. I miss you very much and I wish you weren’t sleeping. There, I said it.”

Beep.

Message received July 19, 2020, five minutes later.

“But I don’t want to be a bother, so I shall stop calling.”

Beep.

Message received July 31, 2020.

“I tried very hard to restrain myself, but upon reflection I’ve realized that you are under no obligation to listen to these messages if they distress you in any way, and I believe there is no reason for me to stop sending them to you. In light of this, allow me to tell you...

Lengthy story (in which Aziraphale details his many dealings with the day’s customers) ommitted.

Message received August 18, 2020.

“I’ve found myself foolishly hoping that you’ll wake early quite frequently. I miss you dearly, Crowley. I know I’ve said it before, and I know that we have spent significantly longer apart in the past, but I... Well. I miss you. I hope you’re enjoying your nap. I’m sure it’s vastly preferable to the experience those of us that are more or less awake are having.���

Beep.

Message received September 8, 2020.

“There’s - hic - there’s something else. A reason. For me to want to call - hic - you. I... (A pause, some displeased sounds) Ah. I think I was quite drunk. Forgive my impropriety.”

Beep.

Message received September 12, 2020.

“(a long silence) Crowley - (a sharp intake of breath) I think I love you, you know. Not - bother it all. Of course I love you - how could I not? We’ve been working together for six thousand years, after all. We are friends. We have always been friends. I have never thought you a foul fiend. But I don’t just love you - it’s not just friendship, is it? Not for me. Or for you, I don’t think. This probably isn’t the time or place to tell you this, is it? I apologize. (Not for loving you. I’m through apologizing for loving you.)

Beep.

Message received September 13, 2020.

“Oh, dear. I suspect that I may have said some very... forward things last night. I‘ve been drinking a smidge more than might be deemed strictly advisable, lately. This is no excuse, of course, and I apologize for whatever... sentiment I may have communicated. (pause) Although you’re not likely to hear this until much later, are you?

Beep.

Message received September 21, 2020.

“I know what I said and I meant it, I meant it, I meant it.”

Beep.

Message received September 29, 2020.

“Did you know, Crowley, that time has never moved so slowly as it has since you’ve started sleeping? Never. Not once in my very long life have I experienced this absolutely torturous sense of waiting.” Beep.

Message received September 30, 2020.

“I’ve made up my mind. Tomorrow morning I shall come and hang on your doorbell until you wake up and let me in, and I am... Heaven help me, Crowley, I am going to tell you. I love you. I’ll see you in the morning.

I love you.”

Beep.

***

Crowley wakes to the sound of his doorbell ringing incessantly and incredibly obnoxiously. His mind is fuzzy and so are his teeth and his body isn’t quite sure how to be awake and his brain is even less so. 

“Abubwefgsh,” he says, trying to remember how to use words. 

The doorbell rings louder.

“Aghckssssss,” says Crowley, covering his ears and scrunching up his face. 

What... What...

Day. Awake. Sleep. Long. 

Aziraphale.

He sits up. 

It’s very unlikely, of course, why would Aziraphale be at his flat, but the thought is thrilling and apparently enough to get him out of bed.

He’s much more wobbly than normal (he remembers having trouble walking after his century-long nap, too) but manages to make it to the door.

He opens it without checking the peephole, because he’s never used the peephole in his life, and promptly wishes that he had checked, because now he’s...

Now he’s even more discombobulated than he was before. 

Aziraphale is here. He’s here, and that makes Crowley’s head spin, and he’s brushing past Crowley into the apartment, and that’s making Crowley’s heart do some impressive acrobatics, and, worst of all, he’s smiling.

“Good morning, darling!” he says brightly, turning to face Crowley.

“Ngaaaaaaagh,” says Crowley, trying to shield his eyes. He can’t handle a smiley Aziraphale this early in the morning. It’s too...

Hang on.

“Azzzzzzzmbrflwumph,” says Crowley, trying to address the ‘darling’ situation.

“I’ve missed you dearly,” continues Aziraphale, ignoring Crowley’s inner turmoil, “and during my time without you it occurred to me that I have not told you I love you.”

That stops all of Crowley’s thought processes faster than any thought processes have ever stopped before. When some semblance (although the resemblance is very, very slight) of capable thought returns, he finds that he has been emitting a high-pitched, teakettle-like noise for an indeterminate amount of time. Also, he’s crying.

“Oh, my dear,” says Aziraphale, hands fluttering between them. Crowley is not awake enough for this. Crowley cries harder. “Oh, dear, oh, dear,” says Aziraphale, distinctly distressed. “I ought to have waited until you were more awake.”

“Yesssssssssssssss you bloody well should have,” sobs Crowley, and then Aziraphale murmurs something apologetic and asks if he can hug Crowley. Crowley is incapable of communicating at all but somehow Aziraphale understands him anyway and pulls him into a hug that is tight and warm and safe and comforting. He immediately feels better but continues crying for awhile, feeling embarrassed but unable to pull himself together. Eventually he slows to a few shuddering gasps every so often, and then he tugs away from Aziraphale.

“Sssssorry,” he says, “I don’t - I can’t - ”

“Oh, my dearest,” says Aziraphale, still looking incredibly concerned. “No need to apologize. That was my fault. Horribly inconsiderate of me. I had months to come to terms with my feelings, and you - ”

“Love you more than anything, ‘ziraphale, c - ” his body does the post-intense-crying-session thing where it interrupts him because he needs to take deep breaths - ”’course I do. Always have.”

“Oh, Crowley,” says Aziraphale, eyes shining, and Crowley would kiss him right then and there except he’s not even breathing evenly yet and he probably looks a right mess and also he just woke up.

Suddenly it is all very much and he crosses his arms in front of himself. He wants to take Aziraphale’s hand, but knows instinctively that it would be Too Much.

“Want some breakfast?” he asks, and Aziraphale beams at him. He squints, scowling and muttering something about silly bright angels, and makes for the kitchen to scramble some eggs.

***

Later, they will talk about things properly. Later, there will be first kisses. Later, Crowley will sit down and listen to all of Aziraphale’s messages and cry again.

But for now, sitting in his kitchen, sipping his coffee and watching Aziraphale ‘mm’ his way through breakfast and feeling scattered and hot and unable to think directly about what just happened, he knows, for the first time ever, that Aziraphale loves him back. 

It is more than enough.

[pendragyn]

First Line Tag

I was tagged by @gaslightgallows​

Rules: Post the first lines of your last ten fics read or written and then tag others to do the same.

Tagging: @raevenlywrites​ @froglesbianwriting​ @mperialscribe​ @teaflint​ @writingamongthecoloredroses​ @moniquill @napoleonscat and I know I am forgetting people, please join in on the fun and tag me if you do!

So.. Er, haven’t read much of anything but my own stuff on AO3, trying to get back into writing because everything sucks rn.  It’s Good Omens with a dash of Discworld all the way down, below the cut.

In The Garden; pre-fall, pre-canon fic of them in the Garden of Eden.

BEFORE THE BEGINNING...

…Was darkness. That’s what happens when the sun isn’t up, and as it was almost the middle of the night —the first night, leading into the first day in the Garden of Eden— darkness was only to be expected.

The Great Plan was being set in motion. The countdown to start the countdown to the end of the world had begun. Things were getting down to the wire and the Heavens were in a tizzy to make sure everything went off without a hitch during the official launch.

Down in the Garden of Eden, all was peaceful. This was also to be expected. The only living beings in the entire Garden were two corporeal but unconscious angels reposing among the roots of the Tree. They’d been held in stasis since their incorporation a number of days earlier and weren’t due to wake until things were officially under way. Ostensibly this was to allow them to acclimate to corporeality, but in reality it was to keep them out of everyone’s metaphorical hair.

Of course, even the best laid plans never do go quite as planned, do they?

There was no Heavenly fanfare heralding the occasion, no Celestial sign except the eternal march of the stars across the sky, nothing at all to indicate that something was being set into motion as midnight of the day in question rolled around.

But down in their resting spots, the angels awoke.

Serpents And Ladders; what happens after the end of In The Garden.

After the fall of the Garden, for the first time that any could remember, change came rapidly to Heaven in the form of the instant adoption of corporeal forms amongst most of the archangels, much to the bafflement of some of the oldest Celestials who were gently prodded to a quiet retirement out among the stars. Heaven itself shifted to accommodate their altered forms, which forced the rest of the Celestials and the Elementals who did most of the day to day operations to adopt similar seemings.

Of course, Aziraphale and Crawly knew why it caught on, not that anyone ever thought to ask them. The reasoning was simple enough, if multi-faceted. Firstly, corporeality is a surprisingly potent antidote to knurd[1], with built in buffers against the harshness of reality. Really no surprise that it was popular.

Secondly, Celestial beings come in a great many shapes and sizes and types and having them all conform to one generally accepted shape was much more convenient, especially when it came to paperwork. (No one knew where paperwork had come from, since paper was technically not a thing yet, but there you go. It’s ineffable.)

Thirdly, with the increasing tensions between certain factions within the Host, having your firmament safely ensconced inside of flesh and bone made it that much harder to be spied on, making secrets that much easier to keep, especially once they discovered how to hide their wings.

And last but not least, though it took Aziraphale and Crawly a long while to fully comprehend the ramifications of it, it was because the humans began to believe, in great enough numbers, that that was how Heaven and the Host looked.

1. Being knurd is to be unintoxicated to such an extent that all comfort stories are stripped away from the mind. This makes you see the world in a way 'nobody ever should', in all its harsh reality.

Ask Not For Whom The Bell Tolls (It Tolls For They); the church in ‘41 and what happens, and doesn’t happen, after. (total tearjerker)

Crowley ran, ran and ran, heart pounding, almost blind with panic, hissing with pain as their foot hit the edge of consecrated ground, but it didn’t matter, because they were in time and like a snake shedding their skin the panic slipped away as they yanked open the door and hot-footed their way into the church under the confused eyes of a trio of nazis and an angel moments away from a fate worse than death.

A church, for fuck’s sake? Can’t the angel see it’s a setup? A trap? Dealing with nazis on holy ground, giving them holy books, even if it’s supposed to be a double-cross, a double double-cross. “Sorry, consecrated ground. Ugh, like being on the beach in bare feet.” Crowley fervently kept that thought in mind, because in reality, it was far far worse than that. Crowley was very good at imagining not being on fire, and that belief was all that was keeping them from falling to ash inside that church.

Aziraphale continued to stare at Crowley in shock, for a moment wondering if they were actually hallucinating the way humans could during moments of high stress. Because consecrated ground discorporates demons, and yet. And yet, Crowley was somehow really here. Why the he heaven is Crowley here? “What are you doing here?” Aziraphale hissed, the nazis and the gun momentarily forgotten.

“Stopping you from getting in trouble,” Crowley hissed back, dancing from foot to foot just an arm’s length away from Aziraphale. Play it cool, play it cool, play it cool, if you panic you’re both done for.

Stacking The Deck;

Harriet wanted to be asleep. She’d just had a baby a few hours earlier, and all she really wanted was sleep. They had given her something for the pain, but it didn’t stop her having to use the restroom, which was NOT FUN right now, and it took a while for things to settle back down and she just. wanted. sleep.

What she got, was voices.

A few she recognized, distant and muzzy, as the nuns who’d helped deliver the baby. There was also the one not-nun who’d shuffled in during the chaos, wrinkly as an old apple with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, who had actually delivered the baby before quickly shuffling back out again. The nuns had treated her with deep respect, whispering to each other about ‘a touch of the Old Adam’ she carried about her.

There was now a lot more raucous laughter coming from down the hallway, and some singing of what were definitely not religious hymns. Mingled in were the voices of men, which some deep part of her brain realized were from her supposed security detail, who’d abandoned her the minute the live feed with her husband had ended.

But under those voices was another voice, one that she’d learned to listen to when it whispered a little too loudly to ignore. And it was telling her to check on the baby, to check on Warlock. Right Now.

With a muffled groan Harriet slid her legs over the side of the bed and eased herself to her feet. With the dimmed lights and muddled by whatever they had given her, it took her a moment to realize that the bassinet wasn’t there. No Warlock. And no guards. And no nuns.

The coolness of the linoleum felt good against the bottoms of her feet and she shuffled dreamily out of the room into the empty hallway, too well medicated to feel panic, but the little voice was getting louder. And it was talking with an odd accent, which was weird. And it was calling her by her full name now, which was even more unusual. Find your baby, Harriet Sibyl Dowling. Find him now or lose him forever.

Nature vs Nurture; raising the antichrist

After the handshake, Crowley left in a hurry to set some of their plans into motion, with promises of talking soon and a casual ciao tossed over their shoulder before slipping out of the shop and roaring off down the road. What Aziraphale didn’t see was the demon pulled over a few blocks later, pressing their forehead against the steering wheel of the Bentley and letting out a shuddering sigh of relief that the angel had finally, finally, agreed to help them save the world. And wondered, briefly, if God hadn’t been right to kick Crowley out, because how much of a right proper bastard did you have to be to knowingly ask your best friend to do the most dangerous thing they could ever possibly do?

Aziraphale’s first course of action was to make sure the shop door was locked before retreating into the back room to think, away from the demon’s so very temping influence. It didn’t take the angel long to convince themself that it had to be the right thing to do, because otherwise it wouldn’t be hell starting the war, but heaven, and surely heaven didn’t want a war. Once that was settled, Aziraphale began to really set their mind to finding the solutions to the multitude of problems their scheme would surely entail. The second course of action was to retrieve the ancient tome of magic they kept safely secured in a secret room on the second floor of the shop and settling it reverently on to the desk to start their research.

Setting Things To Rights; Adam Young gets a visit from Agnes Nutter after the world doesn’t end.

“Come back. Please.”

Adam stared down at his best friends in the whole universe, sure his heart was breaking as they turned and ran away. He knew then he’d messed up bad, maybe beyond fixing. He tried to call them back, to beg even, but no sound would come and he closed his eyes against the sting of tears. Come back! Please! he wanted to say, pressing his hands to his tear-dampened face. I’m sorry!

  You don’t need them. You can have new friends. Better friends. All you have to do is show us the way.

A low growl and a familiar waft of doggy breath as a wet tongue lapped at his cheek had Adam opening his eyes, and he hugged Dog tightly in relief. “Oh Dog! I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispered hoarsely, smiling when Dog licked him again. “I am sorry, you know that, don’t you?”

Dog whined and licked him again in answer.

“Thanks boy.” Adam let out a much heavier sigh and rubbed at his eyes when tears threatened again. The dream had been so real, too real, more memory than dream, and frightening in ways he didn’t want to think about. It hurt, knowing he’d hurt his friends so bad they’d stopped being his friends. And even though they’d forgiven him in the end, would they ever really trust him again? Especially when he could still do what he’d done? Would he trust someone who had done that to him?

In the silence there were two faint but distinct knocks that Adam heard clear as a bell. Dog’s ears perked up and Adam blinked and they both looked around the room for a source of the noise. There wasn’t much light but it was more than enough to show that nothing was out of place.

Still, Adam found himself saying, “Who’s there?”

A faint glimmering form stepped through the door. It was an old woman, dressed in really old clothes. “I have waited a long while for this meeting, Adam Young.” She bowed at him, a faint smile on her lips. “I be Agnes Nutter, witch. And ghost.”

Ineffable Bastards; the one I’m stuck on. :/

Groaning brakes pulled Crowley from their thoughts and they led Aziraphale off the bus, waiting until it had pulled away to turn towards their building. There was a sharp twinge in their stomach when they looked to the empty spot where the Bentley was usually parked. They felt another twinge when they looked at Aziraphale, who was staring up at the building with a distant blankness of expression that Crowley understood all too well. “C’mon, angel, I think we could both use a drink.”

No sound came at first, but Aziraphale managed to croak out, “Yes,” after a moment. They felt strangely distant from their feelings in the odd silence and they trailed behind the demon into the flat, which was both nothing like and exactly like what Aziraphale would expect from Crowley. The art got a few blinks but there was no energy to consider what they might mean after the day week decade they’d had.

Unlike the bare concrete walls in the other rooms, the kitchen was slick with creamy white marble and terrazzo tiles, ebony cabinets that gleamed and stainless steel appliances that had never been used or even plugged in, though they were well stocked with food and drink. Crowley grabbed a bottle at random and a couple of glasses, bringing them over to the chrome and glass table with a small collection of colorful orchids in the center. “Salute.”

The angel lifted their glass to toast before downing the drink and holding it out for a refill. Crowley obliged and they sat in silence for a while before Aziraphale asked, “Now what?”

“Eh, now I fall down and sleep for a while and you…” Crowley pulled off their glasses and gave the angel a long look. “You don’t really sleep do you? You should try it, great for getting away from your thoughts.”

“Rarely. Doesn’t seem to work that way for me, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale sighed and shook their head. “I just keep thinking about Agnes’ prophecy. Face the fire.” They shuddered a little. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

Rubbing at their tired eyes, and the sting of unsheddable tears, Crowley nodded. “You’re in big trouble, angel.”

“You know full well we’re both, as they say, in for it,” Aziraphale corrected, smiling a little when Crowley gave them a look. “I’ve toed the line for a long time, but you, my dear, have danced around it to the point that I’m not sure they even know where they drew the line to begin with. If Heaven is going to ‘fire’ me, what’s Hell going to do to you?” Saying it aloud had tears burning in their eyes and they wiped at them hastily.

Wilde Card; my take on why Aziraphale had a set of Oscar Wilde’s works.

“Aziraphale?”

“Hmm?”

Crowley tried to find a subtle way to ask, but curiosity had been eating at them to the point of distraction since the former angel had let slip that humans could have preternatural ancestry. “When you said, you’d never… with a human.”

Aziraphale gave them a confused look that melted into amused understanding when they realized Crowley was blushing. “My dear, are you asking me about my experiences?”

“Uh… Just, I seem to recall you mentioning a lot of gentleman’s clubs...” Crowley let their head drop back against the couch and covered their face when Aziraphale chuckled. “Ugh, angel!”

“I won’t judge you, you know,” Aziraphale murmured, smiling tenderly when Crowley looked at them. “If you, uh, found human companionship-”

“No! Ugh, no, it’d be like… no, I can’t help but think of them as children,” Crowley admitted. “Even Nanny Ogg, which tells you something about me I suppose,” they said, making Aziraphale laugh.

“I am in complete agreement with that sentiment,” said Aziraphale. “And it wasn’t just gentleman's clubs I frequented, there were quite a few for women if you knew where to look and who to talk to. You do know a lot more went on in the clubs than just sexual intercourse, don’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah, I should’ve known better, just, uh...” Crowley reached over and took Aziraphale’s hand. “There must have been quite a few poor smitten fools vying for your attention.”

Apple Of My Eye; complete fluff I wrote because of a pic I saw on tumblr

Crowley looked up from their mobile, barely able to contain their grin. “Hey, angel-”

“No.” Aziraphale didn’t even have to look up from the book they were reading to know the former demon was up to no good.

“I haven’t even said anything yet!” Crowley protested, still grinning at seeing the amusement crinkling around the reformed angel's eyes.

Aziraphale looked over at them with a feigned put-upon sigh. One look at Crowley’s grin had them asking, “Oh somebody, do I even want to know?”

If anything, that only made Crowley’s grin grow. “So I’m thinking maybe it’s time I branch out, try some different styles of shades. Whaddya think?”

Aziraphale spluttered into startled laughter when Crowley turned the mobile around, revealing a pair of spectacles where the rose tinted lenses had been shaped into breasts. “Why in the world-”

“Ain’t humans grand?” Crowley said, grinning down at the picture before sliding a sly look at Aziraphale and raising a hand, fingers poised to snap. “I could just…”

“You would too, wouldn’t you,” Aziraphale said with a shake of their head, pretending to go back to reading but watching Crowley sidelong. “Well I would rather you didn’t but I can’t stop you from going around looking, looking like a right proper tit if you want to,” they said with feigned primness, barely hiding their smile when Crowley laughed. “I wouldn’t want you to make a spectacle of yourself.”

“Alright angel, alright, you’ve convinced me. Wouldn’t want to put you off being seen with me.” It was a joke, mostly, and Crowley was still grinning as they said it, but inwardly that age old doubt still lingered.

Aziraphale knew it was there of course, having many of the same insidious worries about their new togetherness, and gave them a fond smile. “I assure you my dear, that having adored you in spite of that dreadful hairstyle you had in Paris, I would barely blink to see you in a pair of breastacles.”

Crowley blushed at the mention of adoration, sneered at mention of the hair and burst into raucous laughter at the name. “Only you’d think up a proper sounding name for it. Breastacles. Brilliant.” They darted in and grinningly kissed them. “And here I thought you’d appreciate me seeing the world through rose-titted glasses. But, as you wish.”

Aziraphale laughed and beamed at the phrase, taking their hand and lacing their fingers together. “Thank you, dearest. For everything. And especially for sparing everyone that.”

[alex-guerin]

Today has just been a truly horrible mental health day for me. Like, I’ve even been taking my meds like I’m supposed to and yet today has just been full of me hating myself, talking down on myself, depression-napping, and just staring at basically nothing the whole fucking day. It’s like my brain decided to remind me how utterly alone I am. That the only person who speaks to me on a regular basis is my mom. 

It’s been a day of feeling like I’m just kind of taking up space. A day of feeling like the line from Broadchurch “What’s the point of you, Hardy?!” basically sums up my entire existence because let’s face it, there really isn’t much of a point of me. I’m an outsider looking in. I push people away without meaning to. I’m the epitome of “socially awkward penguin”. I reach out to a void hoping to connect and only find silence and darkness. 

The big boss at my job is still trying to find some reason to fire me, even though my managers tell me at least once a week how good I’m doing, that I’ve gotten a personal email from the stepson of one of the Way Big Bosses saying he wishes they could send me around to the other plants to train the loaders everywhere else because I’ve been doing such a good job at it. Even though I’ve been told all these things, my mind just keeps telling me how useless I am, that I fuck things up more than I get them right, that the big boss is right to want to fire me because no matter what shift I’m on, what department I’m put into, I’m the reasons things go wrong every time. 

I feel like the only way people will listen to me is if I play like I’m happy all the time. Which has become my default. Even when all I want to do is crawl into a hole somewhere and cry, I “put on a happy face” and soldier on and no one notices that I just am not happy. That I feel hollow. Forgotten. Ignored. Ushered off to the side. Disposable. That’s been my usual feeling for longer than I can remember. I’m the Disposable Friend. I’m there in people’s lives for a year, maybe more, and then next thing I know I’m out of their lives. Left on the sidelines watching the world carry on while I try to figure out how I managed to oust myself out of yet another friendship. 

I know I’m alone, and that the people who originally followed me for Avengers stuff have unfollowed me and moved, that others have probably just muted me or blocked me so they don’t have to see my whining posts like this one. I’ve been in a few fandoms since Avengers, and I don’t really feel like I ever truly made any friends in those fandoms, and I know I don’t have anyone left to talk to about any of them, either. Now, with a year gone by of being in the GO fandom, I once again realize just how alone and outside of things I am. I don’t have people to fangirl squee with, to cheerlead me on with writing, to help inspire me into doing drawings of the Ineffable Husbands. I’m just not noticeable. I’m background noise. Emphasis on the noise. I take up space with pointless posts that get overlooked; with posts like this that no doubt get viewed as me being a passive aggressive whiny little brat. And maybe I am. I don’t know. Maybe my sister was right in trying to turn all my friends against me and posting a thing on facebook entitled: “Why My Sister is Officially a Cunt”. Maybe she was right that I can’t create anything original, that I have to copy other people’s works. 

And I’m not fishing for validation, or for pity replies or anything like that. I just...I don’t even know. I’m just useless, I guess. And taking up space again by whining. Hell, I don’t even get hate anons anymore, that’s how unnoticeable I am. 

Sorry...I’ll stop taking up dash space now...

[smuggsy]

Could you perhaps write some ineffable husbands and times they met up in the 6000 years that aren’t shown?

Okay! So, a couple of things: First, this ended up turning into angst, or rather, that’s all my brain could come up with (meaning, I knew that’s where I was going since the beginning) sorry, I took the easy road. Hopefully you’ll still enjoy it. Second, I wrote only one date... I think I might make this a series on AO3 though, so you might get more one-shots in the near future! Watch out for that (if you enjoy this, that is). So here goes, when they meet during WW1. Thank you for the prompt! ♥

///

1916.

  Aziraphale often thinks there should be more of them. Angels. More of them on earth, that is. There comes a point in which he realizes he can't manage it on his own, evil spreads everywhere, people make the wrong decisions, death and sickness are never-ending. He can't cope. He knows it's inevitable, it is the way it must be and there's only so much he can do about it. Therefore what he can do, he will do. And that's how he finds himself in a hospital in middle London, just standing there in a simple black priest attire, surrounded by wounded and suffering souls, and he looks around and doesn't know where to begin.

  A young trainee taps him on the shoulder gently, Kitty, he thinks her name is. She's from Coventry, he recalls.

  "Father?" she gives him a polite smile, and Aziraphale knows she's been there for a few moments already, trying to get his attention.

  It is difficult to concentrate in such an environment.

  "Oh, yes dear?"

  "This way please"

  Her smile persists, but Aziraphale can sense it isn't quite genuine. He can't blame her; after all, who'd feel any kind of genuine positivity in this horrid place?

  Now, now, that's what we're here for, aren't we?

  He follows her into an adjacent room, a quieter and smaller room where a copper-haired young man -can't be older than twenty, Aziraphale considers- is lying almost unmoving on a cot, hands resting over his stomach and eyes covered with a cloth that turns redder by the second.

  The angel takes a slow and shivering breath in.

  This is the difficult part, the part that makes him want to turn on his tail and leave, run away from the tall and imposing building, leave the screams of pain and anguish behind and pretend none of it is happening. Miracle himself away somewhere far from all the death, from all the suffering.

  Much as it pains him, however, he can't bring himself to be that selfish.

  Kitty leans in closer, "Private Jonathan Miller" she says, same gentle voice, smile now completely faded from her juvenile face.

  "Thank you, dear" he finally returns the kind smile to her, and takes a sit next to the lying form of a wounded soldier. A now-blind ginger young man who has the finest, most delicate fingers -could've well have been a pianist, Aziraphale thinks with sorrow, if war hadn't been unavoidable- and the coldest hands.

  Aziraphale lowers his own hands onto the boy's -just a boy, really, he's just a boy- and warms him up in an instant. The soldier barely moves, a hint of a startle only, and the angel leans in closer to him, hands resting still atop the young man's.

  "You aren't in any pain, my boy, and you are warm" he tells him, voice barely audible. It has only been a couple of weeks since his good deeds in the hospital, but he has found that talking to them makes it easier. He knows not whether it is his voice or the fact that he's touching them, but they become more responsive to it.

  Easy. Not exactly the word that he would use in such a situation. It is anything but easy for Aziraphale, making them happy and comfortable in the last minutes of their lives, young men who have gone through the worst, who have lost friends and who are alone and far away from their families and would otherwise die wrapped in cold bedding with no friendly faces or words to reassure them on their impending destiny.

  He will have none of that.

  "Oh, better days are coming, brighter days" he whispers, and makes sure to pass the sentiment onto him.

  He gets the tiniest of whines in response.

  Aziraphale knows this, because he can feel it. More often than not, he can feel their goodness, their regret, their youth and their very souls. Most of these children are bound for heaven, because they are not at fault. Merely pawns on a game of chess, they are, and too young to know any better.

  Too young to be leaving this world.

  Leaving without living.

  Leaving.

  Leaving.

  Leaving.

  "You're calm, nothing hurts" Aziraphale tightens the grip on the young boy's hands and leans closer still. He closes his eyes and takes another deep breath in. "You're in peace, Jonathan."

  It would be imperceptible to anybody else. Not a move, not a word, not a single sign of a life coming to its end. However long Private Jonathan Miller would've been lying on that bed, dead, ignored by busy nurses running about, no-one would've known unless they'd approach to check in on his pulse. He was still and cold as a statue before, and so he was now.

  Or, his body was, now.

  Aziraphale lets out the long breath he'd taken in, and sits back down on his chair, letting go of the bony and slender fingers.

  His features are slowly clouded by apprehension.

  He looks up to a clock hanging from the opposite wall.

  It's barely two o'clock.

  The day has only started, but he pulls himself up on his feet before sentiment can get the best of him. This is what he's allowed to do. He can't meddle with things on a bigger scale, he can only do his duty from a point that doesn't really put a stop to it. It's infuriating, and if he thinks too much about it, he is overwhelmed by a feeling of helplessness that renders him useless. So he does pull himself up. Because the last time he let it affect him he barricaded himself up on his library and didn't leave for a whole week.

  And for that whole week, a count of thirty-three soldiers passed, he learnt after.

  It'll be over soon, he repeats in his mind, a phrase that has accompanied him now for days on end, a phrase that has become a mantra to help him push through the darkest days. A phrase that he is mostly unsure of. It will be over soon.

  Today, it isn't over until about six. He walks his way back to the bookshop under the pouring of rain after promising the Head Nurse he'll come round in the morning.

  "We have two trucks coming in at eight", she'd informed him. At that point, Aziraphale couldn't quite muster any kind of smile, not even a hint of it. He'd nodded and turned around.

  Two blocks away from the hospital he miracles his usual attire back on, and he drags his feet to his shop, little to no energy left within him.

  No sooner has he closed the door behind him than Crowley has suddenly materialized on his couch.

  "Nighty-night, angel!" his loud and chipper voice pierces through the silent and dim-lighted room, and Aziraphale fights back a grimace.

  He is completely exhausted and this is quite possibly the worst time to be dealing with the demon's occurrences.

  "Crowley." He acknowledges, taking his drenched coat off and hanging it on the door rack, removing his button vest as well. The vest which is feeling rather constricting against his form - it isn't so much the cloth as his own feeling of being trapped, of needing to breathe, of needing space, what prompts him to get rid of it.

  When he turns around he isn't surprised to find Crowley standing there and looking at him like he's a small wounded animal who needs drying off and feeding.

  "Angel..." Crowley coos, seizing him up and down with a frown, with worry, with understanding, as a pool of water forms underneath his feet.

  Well, he could do with the drying off part, really.

  "Horrid weather outside" he says, a pathetic comment just to make conversation, an intent at hiding his own self from Crowley even though he knows very well that the demon can read him like an open book. "Have you been waiting long?"

  He walks past Crowley, who takes a step aside to let him through, mouth half-open but no words coming out.

  And Aziraphale feels dry from a moment to another.

  "Oh- thank you, kindly" he says, not turning around, making for the kitchen.

  "Aziraphale..."

  "Cup of tea?"

  He's dry now, but he feels cold nonetheless. A chill has settled in inside, a kind of cold that doesn't go away no matter how many hot cups of tea he drinks. It only grows stronger by the day.

  Crowley is kind enough to wait until they are both seated before he speaks his mind. It is uncomfortable for the angel, he can't hide away now, can't show the demon his back while he busies himself with tins of imported beverages and boiling water and tray-assembling. Now he's here for Crowley to contemplate, and contemplating him he is, if his facial expression is anything to go by.

  "Just what exactly have you been doing?" He asks, barely a moment after the angel has settled in on the couch, cup of tea in hand. Crowley, for his part, doesn't even spare a glance to the smoking flavoured-water next to him on the table.

  His voice is gentle, yet there is an underlying feeling of hostility to it.

  "Whatever do you mean?"

  "Don't play the fool now, you feel like- like-" Crowley gestures wildly in the air, struggling to put it into words. Desolate. Gloomy. Mournful. Drained. "You don't feel like you" he says, in the end. Because he's never felt this before, not this much, not with Aziraphale.

  The demon glances at the now-dry coat and vest hanging from the door, no need to out his words on that, looks back at Aziraphale and sees him do the most imperceptible of nods.

  "What? What is it? The war?"

  "Well of course it's the war" Aziraphale retorts, striving for patience but failing at it.

  "You've been trying to stop it or what?" Crowley shakes his head, makes a face, almost mutters out a laugh. The thought of a single angel trying to put an end to such conflict is simply another definition to the word 'naivety'. "You know it can't be helped, angel"

  "Yes, I know"

  "Then go somewhere else! Your books won't go anywhere, you can take my word on that! When have I lied to you? Listen, I've been to Thailand recently, they have these temples, oh, you'd love 'em, you need some peace and quiet, recharge your mojo, I can sho-"

  "I'm not going anywhere, Crowley. For heaven's sake, how can you turn a blind eye?!"

  Aziraphale puts the empty cup of tea down with an aggressive sound, the remaining liquid spluttering out of it, words bursting out of him like venom.

  "How can you not care?"

  "I-"

  "You're a demon, yes, I know" Aziraphale cuts in, because they've had this conversation before, time and time again. Good and evil. Light and darkness. They must both fulfil their duties, and asking Crowley why he doesn't care about people dying is as much stupid a question as asking an angel why he does.

  It is part of their nature and the ineffable plan of which they are barely pawns as well, just like the hundred and thousands of soldiers out there are pawns of another, more earthly and macabre plan.

  Whilst Crowley doesn't probably bat an eye to a young blind ginger soldier suffering through a head injury, Aziraphale is mortified by it. By the blood, by the inevitable pain and the unstoppable ending of lives. By the calling of mothers and the pleads, by the horror and the fear.

  "Why are you doing this, angel?"

  Aziraphale looks up from his lap and to the demon, and he doesn't try to hide himself this time. He is tired, he is heartbroken, and he is sleepy.

  "Because I can" he says, with a small voice. "Would it be awfully ungentlemanly of me to doze off for a bit?"

  Crowley blinks at his words, doesn't say a thing as he shuffles closer to the arm-rest and makes himself as comfortable as he can on the couch. When he lets out a yawn, the demon seems to find his voice again.

  "My, you really did mean that- no, of course, please do, I- bloody hell, you need to slow down on this whole thing, angel..."

  "So sorry, truly I am the worst of hosts..." Aziraphale mumbles, eyes closing.

  "You are" Crowley nods mockingly.

  "...just an hour, I'll be done in a jiffy."

  Those are his last words -albeit a little slurred at the end- before he slips into unconsciousness, much to Crowley's chagrin.

  Using his angelic powers so recklessly till the point of actually needing to rest in order to recharge, that is completely nuts. It shouldn’t be necessary. Leave it to bloody Aziraphale to be too nice for his own good.

  The demon starts up the fire with a simple flick of his hand, a quite aggressive one - projecting his anger is something that he hasn't quite mastered.

  He sits back down on his chair and waits. Stares at Aziraphale’s troubled features and listens to his uneven breathing for too long.

  "Bollocks" Crowley mouths, and he bites his lower lip in annoyance.

  This is really taking a toll on his angel.

  "Fuck"

  If he could make it better, he would.

  Thing is, this one is really out of his hands. Just like it is out of Aziraphale's.

  There are some things they simply cannot play a part in -not a significant one, anyway- and this is one of them.

  He stares at Aziraphale, at his hands tightly gripping each other in an anxious manner even in his sleep, at his furrowed brow and tense posture.

  And the demon takes a deep breath in himself.

  He reaches out for Aziraphale's golden curls -the chair he's in swiftly moving forwards soundlessly- and runs a gentle hand through them, slowly and delicately enough not to wake him up. The angel's features are soothed instantly, and Crowley looks down at him tenderly as the tension leaves his body.

  Now, perhaps this is something he can fix.

[theliterateape]

Red Brick Door - A Fiction

by Dana Jerman

“These were my people, but I was not theirs. Their clammed unhappy world was my world, and it terrified me.” – Dale Gunthorp (from Gypsophilia)

Her face was constantly consumed in a grin that lent her an emotionally invincibility. Somehow, no one could piss her off. In high school, a time when the rest of us were doing nothing but being pubescent and grumpy and frowning, embracing its toughness, its indifference- she was busy being engaged in a teeth-flash fest all day long. Even in class when concentrating her closed lips were upturned at the corners. She endured taunts with laughs that only brightened her face, because she was beautiful, although it was easy to make fun of her. Those who would blow off steam on others knew they could go to her because she wasn’t going to get all huffy and turn their friends on them later. I only saw her get mad once and it was all in her eyes and brows.  Her mouth remained open and perky. Tall, brown eyes. A high voice that danced around you with singsong qualities. Never had a boyfriend and walked with a tall briskness that defined direction. Ashley.

I was graduating a class ahead, so during my sophomore year, she showed up for her first at the same city university. I suppose it wasn’t a day, as in a defined 24 hours, that the temper in her smile changed, dissolved. It was a pretty subtle process dragging for weeks, insidious. I still feel as if I should have guessed that something like it would happen. That her mouth would get tired.

I’d run into her on campus at a random juncture and was startled into an indignant curiosity not to find that brazen show of oral cavity on display. Upon trying to engage her in that familiar shining smile her bottom lip would barely twitch in a gesture akin to a muscle spasm and she would breeze past like the embodiment of the cold shoulder. All that wattage was burning right out.

I spied her in a study carol at the library one day, her head buried in a few open texts at a time and writing diligently. I’d never had the opportunity to study her physically before beyond the smile and for a minute I thought she was someone else. Older. With her hair up in a bun on her head, it was plain to see the words “Red Brick Door” tattooed simply on the pale flesh of her neck. Struck by a bewildering force, I stood in amazement. Once glee-filled oozing endorphins this girl was now shrouded in an enigmatic cloud that rebuilt her. I recalled the furiousness of her pen as it moved across a near full sheet of notebook paper. It was probably at this time that I felt I could have changed things, like everyone believes in their individual power to affect a situation and pivot history.

//

Much later amongst old friends at a house party with drinks in hand, I observed an old comrade feed her new significant other hummus for the first time as they sat around a long table. Watching, smirking, until my ears burned as a few seated around the television in the next room began to call the name Ashley White in casual speaking. I moved in to eavesdrop.

“You heard about all this, right? Do you remember the tall blonde from the 1991 class?  She acted kind of scatterbrained?” The question.

“Yeah, somebody mentioned something to me a few days ago. Isn’t she, like, dead now, er something?” The remark.

“No, no, she’s been incarcerated for murdering members of an all-girl gang. Like, thirteen of them are dead. Amazing. She has yet to go to trial, but I guess she was part of the gang, the “brick house” or something.”

They nodded in understanding and went back to drinking and watching the news, full of superficially covered street crime and commercials. I felt flush with anger for hearing this report second hand and of all places at a party. It made me consider the largeness of the city, the impersonality. Ashley’s smile was like a beacon of pure light, accompanied by those wild brown eyes. In my memory again this time like a force changed- a sense of history and balance now altogether flawed, astray. Who could have guessed how much she really needed from a community that continually denied her?

I left the party. Seized with a sensation ineffable, existential. Before realizing it I was seated at home with a pen in one hand, writing a letter to Ashley. I asked questions and made statements.  She returned my post after a few months with this:

"Look, it’s hard for me to write in here. I’m not comfortable with how mail is handled and scrutinized. My general ability to be mobile in this ward is continually limited. To be blunt, I’m getting used to things. Deep thanks for writing to me. Explanations will follow if you wish to communicate further by making your presence known on an allotted visitation date. Until then, with hope and liberation – Ashley."

And so I went. There is a belief that places only really exist between when you come and when you leave.  Everyday for the rest of my life that penitentiary and things said there will blaze on in the back of my brain like an ache impervious to aspirin.

//

Max security. The walls gray and pea green and orange, reminding me of middle school– stale, injected with a numbing agent, a tranquilizing drug that made my insides feel like mildew. The rhythm of thick doors slamming around me gave a claustrophobic feel to each room I was escorted through. The plexiglas window had a stainless steel circular screen in its middle. We would be speaking through a bathtub drain. Two women down on the end were engaged with inmates I couldn’t see. The feeling of encouraged separation, isolation, of total warranted domination by a system sat on my shoulders like puttied guilt. Then the door buzzed and a blue light came on across from me, through the glass.

Her hair was cut very short. Her eyes only sunken a little, she smiled when she spied me with her mouth and nothing more. She wore loose fitting grey scrub-type pants and black moccasin slipper sandals that made her feet look too small. A yellowish shirt. Her hands, the deft fingers lithe with clean, short nails, cuffed in front- a death-row Christ. As she sat, I smiled to return her grin but no words would come out.

“I’ve been excited at the thought of your coming.”  In the opening confession her voice was a warm rasp like high grain sandpaper. I thought about her sitting at her typewriter (it was a typewritten note she had sent to me not so long ago), not speaking for days on end as she wrote, her diligent pain pouring out onto sheet after thin sheet – easily ripped and discarded, the dry ink smeared on the edges from the tips of tongued-wet curious fingers. I knew I was crouching in my seat and felt like a tree stump that never got any sun from its place on the back of a hillside. I sat up. I wanted to be candid and open, but asking again the questions I’d posed in my letter seemed trite. I almost forgot the woman was a murderer. It made me sick for a split second to feel safe behind the glass. I didn’t want safety.

“Ashley, I owe you an apology.” I cleared my throat, “I’m here for selfish reasons- I only want to listen.” I couldn’t move a muscle under her wily eyes that might have wanted my voice more than her own. Her smile, like glimpsing her naked, stayed as her eyes dropped away.

“Hmm. You’re probably interested in all the minor bullshit my lawyer would advise me against sharing. But hey, you’re the first to visit me, you know? People are too busy worrying about what I have become and what I’ll look like if they do finally get around to visiting me. Anyway, it won’t matter for much longer, someone’s pulling my number. Women survived my injustice and I don’t want to be a part of that world. If there is a need to say it, life with them became more about hard-line assertion. Vengeance.” She seemed eager to launch into philosophy, regardless of my understanding. A guard moved over to light the cigarette that appeared between her lips.

“Life with the affiliated clan, you know success became less about presenting situations and initiating challenges to one another. Less about liberation and embracing the “necessity to freedom” that for so long we nailed ourselves to in credo. RBD to us represents the entrance to our minds. We have the power to bulwark our consciousness and keep ourselves and what we need in, while the rest stays out. Reducing our wants through sisterhood. That’s why when you come in, you don’t leave.”

The look on her face suddenly weakened.  She reached back with both cuffed hands in a motion to loosen her neck muscles. I thought again of the tattoo there. A reminder and announcement, an enunciation.

“There were two women- partners, central to the group. Had just adopted a baby girl. Before too long one of them was being neglectful. Turns out she was abusing her position by seducing a woman from another organization. One night the other woman came and tried to take their child. The innocent lover discovered that the guilty one had encouraged this woman to kidnap their baby, and she went off.  She used those within and solicited other alliances to start a war. It’s always easy to find an enemy if you want one.

For me, it’s a case of  “right time, wrong revolution.” My attempts at destroying what I believed was a stagnant, poorly executed terrorist movement landed me here, because even if I wasn’t the punisher first, someone has to be punished. I was devoted to a localized uprising that had to die before it fell into the oppressive trap of mainstream power by associating with the wrong ideas, the wrong classes. But my struggle isn’t new.

I think about the women I chose to assassinate and admitted to slaying in court not but two weeks ago – in front of mothers and fathers and husbands and children and friends. I have three months to live because I called these women to my apartment one afternoon- just picked up the phone like it should be done. I’m not insane. I feel pain when I think of them. I think of what we did as a family. Little moments of peace.” She dropped the cigarette under her slipper and leaned back.

“A handful of us worked at the sugar plant near the east side. The sunset at the horizon point there reflected on this huge set of sheet glass windows on the rooftop– it made everything warm. I felt a balance when I went there, like I was standing on the equator. Like South America. Have you ever been there? We were beginning to plan a trip to Argentina before things…”

She paused with a sigh under closed eyes.

 “I fought for a freedom and that’s exactly what it cost me. Hard to face that I was a part of them, yes, but more a part of this… future that ironically I no longer have?”

Taciturn, I waited for her to answer her own question. Then her smile, that shining light, possessed of a kind of sheer magnetic power, returned briefly at the buzzer before she rose and left. She melted back into the cell of my memory now reconstructed from conflicting histories and righteous agendas. Of course I never saw her alive again, so she remains very much trapped there, in-between but whole, smiling.

[pendragyn]

Stacking The Deck

Yet Another Good Omens Fanfic from the Ineffable Bastards Universe (Also available on AO3)

Harriet wanted to be asleep. She’d just had a baby a few hours earlier, and all she really wanted was sleep. They had given her something for the pain, but it didn’t stop her having to use the restroom, which was NOT FUN right now, and it took a while for things to settle back down and she just. wanted. sleep.

What she got, was voices.

A few she recognized, distant and muzzy, as the nuns who’d helped deliver the baby. There was also the one not-nun who’d shuffled in during the chaos, wrinkly as an old apple with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, who had actually delivered the baby before quickly shuffling back out again. The nuns had treated her with deep respect, whispering to each other about ‘a touch of the Old Adam’ she carried about her.

There was now a lot more raucous laughter coming from down the hallway, and some singing of what were definitely not religious hymns. Mingled in were the voices of men, which some deep part of her brain realized were from her supposed security detail, who’d abandoned her the minute the live feed with her husband had ended.

But under those voices was another voice, one that she’d learned to listen to when it whispered a little too loudly to ignore. And it was telling her to check on the baby, to check on Warlock. Right Now.

With a muffled groan Harriet slid her legs over the side of the bed and eased herself to her feet. With the dimmed lights and muddled by whatever they had given her, it took her a moment to realize that the bassinet wasn’t there. No Warlock. And no guards. And no nuns.

The coolness of the linoleum felt good against the bottoms of her feet and she shuffled dreamily out of the room into the empty hallway, too well medicated to feel panic, but the little voice was getting louder. And it was talking with an odd accent, which was weird. And it was calling her by her full name now, which was even more unusual. Find your baby, Harriet Sibyl Dowling. Find him now or lose him forever.

She swayed uncertainly at a crossroads, the darkness and everything conspiring to make the two hallways seem interminably long and full of oddly moving shadows. What finally moved her was the out of tune singing that seemed to be going on about ‘hedgehogs can never be something at all’. Harriet liked hedgehogs, and on unsteady legs she moved towards the voices.

“Let me just pop out and get another bottle!” A splash of light and noise flooded the end of the hallway and Harriet turned away in self defense, pushing through a swinging door and finding herself in the tiny nursery. There were three babies in bassinets, lined up in a row, clearly having just been tended to and awaiting return to their mothers.

On the little weighing table next to the door, three tiny bracelets drew Harriet’s attention ,and the part of her that had been raised to be helpful picked them up and moved towards the trio of babies. She’d always been good at kenning, as her grandmother had called it. Said it was a special gift that only a few people were born with, and she had warned her solemnly to keep it secret. She’d never even told Thaddeus, not that he would have believed her. It had led her to him, had told her just where she needed to be to be noticed by him.

She’d been making quite a bit of money, going down to the boardwalk and the street fairs and watching with wide-eyed innocence as some fast talker shuffled cards or shifted cups while asking people to make bets. She’d pretend shyness and let them flirt with her, and feign delighted shock when she’d lose and lose and lose only to win in the very end, much to everyone’s amazement, especially the ones doing the shuffling. But that day she’d gone and watched other people play and lose, and when the man from her dreams walked up, dressed fancy and looking to impress his friends, she’d let her grandmother’s sun hat float away on the breeze and land at his feet. The rest had fallen into place, as they say, like magic.

The thought of magic had her turning to look at the little sleeping babies snuggled in their blankets. Harriet knew right away which one was hers, all hers, little Warlock in the cream blanket. She tied the little bracelet back on his wrist, stroking her finger over the curve of his cheek. “Hello baby Warlock. My little miracle baby.” She thought of all the effort they’d gone through, her and Thaddeus, to get to this point, and here he was, small and wrinkly and perfect.

The little baby on the left shifted and sneezed and Harriet stifled a giggle, looking down at the other two bracelets, squinting at the bad handwriting, not that it mattered, because she knew the right tag went to the left baby, bundled snuggly in a red blanket. She squinted at the name. “Hello little Adam. Do you have a touch of the Old Adam in you too, I wonder? You look like a little angel to me,” she cooed, tying his little bracelet on.

All that left was the right baby, sleeping soundly in blue, looking supremely satisfied. “And here’s another little angel, waiting to fly off to his mommy and daddy. They’re going to love you very much, yes they are, yes they are,” she cooed, feeling supremely satisfied herself with a job well done. She’d had a baby and had averted disaster and all would be well with the world when she could finally get some sleep.

Sister Theresa Garrulous was laughing at a joke the midwife was telling when she pulled up short in the doorway to the nursery, the much shorter woman walked into her back with a muffled yelp. “Mrs. Dowling!”

Harriet smiled dreamily and shushed the nun and the little grinning woman behind her. “Shhhh! You’ll wake them.”

“You shouldn’t be out of bed, dear,” said the shorter woman, gently taking Harriet’s hand and trying to lead her back to her room.

“I needed to check on the baby,” Harriet told her. She twisted around to look at him again, clearly not wanting to let him out of her sight.

Sister Theresa anxiously looked over the babies, checking their tags and sighing in relief that this time Sister Barbara Jane Obstreperous hadn’t foolishly taken off their tags during their baths, as the old hag was usually wont to do, no matter how much Mother Superior scolded her. “Why don’t we bring him back with you,” said Sister Theresa soothingly, unlocking the wheels of the center bassinet. “He’s all tidied up for now and it will be a bit before he needs another feeding. Maybe you’ll be more rested by then.”

“I hope so,” said Harriet, smiling down at the wrinkly old woman who wasn’t actually as old as Harriet had assumed. “The little voice was getting quite loud,” she confided.

“Oh, they do that sometimes,” the midwife agreed, patting Harriet’s hand and helping her back into her bed. “Stay in bed now, there’s a dear, you’ve had a rough time of it and no mistake.”

Harriet nodded, feeling sudden tears pooling in her eyes. “It’s a miracle we had a baby at all,” she said, smiling over to where the nun had settled Warlock’s bassinet. “He’ll probably be the only one I have, but I’ll love him no matter what. My little miracle baby.”

And Sister Theresa shared a smirk with the midwife before happily bustling herself back to the party, assuming the midwife was following along behind. Much like winking, smirking was an ancient and versatile communication device. For example, Sister Theresa Garrulous’ smirk said: A dark and sinister miracle seen to by Hell’s Chosen Envoy, Master Crowley, to deliver unto her the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Prince of This World and Lord of Darkness. We shall be greatly rewarded for our work here this terrible night, basking in eternity under Our Lord Satan’s great and sullied wings!

And she had assumed the midwife’s smirk had meant: Indeed, Sister Theresa, foul and dark deeds were done this night and you and the others of your order will reap the many rewards promised to you, I assure you of this as a Chosen Emissary of Hell, Satan’s Own Midwife.

Whereas the midwife, knowing full well what Sister Theresa’s smirk meant, had smirked back while thinking to herself: Get gone you daft bloody besom, before I send you to your reward myself. How absolutely binkers do you have to be to want to destroy the very planet you live on? With tenderness she patted Harriet’s hand, tucking her back under the covers. “I have no doubt you will love him with all your heart, dear. What did you name him?”

“We were going to name him Thaddeus, but one of the nuns suggested Warlock and I knew it was just right.” They both looked to the small form sleeping in the bassinet and the midwife canted her head and cracked into a wide smile and followed Sister Theresa out of the room. She turned left instead of right though, heading for the main doors, her work for the night done, and done well if she said so herself.

When a shadow passed in the hall Sister Mary Loquacious popped out of her little room near the entrance, where she’d been tasked to keep an eye on the door in case they had any other visitors during the evening hours. “Oh, leaving so soon?” she said with a slight sigh of disappointment. She really had hoped to geta chance to join in on the sinister celebrations going on in the refectory.

“‘Fraid so, love, got other patients to see to back in Lancretown. Don’t look so glum dear, I see good days ahead for you. Just steer clear of Master Crowley and that lot, yeah?”

Sister Mary frowned in confusion at having a Chosen Emissary of Hell telling a Satanic nun to avoid dealing with demons, but she liked Nanny Ogg far too much to contradict her. “I’ll, er, keep it in mind Nanny.”

“You do that my dear, and you’ll be golden,” Nanny grinned, giving Sister Mary a wink and slipping out the door.

Back in her room Harriet shifted a little, just beginning to finally drift off to sleep, smiling as a cool hand brushed against her brow, tucking her mussed hair away from her cheek. That’s my girl, the not-so-little voice whispered, a faint image of a handsome middle-aged woman in old timey clothes shimmering in the air beside her bed. I’m mighty proud of ye, Harriet Sibyl Nutter Dowling. Everything’s right where it needs to be.