#i love making the bentley an actual character

[duck-in-a-spaceship]

The Post Break-Up Box of Shame

WOO chapter two babey. This is it for this one, there's not gonna be a chapter three, but I might tack on some extra scenes! Tell me if there's anything else you want to see with this concept!!

Summary: Crowley's car is throwing fit, and the lesbians are here to save the day. As if he's going to let them.

Word Count: 2501

<<Previous

+++

Chapter 2: Some Bloody Conspiring

“Oh my, we were wondering if you two would be back,” Maggie was approaching him fairly rapidly, and Crowley made it his mission to approach the Bentley rapidly-er. “What on earth happened? Are you alright?”

“Oh yeah, just peachy.” The door of the Bentley, which usually swung right open on his arrival, was suddenly stuck. “Come on you little- oh here, take this.” Crowley shoved the box of plants at her, and Maggie struggled to grab onto them in time, lurching forwards slightly to take hold.

“Careful!” she insisted, adjusting her grip on the plants so they didn’t fall.

“Right, yep, sorry about that. Would you stop throwing a fit?”

“Excuse me! I’m-”

“Oh not you,” Crowley told her, waving a hand dismissively. “This blasted door won’t open. Although, while you’re here, we should have a little chat- aha!” The door to the Bentley suddenly popped open, and Crowley cheerfully swung it aside.

“Yes, I wanted to talk to you too, actually.” Maggie offered out the plants to him, and Crowley took them, shoving them in the backseat.

“Right, right. Yeah, Muriel, the new angel at the bookshop? They’ve got no clue what they’re doing, quite frankly, when it comes to human things, so you really don’t have to worry about rent. She tried to get me to take it to Aziraphale, but obviously he doesn’t need it either-”

“Yes, Aziraphale, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“-so you can just hang on to it,” Crowley continued, completely ignoring her attempted interjection. He shut the door of the Bentley. “In fact you could probably go get what you already gave her, just tell her I said it was alright or something, tell them it’s some sort of human thing.”

“Crowley, I’m not really worried about the rent. I mean, thank you and all but… well but really I just wanted to talk to you?”

He reached out past her to open the door of the Bentley, which would preferably be followed by the steps of getting in the driver’s seat and speeding away. Ideally with some Queen playing, not any of that loverboy nonsense, but some good old Bohemian, or a ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ for the road. All of this was prevented by the fact that the door would. Not. Budge.

“Why?” he asked her sharply, tugging on the handle. “Have some more winning advice to give?”

Maggie winced, looking at Crowley pitifully as he continued to struggle with his car. “I’m guessing it didn’t go well then?”

“No.”

“Well… well what happened? Maybe it’s not all a lost cause, you know?”

Crowley scoffed, gave up on the handle to turn and face her. “Not a lost cause, right. Hey, just wondering, have you seen him at that bookshop lately? Or anywhere, really? Nah, right? Seems lost to me.” He rapped on the window. “Do you at least want to open this, or are you going to continue to be difficult?”

He mostly expected the Bentley to stay quiet, maybe a small part expected the window to indeed roll down. What Crowley was not expecting was for slow, soft classical music to start playing from the speakers. “Oh for fuck’s sake!”

“Hey!” some passerby shouted.

“Yeah, hey to you!” Crowley shouted back, looking up to see Nina crossing the street towards him. Maggie waved. He groaned. “Hello Nina, do you have anything large and heavy I could use to break-”

“No! I’m not going to help you throw your little tantrum out here.”

“Oh alright. Oh- great, thank you for that.” Crowley walked away, heading to try the trunk of the Bentley, which Maggie and Nina used as an opportunity to conspire.

“What’s gotten into him?” Crowley heard Nina ask, not at all quietly.

“Well,” Maggie started, at the very least trying to whisper. “He said it didn’t go well, when he tried to talk to Aziraphale.”

“Oo, what happened then?”

“I don’t know, he won’t say anything else about it.”

“Well, I suppose there’s nothing we can do then, hm?”

“Oh Nina, we can’t just ignore him. I know you know how rough heartbreak is, we should help him out.”

Crowley muttered a string of curse words at the Bentley, turning to whatever languages he fancied after he ran out of English ones. Nina sighed loudly enough for him to hear, and probably for all of heaven to hear as well.

“Crowley!” she shouted.

“What?” he demanded. The Bentley was still, no matter how hard he tried, refusing to let him in.

“You want to come inside and have something to drink?”

“Nah, I’m good. Was just heading out, really.”

Maggie leaned to look over at him. “Seems like it’s still jammed. Maybe you should call someone, and come inside while you wait,” she offered.

Crowley sighed, leaning against the Bentley, fingers tapping against the side of the car. “You,” he muttered to it. “You are going to have to pay for this later, you understand?” The classical music fell on a slow decrescendo until it stopped completely. Crowley tried the door again. No luck. “Yeah,” he called over to Nina and Maggie. “Yeah, alright, lead the damned way.”

===

Crowley stared at the ceiling of the record shop, eyes scanning over the various posters pasted there. His fingers were loosely curled around a mug of coffee and bourbon (although it could really be more accurately described the other way around) where his hand was splayed on the rug next to him. It was a nice rug, really, good and soft, so long as you ignored the headache-inducing waves of color and design.

“Well… I think that was awfully brave of you,” Maggie finally spoke up, finishing the silence that followed his sad little tale.

“Yeah, real brave,” Crowley agreed sarcastically. “Not brave enough though, was it? Cuz he still ran off to heaven.” He dragged a hand down his face and let it muffle his speech. “Couldn’t seem to get away fast enough.”

Another silence, during which he didn’t bother to look over and see what Maggie and Nina were doing. Probably more bloody conspiring. He understood their frustrations now, with all the poking around in their love like (necessary as it was). Now that the roles were all flipped, he’d very much just like to be left alone.

“Well, maybe he just needs some time. I mean, Maggie and I are still figuring things out, taking things nice and slow, because I just ended things with my old partner. Maybe after all of your heaven and hell nonsense, he just needs a bit of a break.”

“Then he would’ve taken a little break instead of running off to be the archangel of heaven.”

“I know but-” Maggie tried to intervene, but Crowley had actually decided he had more to say on that matter, unfortunately enough.

“Heaven!” he exclaimed, sitting up suddenly, bringing the mug with him as he stood, half-full contents sloshing around. “I know he’s always had a soft spot for the bastards, but I thought we were moving on from the heaven = good, hell = bad nonsense. They’re all homicidal idiots, you know?”

Crowley spun around to face Nina and Maggie, unfortunately spilling a bit of his drink onto the aforementioned carpet. Ah well, probably no one would notice. They were both staring at him with blank confusion.

“Alright,” Maggie started, with enough forced optimism Crowley could tell she really had to hype herself up for this conversation. “Alright, we might not know much about heaven and hell and archangels and what all that entails, at least not as much as we might have thought, but we do know at least a little bit about relationships and you two need to talk.”

Nina nodded sharply. “Can’t solve anything if you aren’t on the same page. Or the same planet for that matter. Not entirely sure where heaven is, but I’m pretty sure it’s not here.”

“It’s not,” Crowley confirmed, leaning back on one of the record shelves. “Don’t worry,” he added glumly.

“Right, well since you seem to know where it is-”

“I’m a demon!” Crowley interrupted, spreading his arms out with dramatic flourish. More of his drink splashed onto the carpet below, which earned him a glare from both Niana and Maggie, so he waved a hand to miracle it away. “I can’t just go waltzing up to heaven just because I fancy a little chat with my mates, now can I?”

(Crowley, of course, very much could do this. He’d proved as much when he put on a very nice outfit, commandeered an angel turned police officer, and poked around in all their stuff. However, he was hoping Nina and Maggie would sort of just take his word on it, because he was really trying to drop this particular conversation topic.)

“Well I don’t know!” Nina exclaimed, and Crowley got the sense that they were getting a bit fed up with all this angel-demon nonsense. He’d drink to that– he was getting pretty fed up with it himself. “I don’t know if you can, I’m not particularly sure what an archangel is, or who this metatron fellow is, or what exactly happened at the meeting, or what has even been going on. I have no goddamn clue. But what I do know is that you and Aziraphale are clearly head over heels for each other, practically married, and you need to get up off your asses and do something about it.”

Crowley took a sip from his cup, drained the whole thing actually, and then placed it on one of the shelves, carefully balanced. He’d been gearing himself up for a good shout, because if Nina got one, then he felt like he’d more than earned it. Unfortunately, standing on that ugly, but very comfortable carpet, leaning against shelves packed tight with unsold records, looking over at the two of them, Crowley found he wasn’t feeling very shout-y. Just plain wasn’t in the mood for it, much as he’d like to be.

“I think it’s a bit too late for that.”

Apparently no one had anything else they wanted to add.

Crowley tapped his shoe on the floor, wondered if the Bentley would be out of its mood if he decided now would be the time to drive away. He really just wanted to take a long, long nap.

“So, um, what are you going to do now?”

That was a good question, sadly enough. Crowley was getting tired of good questions; he wanted some real shitty ones. Muriel was good at asking shitty questions, maybe he should go talk to them again.

Instead he pulled his glasses off, rubbed his hand across his forehead, and looked up to the ceiling. “Dunno,” he said. “Sort of had a plan there with- we were the plan, you know? We were always the plan. For the last couple of millennia, we had our own side. And then if there was nothing else to do, hell usually kept me busy enough. Now there’s just a whole bunch of bloody nothing.”

Crowley decided then and there that he didn’t care if the Bentley was ready for him, he just needed to get out of that record shop. He shoved his glasses back on. “Then again, I’ll figure it out, don’t really have much of a choice I suppose.” Crowley headed for the door, turning his back on them as soon as he could. They started conspiring immediately, he could tell, but they were getting good enough at it that he had no clue what they actually said.

“Crowley, wait!” Maggie called, just as his hand was on the door. Gah, so close.

“What?” he demanded, or well, half a demand, half a whine, as he turned around.

“Well, I was just thinking, since Aziraphale is, um, taking a little break from Earth right now, and Muriel doesn’t really know what they’re doing, maybe you should help run the bookshop.”

Crowley snorted. “Yeah, for sure. Real bookshop-ist, I am. Now, I’ve really got to get going, you know. Plants to water, ducks to feed-”

“Oh come on now,” Nina interrupted. She crossed her arms, just to prove some point. Crowley wasn’t really sure what it was, but he was pretty sure it was working anyway. “I’m sure you know all the little particularities Aziraphale had about the place. And someone has to make sure no one actually sells the books, right?”

Crowley considered that for a moment. Sure, he’d already told Muriel that she wasn’t actually operating the kind of bookshop that sold things, but that could only go so far. And he hadn’t even gotten around to mentioning the organization system, or how you had to treat books so you didn’t mess them all up, or what was off-limits and what wasn’t, and someone was going to need to replace the fire extinguishers every so often.

“Yeah, alright, I’ll think on it,” Crowley said, trying to convey in tone how much he was not going to think on it. (He was absolutely going to think on it.) “But if that’s all…” he trailed off, giving either of them the chance to interrupt. “Great, see ya around, thanks for the drinks.”

They both waved as he finally opened the door, each calling after him with their own goodbyes.

“Drive safe!”

“Stop by sometime.”

And as the door swung shut, Crowley looked over his shoulder to see they were already, indeed, conspiring.

===

The Bentley sat waiting for Crowley when he got back, and the door opened without a single threat, which was a welcome surprise. “Well, thank you, you dick,” he muttered softly. Crowley slid into the driver’s seat, and slammed it shut.

He just sat there for another moment. The plants were probably throwing a fit in the backseat, not at all happy to be back in the car after adjusting nicely to their cushy bookshop life. Crowley drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, stared out at the road, watched as the rain began to trickle down. It left misty drops on the windshield, like stars, like alpha centauri, like the pillars of creation, like all those galaxies, oh so long ago.

Crowley groaned, let his forehead slam into the steering wheel. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the glovebox pop open, and out spilled a wave of caramel candies. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, straightening back up. “I get it. I…” he sighed. “I miss him too, you sensitive old sot.” He sighed, dragged a hand down his face. “Alright, come on.”

The bell over the door rang out cheerfully, announcing Crowley’s entrance into the bookshop. Unsurprisingly, not much had changed since he was last there. Muriel peaked out from behind a shelf, their two hats still wobbling precariously on their head. “Oh, hi Crowley!”

Crowley put down his box of plants, and looked over at them. “Muriel, great.” He cleared his throat, grinned at her. “I’d like to apply for a job.”

[fionnaskyborn]

Was tagged by @oceancamp to post my current five favorite songs! (They should invent a stages-of-grief-esque model that encompasses and accurately describes both types of anguish I had to go through making this list - the one of limiting myself to only five songs, and the one of trying to put as little videogame music on here as possible so that I don't end up looking like an absolute goddamn geek, which... I am... Oh well!)

Thank you so much for tagging me - here are the songs!

Heaven Pierce Her - War Without Reason

Tatsuro Yamashita - Love Space

This specific arrangement of Death And Republic + Meet Again

Winger - Junkyard Dog (Tears On Stone)

The Protomen - Light Up The Night

Is it courtesy to tag other people after you've been tagged in a post like this? If that's the case, I'll tag @spiralled-fury, @solradguy, @swamppossum, @five-by-five, @northstarring, @ineedmoredragons and @tbonechessor!

[jubilentj]

There's just something about a walled off character who doesn't show their affections that have their familiar, their car, their magic, their plants, their anything that has the ability to completely subvert that wall and show how they actually feel towards the object of their affections that just gets me

[itsclydebitches]

Just finished Good Omens 2 and I'm honestly boggling at the Aziraphale hate because yes, his decision led to the angsty cliffhanger, but it makes SO much sense for his character. Not just in a "Religious brainwashing and sunk-cost fallacy" kinda way but also a "Aziraphale has no reason to believe this isn't the perfect solution" way. That scene among the nebula is crucial because it establishes that Crowley loved being an angel—reveled in his ability to create and allow his creations to grow kinda like plants—and the only problem was that someone else was calling the shots, someone who wouldn't listen to his criticism. Aziraphale has also spent 6,000+ years watching Crowley do good, all the while forced to deny the fact that he's "nice" lest embracing his original nature get him into trouble with hell. Now, Metatron comes along with an offer that fixes everything in one fell swoop. Crowley can be an angel again, be nice without censure, his ideas and criticisms will hold weight because he'll be answering to Aziraphale, and they'll be together.

It strikes me that Aziraphale isn't there when Crowley sees Gabriel's trial, ergo he likewise doesn't see the (non)acknowledgement that there's an institutional problem up in Heaven. There just happen to have been two archangels who called it quits. Same when Gabriel blurts that phrase out to Crowley. Aziraphale has always been more blind to the ways in which Heaven is "toxic" (for very understandable reasons) and this season he's continually sheltered from new evidence of its structural problems. The plot just preaches to the choir: Crowley. He likewise wouldn't see the conflict Gabriel and Beelzebub have caused as evidence of an underlying problem because that's a problem he and Crowley will no longer share. Why would they be worried about Heaven still being unable to accept partnerships between angels and demons when Crowley will no longer be a demon? And that's something he presumably wants based on Aziraphale's memories of him and the ongoing admission that he's lonely.

The way I see it, they got what they thought they wanted at the start of Season 2. Heaven and Hell are keeping an eye on them, but functionally they're left alone. Crowley can spend all the time he wants with Aziraphale and nothing comes of that except that they're both continually named traitors and the higher-ups grumble about it. If Gabriel had never shown up, things should have been perfect based on Crowley's "Let's just run away and have each other's company" standards. Better, even, considering that they get to be together on their beloved Earth, rather than being bored out in Alpha Centauri without any sushi, plants, books, or Bentleys. And yet... Crowley doesn't strike me as particularly happy. Because, you know, based on that kiss he wants to be with Aziraphale, not just literally be with him, but the point of this post is that his "Let's run away and be an 'us'" falls totally flat when he doesn't explain that specific desire to Aziraphale; the desire to change what an 'us' means. From Aziraphale's perspective they're already an 'us.' That was the entire point of "our side" in Season 1 and now they can continue to be 'us' up in Heaven. Plus, Aziraphale likely sees this as a sacrifice on his part. He will give up his bookshop, his Earthly indulgences, take on the responsibilities of leadership (which I don't think he actually wants for a variety of reasons), and spend the rest of eternity in a place where he's felt so small because he thinks that's what Crowley wants. Crowley was happy as an angel. Crowley wanted them to be together without risk of permanent discorporation. They were able to achieve that after not-Armageddon and he still wasn't happy... so surely those two things together will do the trick. Crowley never actually articulates how he wants their relationship to change and the kiss comes much too late, when he's already rejected what Aziraphale must see as a perfect, selfless solution he's secured for them. Even if Crowley wasn't always moving too fast for him, an overture of romance isn't going to go well after that.

Is this crushing and angsty and devastating as a hiatus? Damn straight, my heart it breaking. But it's a good setup. More importantly, it makes perfect sense for their characters, particularly when they're still talking past one another. Aziraphale is someone who has always moved more slowly as a matter of course, as an angel he has remained immersed in the rhetoric of Heaven, his main avenue of breaking free of that (Crowley) has a huge communication problem (to say nothing of his own denial. He only made headway with the help of Nina and Maggie, seconds before Aziraphale shows up), and Metatron (in a no doubt incredibly manipulative manner) has just offered Aziraphale a job that presumably makes him happy AND Crowley happy AND allows him to maintain the moral this-is-how-the-universe-works perspective he's had since he was literally created. Of course he's going to say yes to all that!! And sure, there are problems in Heaven, Aziraphale isn't completely blind, but he can fix them now that he's in charge. How? Well... he'll figure that out later! Kinda like how he's been making plans on the fly this entire season. That seems logical from his perspective, right? It's not like he's gotten a crash-course in the concept of the master's tools never being able to dismantle the master's house...

[ineffable-suffering]

INEFFABLE META MASTERPOST

Because I'm slowly losing count and need to organize. So, here's all my self-written metas or ones that I reblogged with my own added theories and commentary! In rainbow colours, naturally.

1 – Aziraphale, I love you. But you lied. And here's why. My most lengthy and proudest meta about the Final Fifteen and why I think Aziraphale lied on purpose. (Also: The absolute darling @esthermitchell-author bravely fought their way through it and wrote up some more interesting points and different takes on what I came up with. If you want to go down a S2 rabbit hole with us, go read it here.)

2 – Why Aziraphale is an unreliable narrator (links below) A three-part meta in which I try to analyse and explain that all of the minisodes in Season 2 are not objective narrations but actually Aziraphale's memories.

Part 1: The Story of Job

Part 2: The Story of wee Morag

Part 3: The Story of the Magic Show in 1941

3 – The Jane Austen Ball and why it was never about Nina and Maggie A meta in which I go into unnecessarily great detail about how the Whickber Street Meeting Cotillion Ball was meant to be Aziraphale's confession to Crowley.

4 – Crowley & Aziraphale were never free (reblog) A reblog of @baggvinshield's post in which I explain why miscommunication is the single biggest ineffable enemy in Season 2.

5 – In Defense of Aziraphale (double reblog) A double try at explaining why I think Aziraphale's POV in the Final Fifteen is just as horrible as Crowley's and why I don't think him "choosing" to go back to Heaven was the only point of his character journey.

6 – The Art of Miscommunication: Ineffable Edition A meta in which i once again explain why miscommunication is the single biggest ineffable enemy in Season 2.

7– Season 2 Bookshop Shot Meta A meta where I briefly loose my mind because of a single bookshop frame in Season 2.

8 – What if it wasn't Aziraphale and Crowley who performed the 25 Lazarii miracle? A mini-meta in which I propose the theory that Jimbriel helped with the miracle to hide himself away from Heaven & Hell.

9 – Things in Good Omens Season 2 I still find weird (reblog) A reblog of @ok-sims and many other great OPs' thoughts on the weird loose strings in Season 2 and what unanswered questions I still have myself.

10 – The Deleted Bookshop Scene (reblog) A reblog of @skirtdyke's video and @i-only-ever-asked-questions' smart thoughts on it, with my own overly-excited 'what that could have meant for the "It's too late" line'-theroy.

11 – The Bentley Handle Easter Egg A meta I can proudly say has been liked by none other than Mr. Neil Gaiman himself about Crowley's Bentley handle that might have existed before the Bentley ever did.

12 – The F*cking Eccles Cakes A meta where I briefly loose my mind because of a pastry. (Addendum: People said very smart things in the comments of the post!)

14 – Re: "You go too fast for me, Crowley" A meta in which I make myself sad by connecting that infamous line to Aziraphale assuming Crowley wanted the Holy Water as a suicide pill.

13 – Trauma-Dumping on your plants: The Anthony J. Crowley Chronicles A meta on why Crowley treats his plants the way that he does.

14 – Demonic Mental Health Awareness Post In which I talk about why I want to get Crowley a therapy voucher.

15 – The Curious Incident of The Flaming Sword in Good Omens A meta on why the Flaming Sword has no deeper meaning. Or does it? (Updated: here's a reblog from @queerfables who did a wonderfully exellent job at calmly explaining all the swordy questions I was yelling about! Consider this meta solved.)

16 – Ceci n'est pas une plume A meta in which I'm a bit of a nerd for language and also explain why learning French and magic the human way says so much about Aziraphale as a character.

17 – The meaning of "I forgive you" A meta in which I explain what both "I forgive you"s mean and why Aziraphale will always fight for what is right until he wins. Also, the lovely @sharksbeerr translated it to Chinese on Weibo!

18 – Memory, or the lack thereof, in Season 2 A little reblog on how memory is a big and unresolved, leaky-bucket theme in Season 2.

19 – „It‘s always too late.“ (ft. Crowley‘s watch)

A short meta about that lines from Season 2 that won‘t leave my brain (and also Crowley‘s mysterious watch).

Addendum:

The one non-spoiler-y ask I could come up with about S2 that was actually answered by Neil, yay!

Also, this wholesome little post I added to that Mr. Gaiman also reblogged. :‘)

*** This is a work in progress and will get updated every time I post a new meta! ***

[cosmerelists]

What Car Cosmere Characters Would Drive

As requested by @salted-watermelon :)

If Cosmere characters were instead carsmere characters and, like, drove cars, what kind of car would best suit them? (Don't worry--I got my butch wife to help with this post.)

1. Straff Venture: A cybertruck

The worst of cars for the worst of men.

2. Elend: A Prius

Elend decides to get an environmentally conscious, gas-saving vehicle partly because he cares about the planet, but mostly because it makes his dad SO mad.

3. Kaladin: A beat-up old Corolla

Kaladin's car may be a bit old and it may be a bit beat-up but storms if it isn't the most dependable thing ever. No matter what that car goes through, it just keeps chugging along.

4. Adolin: A Mustang

Get it? Because it's a car with a horse on it!

5. Shallan: A VW Bug

"What's an artsy car for Shallan?" I asked. "How about a Bug?" said my wife. "That's perfect!" I cried. "Shallan LOVES bugs because cremlings is bugs!"

And that is my story.

6. Wax: A Bentley...and also a beat-up old pickup truck

In true Wax style, he drives the Bentley in the Roughs but uses the old beat-up pickup truck in the city, especially when driving to fancy parties.

7. Steris: A Volvo

According to a google search, a Volvo is a car for someone dependable, boring, and safety-conscious. Steris is not actually a boring person, of course, but she would definitely have a boring-person car. Not to mention one that is very safe!

8. Eshonai: A Jeep

A good car for exploring!

9. Lightsong: Rolls Royce

He doesn't drive it anywhere. It mostly just sits there and looks beautiful.

10. Vasher: A mangled Dodge Charger

The car looks a lot like Vasher himself--like it's been through centuries of wear and tear. But hey, it works! Sorta.

11. Leshwi: A Motorcycle

Basically I thought about Leshwi riding a motorcycle and then I passed out.

12. Allrianne: Mini Coop

Apparently these are the girliest of cars. And in Allrianne's case, it's definitely pink!

13. Tress: Takes the bus

In no universe does Tress have a car, I feel. Taking the bus is fine!

14. Raboniel: Subaru

Leading, of course, to the classic exchange:

Raboniel: I drive a Subaru. Navani: 👀 👀 👀

15. Dalinar: A Minivan

Doesn't it just feel right? The other Highlords may scoff at his stodgy old car, and Sadeas might bitterly remind Dalinar of his Hummer days, but a minivan is just the best for Dad-inar. He can drive all his kids around, it has lots of room for storage, and it's so dependable!

A minivan is just where it's at.

[most-normal-eccles-cake-ignorer]

Good Omens: Lockdown and Crowley not mentioning his living situation in S2*

*till S2E6 when he asks if he can have his apartment back bc he's bored of living in his car but Aziraphale doesn’t hear bc mentally he’s in Alpha Centauri.

Having read the 'Crowley doesn't tell him' Neil Gaiman ask close to when I first listened to Lockdown (I lived under a rock until recently), my initial thought was HAS HE BEEN LIVING IN HIS CAR FOR YEARS?! but I think he was still in his apartment in 2020:

as far as Hell knows, Crowley just had a pool party in holy water (the holiest) so the higher-ups are probably willing to give him some space (plus Beelzebub is busy going on pub dates w Gabriel)

while there should be ~8 months between the end of Season 1 events (The Very First Day of the Rest of Their Lives on Sunday, Aug 25, 2019) and the Lockdown phonecall (on or near the 30 year anniversary on May 1, 2020), I can't imagine that's a very long time for Hell, especially if you're understaffed and busy dealing with fallout from Almostgeddon / going on pub dates

Shax dropping off mail and asking about the boiler seems like something one does in the first few months of living somewhere, not ~3 years in (if S2 is in 2023)

That said, I think the phone call underlines why Crowley never directly tells Aziraphale that he is living in the Bentley in S2, and it's just a great conversation (all hail Gaiman) sooo I wrote about it:

***Note: This post analyzes the Lockdown phonecall from Crowley's perspective only. Our heroine is feeling quite emotionally vulnerable at this point in time so things are going to hit him harder than they normally would.

I do not think Aziraphale meant to cause him pain (!!) but Crowley can't see that yet and I've written this post in a way that reflects that missing insight. (I explain in more detail in this reblog if you are interested) I am working on a companion post for Aziraphale's side of this conversation and how I think it affects his behavior in S2 because if we know anything about these two, it's that their exactlys are different exactlys.***

Crowley’s habit of sleeping to skip time like an RPG character by a campfire amuses me to no end, but in this context it feels heavy. Crowley already worries about losing time with what he loves and he probably hoped things would be different between him and Aziraphale after the events of S1. But things don’t change much. Then lockdowns start, and Crowley is trapped in his apartment alone, transcendentally bored, and unable to make his brain shut up. Sleeping a month away starts to sound less awful.

But Crowley hasn’t given up yet; he’s still awake when Aziraphale calls, and he’s even giving it two more days. Was he waiting for Aziraphale to call? Is it even possible not to at least kind of wait for someone’s call when you are cut off from everything and the caller has been your only friend and crush for millennia?

Aziraphale asks why Crowley isn't "out and about" tempting people or setting a bad example and he responds:

C: Everyone's so miserable and cooped up right now anyway, and I just… well… don't have the heart for it. A: *glowing audibly* I'm not miserable~ C: Really?

Crowley sounds genuinely surprised at Aziraphale's happiness and quickly assumes it's because the angel has been around people. He's so lonely/depressed/in his own head that he hadn't even considered someone enjoying being 'cooped up'. *sob*

Aziraphale goes No actually I put the closed sign up in the window and I'm having the Time of My Life, never had so few customers, not in 200 years!, etc. Although, he says:

A: …There were a few young lads a couple of nights ago who broke in through the back and tried to steal the cashbox! But they soon saw the error of their ways~ C: *clearly amused* Did you smite them with your wroth? A: Well I certainly gave them a good talking to, and I sent each of them home with cake~ C: *annoyed, swooning* Cake? A: Quite a lot of cake, actually. C: *physically ill from having such a giant crush on this dumbass baker/security guard* eeeekkkgghhh I'm gonna regret asking but.. ...rrgh.. *30 seconds of Aziraphale joyfully describing his baking while Crowley probably tries very hard not to imagine the angel eating each item in sensual slow motion* I stg you can hear him struggling in the background once or twice

A: …And once I've baked them, I have to eat them all myself, which was why I was so delighted— C: To send your burglars home laden with baked goods, yes, nnyeaayeah I follow…

Crowley interrupts, finishing Aziraphale's sentence in his nervous hurry to say the next bit:

C: *loud inhale* You know, I could.. hunker down at your place. … Slither over and watch you eat cake. I could bring a bottle--a case of… something… drinkable…?

He's trying to sound so casual about it but this is someone who was rejected/abandoned by actual literal God after asking what he thought were welcome, uncontroversial questions. Asking makes him vulnerable. He's supposed to be the rescuer, not a demon in distress. He does not feel casual about asking.

Crowley knows it's unlikely but he's so miserable and desperate for company that he can't help but ask, just in case. Even the smallest chance of spending time trapped indoors with Aziraphale—with nothing to do but drink, watch him eat, and talk about things they'd normally avoid—is too tempting.

A: *panicking* Oh I— I— I— I— I'm afraid that would be Breaking All The Rules! *nervous breathing* Out of the question! I'll see you… when this is over. C: Right. gnnehh. I'm setting the alarm clock for July. Good night, angel. *dial tone*

And just like that, Crowley doesn't need two days to decide. The depression nap doubles in length. He doesn't hear how badly Aziraphale wants to say yes behind the fear, or maybe he does and it hurts worse because why isn't Crowley enough for him? You can almost hear the spiralling:

SHOCKING, asking made it worse. It always does doesn’t it? Why even bother? you just embarrass yourself.. SLITHER over? why did I say that *grumble grumble* of COURSE His Holy Holiness, your only friend in the universe, would rather eat cake by himself while everything goes to shit than ~deign~ to have you in his presence. "AsK aND yE sHaLl ReCeIvE" bugger this for a lark im going to bed

(a bit dramatic but we've all been there)

I imagine sleep doesn't come right away. Maybe his thoughts drift to when he sat beside the angel at a dark Tadfield bus stop after a rather eventful Saturday. Crowley must've felt a tiny bit hopeful when he invited Aziraphale to stay with him: Heaven had withdrawn its favor and the bookshop was gone; Aziraphale was like him now. Didn't that mean things would change?

"I don't think my side would like that." Apparently not.

In the end, Aziraphale did ride the bus back to Crowley's apartment and stayed till the next morning when he caught a cab, but only to sell the illusion. Crowley understood that as far as sides went, the angel was still on Heaven's, even if Heaven wasn't on his.

And now this: the entire world is shut down; there is nothing for Aziraphale to do but stay in and read and bake in his magically reconstituted bookshop and he still won't invite Crowley in. Burglars and un-fallen angels only—nobody who asks questions.

So... of course Crowley doesn't tell Aziraphale when he loses his apartment. He already knows what answer he would get; the angel has told him so many times. Aziraphale is a company man first, a companion to one very sad owl when convenient.

If Crowley works up the courage to say 'please take me in, I have nowhere else to go' and Aziraphale goes 'sorry, no, far too political, but I WILL risk being erased from the Book of Life to protect this nude amnesiac former coworker who always hated me,' it's going to be too much. You can't sleep long enough for that type of hurt to go away. Better not to say anything.

"Then nothing has to change, does it?"

[highlandwhackamole]

A Grand(ish) Theory of What the Heck

I love the utterly unhinged, super detailed theories about what's going on in Good Omens, especially in season 2. I hope one or more of them turn out to be true, as some kind of glorious puzzle-box-hidden-code monstrosity. And also I think that there has to be a simpler explanation for things, for the people who are at least Somewhat Normal (tm) about this show. (... I assume such people do exist somewhere...) This is what I have been pondering recently.

The thing that started me thinking about this was this post, containing some promotional materials for season 2 that feature main characters with scenes in their heads. Like this:

Seeing this created a very similar situation in my own head, but with a nice shiny lightbulb.

All the weirdness: the car, the sideburns, the clock, the behavior of the folks of Soho, the vanishing storefront signs. The absence of God. I think this is all because everything we see is in their heads.

I don't mean it's made up. At least not entirely. Memory is already a plot point. Why not explore it on a deeper level? I've read theories emphasizing the minisodes' stories being retold by Aziraphale and Crowley. I think the whole season is like that.

You know that sort of conventional-wisdom-fact-concept that you can only dream faces of people you've seen before (or variations therein), because your brain can't make new faces up? So it just fills in what it thinks is close enough? I think that idea, applied to remembering or recollecting things, could explain so many things that are wonky in this show.

Wonky Things

Crowley parking in an impossible London location? He definitely remembers it was in London, so his brain just stuck some obvious London landmarks in there.

Awkward clattering happening when Crowley throws the stacks of books he's inexplicably carrying around the bookshop? He wouldn't actually throw Aziraphale's books! But he'd like to think he's cool and nonchalant enough to do that, and if he did it would definitely make Some Kind of Noise.

Jim walking toward the bookshop from somewhere mysterious? Maggie and Nina saw him first, and he came from that direction, so he must've walked all that way. They don't know about the elevator in the Donkey.

Aziraphale remembers tartan hills and the Loch Ness monster because he was having a jolly time driving through Scotland, so obviously the scenery must've been whimsical Scottish things.

Nina put the Honolulu roast sign up, so she remembers its presence, but perhaps the occult/ethereal visitors to her shop do not.

Maggie really did text Aziraphale about the rent, but a note through the mail slot is a much more dignified way for a scholarly angel to imagine he received a message.

On the Fallibility of Recall

This season is loaded with unrealistic inclusions. The colors are turned up to 11. Some of the scenes are more caricature than believable interaction. Remembering things never copies or reproduces them with what one might call high fidelity.

Scenes recalled by separate memories will inherently vary. One person's hefty jigger might be another person's dash. Who knows for sure where the sun was that day? You and I might recall an event having different lighting or a different color palette, sort of like viewing something with different lens filters.

According to Neil, Crowley is an unreliable narrator of the story of his Fall. He labels the variations in clock times as a continuity error in a show where Everything Is Meant, but he doesn't say whose continuity error it is. He insists that the Bentley is the same through the whole season; maybe it was the same, but remembered differently. Maybe this is part of why there's more CGI but it's harder to spot.

So What?

Is this all there is to it? I sure hope not. I like my Good Omens with enough layers to put to shame an onion wrapped in a cake and covered in a parfait.

Is this possibly the fancy footwork that's distracting from the real magic trick? I wouldn't put it past Our Gaiman. There are a lot of things one could hide in the narrative of unreliable memory.

Is this going to stop me from rewatching and repondering and remaking theories for the next couple years? Not even at gunpoint.

[azirafuck]

GOS2 Spoilers Masterpost (ONLY EP. 1-2)

alright, you read the title, you know what's under here - gonna tag everyone who helped this if I know them, thanks to everyone for their contribution and for being agents of chaos the way satan intended. love you all

[Last update/edit: 24/07 - 14:10CET]

first of all, we got some amazing posts from @incorrectquoteswwdits mostly about the first scene in heaven with crowley as an angel:

angel!crowley creating stars and aziraphale thinking he's calling him beautiful

more on that

aziraphale's lies make the lesbians have problems, apparently

communist aziraphale be like OUR CAR

isolation and doubts

THEN we have a detailed recount of the first episode by a kind anon! again, thank you @incorrectquoteswwdits for sharing <3

@goodomens-hints posted a lenghty and detailed recount of the first episode as well with some little hits at future episodes (nothing too big on the post itself, but BE CAREFUL, the blog is actually posting some other spoilers from episodes past the second one!)

@goodomensjail gave us a detailed recount of the first scene, with angel!crowley starting to question stuff and eventually shielding aziraphale with his wing

@mikubinders gives us SOME GOOD GOURMET SHIT by telling us that:

"Beelzebub kidnaps and threatens Crowley, tells him that ze could put a price on his head but ze doesn't want to. After that Crowley comes back to the bookshop and Good-old-fashioned lover boy plays while he drives there. "I'm back" happens. Aziraphale makes Crowley do a silly little apology dance so he forgives him and so they work together"

after thinking this last spoiler was fake, an anon came through and confirmed its real! we also have new context! (sent by an anon to yours tuly)

anon came through with some details about the Everyday record, told us Queen is actually tied to CROWLEY and not to the Bentley, and gave us more context to the OUR CAR and OUR BOOKSHOP bit (sent by an anon to yours tuly)

as for what happens during the Job flashback, after which the sitting five feet apart on a rock in front of the sea happens, a bunch of different versions of what actually happens are going around. @thesherrinfordfacility kept up with the madness surrounding it, so im gonna post here the last two versions of events/details.

first one:

In the Job section, Aziraphale is questioning gods decision of punishing Job. Then u see him in heaven w Muriel here and they are looking thru a long scroll that has instructions from god and he's trying to make sense of it. Muriel is telling him that god and satan made a bet about what Job would do and that's why they are testing him. And az is like whatttt why would god do that that's mean!

When Az finds out they're going to kill Jobs kids, he goes down to Earth to save them while using his angel voice until he realizes he's speaking to Crowley. He sees Crowley about to enter the kids room and tells Crowley "I know you, you wouldn't do this" and Crowley tells him he doesn't know him really. (

AND TY TENNANT IS SASSY AND FLIRTS W AZ??!??!? (*) And THATS when crowley goes "well he seems nice" from the clip. He wasn't jealous tho, like he thought it was funny since they are literally there to supposedly kill these kids and one of them is flirting lol.

The moment of 'weird-beard Crowley' was actually more focused on azi and him questioning God. Crowley tempts Azi w food and u see him struggle but then he gobbled it down and he cries bc he thinks crowley is going to bring him to hell (that's the scene where they are sitting on that thing with the pretty horizon) Crowley tells him "you're just an angel who follows gods as will as much as he can" and Az says that sounds lonely, and Crowley agrees, which is a callback to when he asked Crowley if he was lonely being on what Crowley calls "his own side", and Crowley said no. Crowley then tells him "i'm a demon. I lied"

(*): it was told this isn't actually canon canon, it's up for interpretation - some reported Ty's character is just the classic bratty teenager UPDATE: NOPE anon cleared it up and apparently it DOES read as flirty because ty's character is a little bitch, love that for us

and then we have the second one:

"Episode 2 is half present day things [...], and half the Job story/flashback. Crowley is the demon sent by Satan to torment "God's favorite human" Job to see if Job will curse God, in one big bet between God and Satan. Aziraphale comes to try to stop him, discovers they recognize each other but haven't seen each other since "the flood" and that Crowley seems to have changed since the flood, because he is willing to sacrifice the goats, and ruin Job's house. Crowley says he "has a permit" to torment Job FROM GOD. Aziraphale brings this up to the archangels that gleefully explain that yes it's a bet with Satan and that Job will suffer, but he will get everything back 3-fold by the end. And he will get NEW children. This disturbs Aziraphale, he does not want the CURRENT children to die, he understands the familial love that the archangels do not. He goes to stop Crowley not with power since he has the permit but to reason with him. Aziraphale says things to the effect "I KNOW you don't want to harm them I KNOW you and you don't want to kill children" and Crowley is defiant, but then…. It is revealed that he never killed any of the goats either, he transformed them into pigeons to hide them. And he is hiding the children away in the basement but destroying the house to make it look like they died. He transforms the three kids into lizards to hide them, then when the Archangels descend to give Job his rewards and tell him his wife will bear 7 new children, Job and his wife are in despair because they love their children. Crowley comes in pretending to be a human doctor and he and Aziraphale LIE to the angels faces about how babies are made and trick the angels into thinking Jobs three original children are NEWLY BORN children. Which fools Gabriel, who has only ever seen God make Eve fully grown from Adam's ribs. Crowley then meets Aziraphale at the rock. Aziraphale is crying and says "im ready for you to take me to hell" because he has LIED to angels and foiled God's plans. Crowley is gentle and comforts him that he is still an angel and "I won't tell anyone if you won't" and they reminisce that it's lonely being a different kind of demon and a different kind of angel that sort of do what they feel is right. Heavily implying that they are the same and have each other now. The end of episode 2.

that's what's going around for now, but ill add stuff if we find anything new - also feel free to add to this yourself or send me stuff!

[irregularincidents]

A lot went wrong when it came to the filming of the 1967 "official" James Bond spoof Casino Royale (the producer who owned the rights to the story originally intended for a straight adaptation but decided to make it a comedy when Sean Connery wasn't avaliable), with a good chunk of the blame for the film's infamous failure landing at the feet of the actor Peter Sellers.

At the time at the height of his career, Sellers was under the impression that he was going to be in a serious adaptation of the story (much like his co-star David Niven) and demanded a $1 million fee (roughly a twelfth of the movie's budget), 3% of the box office, and a white Bentley on the first day of filming... all of which he got, which makes what happened AFTER filming started even more bizarre.

In one scene, for example, the action called for him to mistakenly shoot at another character when they startled him, only for Sellers to instead intentionally shoot co-star Jacqueline Bisset (credited as Jacky Bisset) in the face for a "joke".

As Bisset later recounted of the incident,

"Peter Sellers was horrible to work with," she said. "My first big role was Casino Royale, and I was supposed to enter the bathroom in a nightgown with a big bottle of champagne suggestively cradled in my arms, trying to seduce James Bond. As a sick joke, Sellers turned and fired a gun directly into my face. There was a blank in the gun and the burning gunpowder and shreds of the blank hit me directly in the face. First I thought I had actually been shot, and when I realised it had been a blank I thought I had been blinded. My face looked like a shower spout of pin pricks leaking blood. Everyone on the set could see that I had dozens of tiny wounds. Of course I dropped the bottle of champagne on my foot as well."

This incident wasn't what caused Sellers to eventually quit/get fired from the movie, however. This occurred due to the fallout of Sellers childishly deciding to start a one-sided feud with his co-star, le Chiffre actor Orson Welles.

Yes, that one.

After pressuring the filmmakers into hiring Welles in the first place, the deeply insecure Sellers immediately took offensive to how the rest of the cast and crew liked the legendary actor/director, as Joe McGrath, one of Casino Royale's FIVE directors put it: "[Sellers] was very insecure. Orson was quite a presence, but he was great fun and the crew loved him. Peter took exception to that."

Things came to a head when Sellers managed to convince Princess Margaret, sister of then Queen Elizabeth II, to come and visit the set. As McGrath explained,

"Princess Margaret came in and she did a curtsy to us all, and then we all bowed to her," McGrath said. "Then she passed Peter by and said: 'Hello, Orson, I haven’t seen you for days.' She sat between Peter and Orson and spent the whole time talking to Orson. That infuriated Peter."

Sellers responded to this perceived insult by attempting to bully Welles, making various comments about his weight, and once refusing to ride in an elevator with the man, claiming that doing so was a "safety hazard". Welles for his part, scathingly called Sellers an amateur for his childish antics on set.

Regardless, this eventually led to Sellers refusing to be in any scenes that also featured Welles, which considering how they were meant to be facing each other across table playing cards (the entire premise of the original story), McGrath rightly said that the situation was becoming ridiculous.

As he later recounted in an interview,

“He told me he would refuse to appear in the same shot as Orson. ‘You’re Peter Sellers; you’re a star,’ I said. He replied: ‘Yes but he is Orson Welles.’ I reminded him that he had asked for Orson and then told him, ‘this is ridiculous. You can’t get paid this enormous amount of money; ask for Orson Welles and then refuse to appear with him. Peter you are behaving like a spoilt child.’ He then punched me in the face and I hit him back in the face. “Afterwards, I met Peter Cook who said to me. ‘I hear you and Sellers had a punch up. I think this is the first instance ever of the fan hitting the shit.’ Isn’t that wonderful?”

Shortly after this, Sellers walked off the set and never came back, resulting in additional scenes having to be filmed with other actors due to there only being 30 minutes of footage that actually had usual footage with Sellers in it. The result was a mess, not helped by the script undergoing multiple rewrites by Sellers, David Niven and Woody Allen (yes, he's in the movie too), with entire new subplots involving additional agents all named James Bond to try and paper over the cracks in an already shaky story.

A year after the Sellers stormed off the set, he did send a written apology to McGrath for his behaviour... Which Sellers said was the only time that he ever apologised to anyone, not even the Bisset, the aforementioned actor he shot in the face for a joke.

[bratbarzal]

On Your Side (NH13) / Chapter Three

Pairing: Nico Hischier x Fem!OC Poppy Jensen*

*I say it's an OC, it's just a name and third person POV. I use minor character descriptions because I don’t get on with writing vague reader inserts/YN for long-form, story heavy fics, but I will generally try to avoid including race and body type or really any physical descriptors. I’m always open to feedback on my writing, or how to be more inclusive.

WC: 13k

Chapter Warnings: angst obviously what would this story be without it, poppy and nico having an overdue conversation, nico moping again with his big sad brown eyes, nico being jealous again, drinking, cursing, meddling friends, being stood up, mentions of controlling parents as always, a little touching maybe a little more kissing too and even more meddling friends

Summary: Poppy Jensen’s job with the New Jersey Devils was supposed to be her first big step into adulthood - a way to prove to herself and her overbearing parents that she could make her own way in life. She was never supposed to become involved with any of the players. Becoming best friends with their captain was stupid. Getting her heart broken by him was tragic. Getting knocked up with his child was just plain messy.

Series Masterlist

Previous Part (Chapter Two)

A/N: I have nothing to say honestly just hope you enjoy I really don't know why I struggled writing most of this despite knowing what I wanted to do with it I think just figuring out how I want certain conversations to go and how to get from a to b is pure stresssss I'm not entirely in love with it but what can you do also proofread her? I hardly know her

but if you have anything to say pls send it my way lmao I'd really like to hear any thoughts or opinions 💓

Poppy

Poppy was once told by her good friend, Kelsey, that she would be able to tell everything she needed to know about a guy by the way they answered one very simple question. 

If you could have any superpower, what would it be?

She thinks about it more often than she really should, if she’s honest with herself, but Kelsey’s rationale behind each potential answer is actually a stroke of rare genius - and Poppy often finds herself applying the logic to most people that she encounters.

Guys who say super speed are the ultimate red flag. No one wants a quick finisher, no matter how fast they may be in any other aspect of life. Some things specifically require time and patience. Sacrificing your partner’s satisfaction all to say you can run the world record fastest 5k is the ultimate ick.

There’s an argument to be made for the endurance choosers, it sure has its perks, but Poppy thinks it’s a boring pick. To be given the option of any superpower, and to choose perseverance, of all things? Get a life. 

Anyone who chooses x-ray vision is a certified pervert, obviously. The same could be said for those wanting to read minds, although most of the guys Poppy has seen in her life struggle to comprehend the things she says in plain words, never mind whatever nonsense is circling through her inner thoughts. 

Those who choose flying are one dimensional, rarely able to see beyond what’s right in front of them, because, if they could, they’d choose the much better option of teleportation.

Who chooses flying when you could just think about somewhere and instantaneously arrive? With your hair in tact and no risk of bumping into any territorial birds.

Teleportation is what Poppy would have picked if anyone would have asked her a week ago, for the mere fact that commuting anywhere is the bane of her entire existence, and if she thinks too hard about it or looks to much into it, it always has been. 

She associates it with sitting in the back of her dad’s Bentley as a child, a tangible, frosty silence lingering in the air between her parents after one of their many even-toned arguments disguised as discussions, the fresh pine scent making her car sick and the leather seats making the back of her thighs sticky. 

Or the fragile bones of her hand being crushed by her mother’s tight grip as they rode the Amtrak over to Manhattan, Priscilla sneering at anyone who dared step too close on the crowded carriage, Poppy being dragged throughout department stores in the name of mother-daughter bonding time, and clutching to a tiny consolation Macy’s bag housing a sparkly lip gloss like her life depended on it the whole way home. 

She thinks of all the hours of her life she’s wasted on the Palisades Parkway, no longer able to enjoy the scenic route whenever she has to drive back to her parent’s house in Alpine after having watched one too many crime shows where a broken down car leads to a girl’s face plastered all over the news.

Even driving to work can feel like hell when the traffic is bad, what should be a 30 minute drive sometimes turning into an hour, Poppy’s fingers cramping around the wheel and her feet itching to touch solid ground after too long.

Teleportation sounds perfect.

And, there’s even a romance element to it. Being whisked away to Paris in the blink of an eye, suddenly sitting outside a boulangerie, decadent, rich hot chocolate on a table in front of her and a plate full of pastries, all because she mentioned a slight craving for a pain au chocolat. 

Teleportation has always been the only correct, green-flag answer to the question. 

Until Poppy properly considered time travel, that is.

The concept of it has always been a little too much or her to handle - too many strange loopholes, too many bad examples from the sci-fi movies her brother had loved as a kid. Travelling back in time to when her parents were her age and accidentally capturing her adolescent father’s attention à la Marty McFly? Sounds like hell and horror to Poppy. 

But that was before she screwed everything up.

If she could have any superpower right now, currently weighed down with the burden of hindsight - which people have always told her is a funny thing, but she thinks is actually somewhat diabolical - she would pick time travel a thousand times over.

Because if human beings have a specific part of their brain that is dedicated to forcing them to sit and stew on their every poor decision for days on end - lets them rethink and regret everything until they’re blue in the face, and can’t think of anything other than how idiotic they have been - it should also offer the kindness of being able to go back and change what they so royally fucked up.

That’s what Poppy thinks, at least, as she throws herself down onto her bed, her back hitting the duvet in a whoosh and all she can do is stare at the ceiling and wonder how and when she became such a certified moron.

There’s a part of her that suspects it’s in her genes. Inevitable. Unavoidable. Nature and nurture, she was born and raised to be a full blown fool.

Poppy comes from a long line of privilege, and while it does take a certain element of intelligence to amass the wealth her family has, it also tends to go hand in hand with ignorance in its many forms.

Behind every fortuitous business move her father makes are a million other mistakes - failed ventures, bad investments, shoddy pieces of advice accepted from the untrustworthy snakes he surrounds himself with. Hidden beneath every rung of the social ladders her mother has managed to climb, there are the ugly faux-pas’ slipping through the cracks of a former, more unsavoury life she can never run too far from. And her brother - well, she suspects he’s just an idiot, there are no two ways about it.

She knows that she needs to stop blaming her family, though. This time, it’s all her.

She can’t blame her father for the way she overthinks, the man who makes every decision in life with the littlest regard for how anyone else feels about it. She can’t blame her mother for the way she places such little value on herself, the woman who walks into every room like she owns it and refuses to let anyone make her think otherwise.

Except maybe she can.

If she had the nerve to talk to a therapist, they might disagree - might say her overthinking comes from her dad’s lack of communication skills, a part of her brain always filling in the gaps of a half-assed, other side of any conversation with him. Or they might say her insecurities come from her mom constantly putting Poppy down while telling her to be more sure of herself - stop slouching, Poppy, no one will take you seriously with the posture of a candy cane.

She’d love to know where her need to repress her feelings so deep that she becomes an impenetrable, cold, dark fortress comes from. The need to push and shove when someone tries to get too close, because God forbid anything is ever easy when it comes to her affections.

It would have made the past 4 days since Nico had walked into her apartment and kissed the life out of her a whole lot easier. 

4 days spent reminiscing, rethinking and regretting every single thing she had said and done since their lips parted, since he had put his heart on the line and she’d whacked it away, full swing, as if too desperate for the victory of a last-bat home run.

If she could time travel, she’d do the whole thing over.

-

“Don’t go on that date, Mohn.”

She had read the words on his lips before they registered through her ears, the sound of her blood rushing throughout her body occupying every sense for a brief moment.

What the hell is going on?

Nico had kissed her. He’d grabbed her, pulled her into him, and she’s pretty sure he had made her heart stop for a good second - there’s no other justifiable reason for the way it had been reverberating against her ribcage ever since. 

And then he stood before her, a desperate, pleading projection playing in his dark irises, lips still slick from where her own had just been, cheeks flushed, shoulders rising with subtle panting breaths, waiting for a response to a question she couldn’t even remember hearing.

“W-what?” She’d stuttered, blinking hard and shaking her head as if to rattle her brain into whatever semblance of cognisance she could muster.

Nico had kissed her, and then wanted to talk? As if she had the brain power left for any kind of discussion after that?

He seemed proud of the mess he had made of her, lips lifting at one side, drawing her gaze immediately to every movement they made, so focused on the memory of how pillowy-soft they had felt against hers that she didn’t notice him stepping a little closer, raising a large hand to tuck her hair behind her ear until she flinched at the contact.

“Sunday, Poppy,” he had uttered, unfazed by her skittishness, “Your date, don’t go.”

She had blinked again, completely overwhelmed on every front. She could still taste him on her tongue, he was so close she could smell his cologne, tunnel vision only seeing him in front of her and the hand that cupped the side of her face in her peripheral, her heartbeat echoing through her skull and every nerve, every slight hair on her body, standing as if trying to close the distance between his body and hers.

It was the sensory overload that made her go against all other instincts.

“I can’t.” Her voice had sounded like it hadn’t been used in weeks, croaky and unsure, her next words stammered, “I can’t not go, I mean. I have to go.”

“You don’t have to go, Poppy,”

“No, I do.” That had sounded a little surer, the fog in her brain slowly clearing only for something more tumultuous to pass through in it’s place. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

Nico blinked once, then again, frustration clear in the furrow of his thick brows as he seemed to stew on his next words, desperate to say the right thing. There was a prolonged, tense beat, before he had asked, “Have you ever thought we could be more?”

“More?”

“More than friends.”

If her heart hadn’t stopped when he had kissed her, it must have stopped then.

His back straight, eyes looking directly into hers, a hopeful, inquisitive gleam shining from within them - he had never seemed so sure of something for as long as she had known him.

Poppy couldn’t stop the little voice in her head questioning, where the hell has this come from?

“Have you?” She had asked with a eyre of disbelief.

 Not once in the years she had known him had he ever made it seem like they could be more. There had always been an unspeakable, undeniable barrier between them. They were friends. They’d always been friends. Just friends.

Friends who spent most of their free, personal time together, friends who bought each other sentimental gifts they’d never get for anyone else, who shared intimate details about their lives and their pasts, and kissed each others heads like a goodbye ritual. Friends who broke each other’s hearts, seemingly beyond repair, without explanation.

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

“I mean,” He had paused, breaking eye contact for a second as if wracking his brain for the right answer, sensing a teetering tension between the two of them. “Yeah. Yes. I have.”

She had narrowed her eyes at him, weighing up the possibility in her mind that she wouldn’t have liked any response he gave to her, every prospective answer causing a flood of doubt and uncertainty to crash in rushing, destructive waves through her mind. “Since when?” She’d asked, trying to level her bite.

If he’d ever thought they could be more, what the hell have they been doing all this time?

“Since I met you, I think,” he had shrugged.

Wrong answer, again.

“And you only bring it up when I have a date with someone else?”

She watched a series of antithetical emotions pass through his features, understanding, confusion, acceptance, denial, resilience, cowardice. He had seemed to find the small margins between all of them, when he had come back with, “It’s not because of your date, Poppy.”

“Then why?” She tilted her head as she continued to analyse him, again not sure what she was looking for, or what she wanted to find. That something tumultuous was already whirling within her, too late to be stopped, and Nico could seemingly see the warning signs.

“Why are you getting mad at me, right now?”

“I’m not mad,” she had denied, not even knowing if she was lying or not, “I’m confused. 2 weeks ago, we weren’t even talking, Nico-,”

“You said you forgave me for that.”

“I didn’t-.” She’d cut herself off before she could say something that would upset him, the conversation spiralling so far out of control from the momentary bliss he had provided only minutes ago - but she was too far up shit’s creek without a paddle, there was no turning back. She’d been wanting to have a proper conversation with Nico all week, what better time than the middle of the night on what was now his birthday? “That’s not exactly what I said.”

He had taken a step back, lips parting with an unreleased gasp, the once-hopeful glint in his eyes transforming into hurt. “You don’t forgive me?”

“I didn’t say that either,” she sighed, wanting answers, not to cause him anguish. “Please don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Then tell me what the hell is wrong? What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I don’t understand where this has come from, Nico! You come in here and kiss me out of nowhere and tell me not to date other people and I’m just supposed to blindly follow along when I don’t get what the hell is happening with you!”

“I think me kissing you makes it pretty obvious what I want to happen, Mohn.” He had tried to ease the tension, his voice level and steady, stepping forward with his hands raised in an attempt to calm her, but she had taken a slight step back, clearly unaffected. 

“It doesn’t.” She’d stopped looking at him at that point, keeping an eye on his feet to watch his encroaching steps. “Nothing about you is obvious. You don’t tell me anything and all I can think about is what I did wrong.”

If he couldn’t see the tears pooling at her lashes, he had to have heard the break in her voice - a sure indicator that she was close to crying - but his steps had stopped, feet seemingly stuck to their place on the hardwood flooring of Poppy’s apartment, and she could feel her heart shatter knowing he wasn’t persisting again.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He tries to reassure her, but it’s no use.

Maybe she would have believed him if he’d held her while he said it, transferred the meaning through touch to her skin, gripping her with every word until she truly understood the weight of them.

“It had to have been something. You don’t just stop wanting to know a person for no reason, Nico, so what was it?” She made her way to her couch, perching on the edge of the seat with her knees pressed together, and looked over to where he remained standing.

She could feel her temper flaring again. 

How could he have the nerve to do this to her - to turn her world upside down in a matter of minutes - and not have the answers she needed to accept it?

“Poppy-,”

“I need to know. I can’t drop it and forget about it, and I’m sorry that I made it seem like I could, but if you want us to move on from this, if you want to come here and kiss me like that, and tell me you don’t want me seeing other people, I need to know what happened.”

“I-,” Nico sighed heavily, shoulders drooping, any confidence and bravado he had displayed after their kiss now a distant memory. “I don’t know.”

She had an immediate, striking thought, that maybe if she asked closed questions, he could give her an answer, and so, with misplaced courage, she asked, “Was it her?”

“What?”

“Your girlfriend. Did she ask you to stop talking to me?”

It was a thought that had been plaguing her for longer than she’d like to admit - unable to shake the idea that maybe Talia had seen one of the texts she had sent, had gone through Nico’s phone and seen any of their older messages, any photos he might have kept on his phone, maybe a memory had come up from snapchat, maybe someone had mentioned Poppy and her curiosity had been piqued. 

Poppy had always thought if she was dating someone, and they had a Poppy, she might feel some type of way about it. 

But her and Nico were just friends.

Nico rounded the couch, sitting on the cushion beside Poppy, their knees knocking as he reached into her lap and took her shaking hands in his.

“Do you really think I’d stop talking to you just because someone asked me to?” Their eyes had met again, sadness brewing in the dark coffee colour surrounding his dilated pupils, and a glassy film coating her own. “Poppy, I would never.”

“I don’t know what to think, Nico, because you won’t tell me.”

“Because it doesn’t make sense! I try wrapping my head around it, try coming up with some kind of explanation, but nothing I say is going to change what I did to you, Poppy.”

Her question before had gotten her an honest response, had elicited something real and undeniable within him - he’d never stop talking to her because someone asked him to. So it was his own decision, subconscious or not. Maybe she could help dig further, she thought.

“Why did you kiss me?” She asked after a beat.

“I,” Nico pondered over it before rushing his answer, a wave of emotion flashing across his face before his eyes locked on hers, ready to let her in. “Because I wanted to.”

That was a start - a simple question, a straightforward answer. 

“Was that the first time that you wanted to?”

“No.”

Poppy could feel some semblance of confidence coming back. Closed questions, concrete answers, she could keep this up.

“When was the last time you wanted to kiss me?”

She could have asked the first - she sure as hell wanted to know it, but if he’d thought of being more the entire time they’d known each other, there was a lingering possibility there were many times - and they would be there until sunrise if they started from the beginning.

“Finnegan’s.” 

“The bar?”

“We went there when we came back after we crashed out of the playoffs, do you remember?”

She remembered.

It had only been a couple of days before Nico had left for his summer back home in Switzerland.

Their loss in Carolina had been devastating, the boys came back broken and defeated, and all just wanted to drown their sorrows before they broke for their off-season. Poppy had been out with Nia and Kelsey and a few other friends at another bar when Jack had responded to her instagram story, saying they’d be at the Irish pub that was a staple within the team, and she should come over and join them.

She had made her way over pretty late, wanting to make sure her friends were okay without her, and arrived when most of the boys were completely shit-faced, past the point of tears and moping and deep into a mass state of hysteria and loud jubilation for the successes along the way.

She had found Nico in a booth in the far corner of the bar, head slumped over the back, eyes seemingly tracing the cracks in the ceiling until she crawled into the bench behind him, leaned over with her elbows resting on either side of his head, and took up his entire view. 

“What’cha doin’?” She’d asked, lips twisting at the sight of his dizzy eyes trying to correct themselves to focus on her. 

He’d quickly given up, pressing his eyes closed to shut out the risk of nausea taking over, the outer corners crinkling, the sides of his nose scrunching and his eyelashes fanning a shadow over his cheekbones - her own eyes were level with his lips, so he couldn’t really hide the way they curved at the quick glimpse of her.

“Suffering,” he had muttered, squinting one eye open to catch a brief, upside down glance of her. Nico was never this down after a few drinks. He was giggly, he was loud, he was touchy and clumsy - he was never the hide away in the corner sad type. “Wanna join me?”

“Always.” She affirmed, making her way around to his side of the booth and sliding in beside him until her bare thigh pressed against the somewhat scratchy linen of the pants he wore. 

“I’m probably not the best company tonight,” He remained in the same position, neck craning so the base of his head could rest atop the back of the seat, and his eyes closed - giving Poppy the perfect opportunity to properly look him over.

The few moments they’d had together, alone, over the past few weeks, he’d been pent up, stressed, overworked and on the brink of eruption, so this was the first time in a long time she’d managed to catch him without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Only, that weight wasn’t so easy to shift.

She saw it in the bags under his eyes, in the unkempt playoff beard he was yet to shave off, in the stuttered way his chest rose and fell with his attempts at deep, calming breaths. 

As she watched him, the corner of her lip tucked between her teeth in contemplation, she knew there was nothing she could say to make him feel better about this. He just had to feel it out, process it in his own way without her interference - but she wanted to be there, at least.

And as much as she wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that he did the best he could, and led his team through one of their strongest seasons in recent franchise history, she wanted to provide him comfort in the quiet, too.

“I don’t mind.”

And so, with little trepidation, she placed a hand on his chest, over his heart, and rested her head next to it, glancing up to see the push of a dimple forming on his cheek as his arm stretched around her and welcomed her into his warm embrace.

“You wanted to kiss me then?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, “Didn’t seem like the right time, though,” he followed up with an answer to a question she hadn’t even asked, yet. “I was leaving too soon and I didn’t want you to think I’d just kissed you because I was drunk and upset.”

Her eyes moved to his lips, a question for herself whirling around in her head. Would she have wanted him to kiss her then? What would have happened in the aftermath? Where would they be now? Would she have thought that? Would she have spent her summer stewing over what it meant, and how his lips had felt against hers?

Before she had much time to think it over, Nico continued, being spurred on by such a distinct memory that he was rolling towards the answer she had been waiting for, and she wasn’t going to stop him to try and decipher her own feelings.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you when I went home, thinking about wanting to kiss you, or not kissing you, and what it all would mean, and I kept trying to distract myself thinking I could just figure it all out when I came back here but then I met Talia, and I felt wrong for thinking about you when I had her.”

That had made sense. Nico was always a guy that would do the right thing. If he had a girlfriend, he wouldn’t think of the prospect of something with someone else, even if that someone was Poppy, and that something was a culmination of years of pent up feelings finally coming together to form something potentially wonderful.

She didn’t quite need or want to hear the rest. Didn’t want to hear how he’d gone looking for a distraction, and found just that. 

Nico was loyal, and for him to maintain that essence of himself, he had to ignore the possibility of Poppy. Some subconscious part within him saw her as a threat to the stability he had with the perfect girl from back home, and he boxed her away to make room for what could be with Talia.

It stung, but he was right. Neither of them could change what had already happened.

“Do you think you could ever forgive me?”

She’d nodded after only a second, barely even thinking about it.

Jack’s words from New Years Eve rang through her, suck it up and move on.

Nico had his reasons, she had her answers. He wasn’t bored of her, wasn’t tired of her or annoyed by her. He’d been so caught up by his unspoken, untranslated feelings for her that he twisted himself into untangle-able knots that were only just starting to loosen up enough to be picked apart.

“Could you maybe say it?”

“Yeah, I could.” she had said through trembling lips, the hurt in his voice burrowing through her eardrums, lodging itself in her own throat, and dripping slowly but surely into the depths of her chest. “I will.” She had to be more sure, needing to erase any doubt she had planted within him. “I do.”

“You do?”

He still held her hands in his from when he had sat down, palms warm and slightly perspirant from his tight grip around her knuckles.

“I forgive you.”

His mouth twitched into a shaky smile, his eyes catching the soft light and twinkling with emotion, and she definitely wanted to kiss him, then.

She had wondered if this is what he felt when he’d kissed her before, this burning need. Her fingers twitched in his hold, her heart thudded in her chest, and her lips parted in anticipation, until she could finally slam the breaks on her torpedoing thoughts.

“It’s just a lot to process, and I don’t really know how I feel.”

She had wished she could take it back as soon as the words left her mouth, and Nico’s features had folded as he took them in. He broke eye contact almost immediately, head dropping to look down at their hands until he released hers back into her lap. 

“I get it.” He uttered, forcing a smile as he glanced back up at her, briefly. “I sprung this on you out of nowhere, I’m s-,”

“Please don’t apologise,” she interrupted before he could go there, knowing it would send her brain into overdrive if he let even the thought of regret fester between them, “I’m glad you did. I don’t want you to be sorry about it.”

Relief washed over the both of them in a warm, steady stream as he nodded, leaning into the back of the couch, legs spreading as an elongated sigh wracked through his torso. 

He ran a hand through his hair, and Poppy’s eyes flickered to the flex of his fingers, the strain of his wrist, the flash of protruding veins where his sleeve had pulled up with the stretch of his movements. 

His eyes closed, and she took him in just like she had that night in Finnegan’s bar.

She’d had an urge then, a desire even, to provide comfort - to share his burdens, make him forget the pain he had just endured, wash it all away with encouraging words, gentle touches. A shoulder to cry on, two ears to listen, and, albeit she didn’t entirely know it at the time, a whole heart that was his for the taking.

And take it, he did, held it all summer, bent it all sorts of ways out of shape up until New Years Eve, and it was still in his hands. Smushed, dented, squeezed to within an inch of his life, her heart was his.

It was up to her now to figure out what she wanted him to do with it. 

“I made a promise to my mom about the date, Nico, I have to go.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, seemingly resigned to the fact he had maybe been a little too lost in the moment to make such a crazy demand of her. 

“And I think maybe we both need a little time to properly think about what is happening here.”

“Time?” He practically shot up, alarm in his eyes.

“We’ve barely been apart all week, Nico, I think that might be why we’re both so,” she struggled for the right word - pent up, emotional, strung out, “Intense.”

She had known she was emotional, overthinking to the point of ruin, but maybe he was too. Maybe that’s what had led to the kiss, to the outburst of sentiment. They were both in the depths of a pressure cooker of emotions, and some space might do them good to gain a little clarity.

Maybe with a little more time to think on it, to consider what he was admitting to, have a little breathing room, and act more on something concrete than a fleeting in-the-moment feeling, he might change his mind. He deserved the opportunity to do so, she wouldn’t hold it against him.

“How much time do you think you would need?”

“I’m driving up to my parent’s house on Friday, so I would have been away for most of the weekend anyway, maybe we check back in on Monday and see where our heads are at?”

“4 days,” he muttered as if he’d just counted them in his head. “I can do that.”

“Yeah?” He had nodded in response, and there was something like hope that lingered between them, sharing small smiles and gazing through glassy eyes. “You’ll be so busy you won’t even get the chance to miss me.”

She believed it to be true - Nico had his family over, would be spending the latter end of the day with them, and had 2 big home games in a row to worry about. Poppy would be the last thing on his mind.

If she had blinked in the moment, she might have missed the way his observation slipped to her lips, lingered there for a brief second, and glanced back up to flicker between her eyes again. “Not possible.”

“Poppy, have you suffered some kind of brain injury I don’t know about?” Nia’s voice rings through the speaker of the phone pressed to her ear, already supposedly-styled hair fanned out around her as she lays staring at the ceiling, willing herself to get up and go before she’s late.

No matter how much she doesn’t want to go on this date, her mother will kill her if she hears anything other than a glowing review. On time, preened to perfection, polite and sociable. 

“Maybe I hit my head in my sleep at some point,” she thinks out loud, glancing back to the sharp edges of her bedside table and wondering if she could have thudded into it in the night.

Surely she would have a scar or a bruise.

“You must have,” Nia agrees, “That’s the only logical explanation why you’d ever consider telling the guy you’ve been hung up on since you first met him that you need time to think about how you feel,”

“Ni,” Poppy groans, “I called you for advice, not a lecture.”

“If you play stupid games, you win stupid prizes, and you my friend, are a dumbass.”

“In my defence-,”

“Nope!” Poppy doesn’t know what Nia is doing on the other end, but she hears something clatter as if being slammed down on a table in protest, “There is no defence, you’re an idiot.”

“I didn’t know how I felt about it, Ni,” Poppy sighs, sitting up and catching sight of herself in the mirror. She doesn’t know why so much of her time tonight has been wasted trying to look so good when she doesn’t even want to. When she’d gone to visit her parents, her mother had practically given her a full blown rundown of the guy she was meeting.

Tucker Lyon, she can’t help to instinctively roll her eyes at just his name, works in investment grade finance for one of the Big 4 - she hadn’t cared enough to ask which one. His family are property people, her mom had said, and own enough Manhattan real estate to hold some serious power. Priscilla had met his mother years ago at some luncheon in the city, and apparently the two had been in cahoots since then to set their children up.

Poppy doesn’t want to be set up with some walking red flag, biting her tongue over a plate of food too small to satisfy her hunger while he mansplains stocks and shares to her.

She wants to be in whatever bar the guys are holed up in, tucked under Nico’s arm, side practically glued to his, sipping cocktails and celebrating him like he deserves to be celebrated.

But instead, she can admit, she has been a royal idiot.

“I still don’t know, it’s all come at me full force and I don’t understand my feelings.”

“Bullshit!” Nia scoffs, “You knew you were into him the second he first flashed those dimples your way.”

She isn’t entirely wrong.

Poppy had once harboured a slight crush on him. In the very early stages of their friendship. One small enough that when she realised it was completely one-sided - and she was being delusional to ever think his cute nickname for her and his insistence on spending time only with her was anything more than his attempt to make a friend - she could swallow it down until it was barely anything.

She trained her heart not to stutter when he approached her, told her brain to shut up when he flashed her one of those perfect, all consuming smiles, and could cross her arms to restrain her hands from wanting to hold his whenever they walked side by side.

She’d become so good at suppressing her feelings, she’d forgotten she had them.

She had forgotten all the times they had hung out alone over the years, never second guessing all the looks and the touches, the times he’d let her stay over if it got too late to go home alone, and the times he’d waltz into hers like he owned the place.

She’d forgotten when she had seen him with Talia, always claiming the feeling in her gut was one of loss and reminiscence, not envy and bitterness.

She’d forgotten when the Hughes brothers had helped her move a couple months ago, and Luke had questioned the amount of Nico he was helping to scatter throughout her apartment. Pictures on her bookshelf, pictures stuck to her fridge with souvenir magnets from Swiss gift shops, a couple hoodies, Devils branded shorts and big t-shirts of his he’d come across in the boxes. 

“I didn’t realise you and Cap were so close,” Luke had picked a frame out of one of the boxes, the picture of Nico and Poppy at the Halloween party inside, and waved it in her direction as she stood with her hands on her hips, figuring out if she wanted to alphabetise or colour code the books she was displaying. 

“Huh?” Poppy tilted her head towards the tall boy, watching as he shook his curls back into place and ran a hand through them. He’d worked up a bit of a sweat lugging her boxes upstairs, and now that everything was finally moved, Jack had gone to get them food, and Poppy and Luke were getting started on unpacking the easy stuff. She looked to the picture in hand, reaching over and taking it to get a closer look. “I guess we were, I don’t really know.” She wasn't a good enough actress to properly pull off the nonchalance she was aiming for.

“You don’t know?” Luke scoffed, rifling through other pictures in the box - all framed, mostly of her and Nico, some just the two of them, some of them in groups, but always side by side. Always grinning ear to ear. “You’ve got like a shrine in here, PJ,”

“It’s not a shrine,” she had argued, “You don’t keep pictures of your friends? Sounds kind of cold, if you ask me, Moosey.”

“I keep pictures on instagram and my phone like a normal person.” He chuckled.

“Generational gap, you kids are done for when the cloud goes down, you know. Physical media is forever.”

“You sound like my mom.” Luke jibed, and true to his nature, unable to stop himself before he inadvertently crossed a line, he asked with a weird wiggle of his eyebrows, “So, you wanna keep Nico forever, huh?”

“Shut up, Luke.” If Poppy had something soft enough, she would have thrown it at his head. The photo frame in hand seemed like overkill, and she didn’t want to hurt the kid, just make him stop. She didn’t much like talking about him, what they once had, what they once were. Even if he did have the wrong impression of what they were. It was upsetting, and she didn’t want to get upset - not in front of Luke. “You can keep those in the box.”

Luke had reached out for the frame in Poppy’s grasp, had watched as she hesitated giving it back, as she looked down and took in the huge smiles on her and Nico’s faces, and as she made the decision not to put this one back. Maybe she could phase it out, wait until she took a nicer, more meaningful picture with someone else before she replaced that one.

“I’ll keep this one out. I look cute.”

"Sure." His sarcasm was not entirely appreciated.

She had heard him chuckle to himself as she stood the frame on one of the shelves, placing it between a scented candle she had no intention of ever lighting and a small faux lavender plant. Not shrine-like at all.

She’d forgotten about any suppressed feelings until Nico kissed her.

Until he opened up Pandora’s box, releasing all her pent up emotions to roam freely, creating chaos and causing havoc through every corner of her entire existence. 

For the past 3 days, she’s thought about him with everything she has done. 

On Thursday afternoon, sat alone in her office, going over emails and wondering what he would be up to with his family. Was he happy, were they having fun, did he think about her for a second?

On Friday evening, driving alone on the long winding roads to her parent’s house and listening to the commentary for the game on the radio. Making it to the house in time for the 3rd period, and seeing the team celebrate. Was he well rested, excited for his family to watch him play at home, did he look up into the staff suite at the Rock and wish she was there cheering him on?

On Saturday, retreating to her childhood bedroom after another tense family dinner, snuggling up with the dogs on her bed as she watched the game. Was he beating himself up, had he gone straight home on his own after the loss, did he have the same urge to call her as much as she wanted to call him?

Did he, on any of those nights, lay awake thinking about that kiss?

About how right it had felt? How he had exerted his subtle dominance over her with such ease, large hands encompassing her face and holding her to his lips like his life depended on it?

Did he think about where it could have gone if she hadn’t shut him down? Where they could be if he’d made a move before?

She’s been thinking about it. Non-stop thinking about it.

Thinking about that kiss, and the possibility of others - the moment in the bar, all the other potential moments he had wanted to kiss her and hadn’t. The fact that maybe her feelings had never been one sided, and she’s wasted years pushing them down for nothing.

“Do you think I made a mistake not cancelling this date?” She asks her friend in a moment of vulnerability, her mind reeling with the possibility that she has already fucked up what could be.

“No.” Nia assures her, surprisingly. She’s been calling her an idiot all night, what does she mean, ‘no’? “I think he needs to sweat a little, let him think about you out tonight with another guy, and come tomorrow, his mind will be made up.”

“You don’t think we might be overestimating how much it bothers him?”

“Don’t make me call you a dumbass again, Pop.” Poppy can hear the rolling of her best friend’s eyes through the phone. “And send me a picture of your outfit before you leave.”

Nico

Nico has never been so physically uncomfortable in his life.

For a man who plays contact sport for a living - has played it for a good chunk of his existence, and has suffered countless knocks and injuries, slept in one too many uncomfortable positions in planes, buses, trains and even hotel beds, and who’s face has had more than enough encounters with the wrong end of a pair of skates - that is saying a lot.

But every inch of him, every fibre of his entire being, feels irritated in some way.

It’s a feeling like unforeseen static shocks passing over every surface of his skin. Like little bugs crawling all over him and he can’t swat them away. Like random strands of fine hairs that can’t be seen by the naked eye but God, can he feel them. He feels them everywhere.

From the top of his head to the tips of his toes, he feels something prickling, stinging, burning. 

Itchy.

Like a scratch he can’t reach in the very middle of his back.

And it’s not like he doesn’t know what it is.

He’s felt it ever since he left Poppy’s apartment in the early hours of Thursday morning. He had hardly slept, getting maybe 3 or 4 hours in before his alarm shrilled from where it charged on his nightstand. 

He has tried to use the same coping mechanisms that get him through his bouts of homesickness - where he closes his eyes and tries to provoke a memory for each sense.

He pictures the views from one of his many hikes, endless fields of green grass, crystal clear lakes, winding footpaths and mountains that stretch as far as the eye can see. He imagines gathering around a fondue table back in his favourite restaurant, and can smell the freshly baked bread, can taste the melt-in-the-mouth flavour once it’s been dipped in oozing, melted cheese. He can feel the softness of the freshly washed sheets back in his childhood bedroom and can hear the chorused chirps of the birds outside his window in the early mornings. 

It’s a technique that has helped ground him in the past, and he had thought that maybe if he applies the same logic, it will dull the ache in his fingertips that yearn to reach for his phone and text the girl who has asked him for space.

If he thinks hard enough, he can still taste the sweet but subtle vanilla of Poppy’s lip balm. He can smell the fresh-cotton essence of her laundry detergent, can hear the melodic sounds she had hummed into his lips, can feel the softness of her skin on the pads of his fingers, can see, clear as day, the dazed expression etched into her features like she had gotten caught up in the fantasy too.

If it wasn’t so easy for him to mentally transport himself back, he wouldn’t have been able to make it 4 days without seeing her. 

He had known it would be hard, but, thankfully, he thinks he got himself enough of a fix to make it to Monday.

He’d taken all he could with just one press of his lips to hers, had taken more of Poppy than he had ever dared to take before, and his subconscious was clinging onto it for dear life, hoping with everything in him she could decide to give him more.

4 days.

He has never known time to be so cruel. For it to drag out every minute like it was an hour.

If his life had a remote control, best believe he would be jamming the hell out of the fast forward button. 4x speed, skip to the next chapter, not wanting or needing to know what happened in the in-between.

He’s always thought himself to have patience - good things come to those who wait, after all - but this had become the ultimate test.

He had tried to immerse himself in whatever was going on each day, hoping they would pass quicker, less painfully, but it had been no use.

His birthday had passed by in a dizzying blur. He’d had a late morning skate, had come home to his family waiting for him, had gone to dinner with them, caught up over Italian food in one of his favourite spots by his apartment, and had driven his parents, his sister and her boyfriend back to their hotel with the promise of dedicating some time to them before the game on Friday.

Every single thing had reminded him of her.

Being at the Rock and wondering where in the building she might be, and if she was reminded of him with the littlest things. If she was thinking about him, what she was thinking about him. Seeing his family, imagining her place at the table as they all exchanged laughter and stories over pasta and wine. Thinking about what she might contribute to the conversation, how she would get along with his sister, how they’d gang up on him and poke fun, but she’d hold his hand under the table and squeeze to let him know it was all in good humour.

In the locker room after the win against the Blackhawks, trying his best to get involved in the celebrations but just wanting to call her, to hear that she had watched, and was proud of him and the team. And even after the loss against the Canucks, he wanted to hear the same. He wanted to go straight to her place, the passenger seat of his car painfully empty as he drove himself home in complete silence. 

And he had tried his best not to get too into his head about the whole space thing.

Poppy was right, after all. Things had gotten intense.

He had been intense - marching over to her place and kissing her out of nowhere. As right as it had felt, it was stupid. It was hotheaded and impulsive and it wasn’t considerate of her feelings.

But, God, he was so caught up on her he couldn’t help himself. He should have seen in the days they had spent together prior that they needed to speak more about everything before he threw himself at her like a neanderthal. 

He’d only considered what conclusion he had reached, and as much as his conversation with the guys on the plane gave him an idea of Poppy’s mindset, some words needed to be exchanged before he planted one straight on her. The whole thing could have gone so much better if he just knew how to communicate everything with her properly.

Even before the kiss. Before New Years, before Talia, before Summer - if he knew how to speak about his developing feelings for her, this whole mess could have been avoided.

He wouldn’t be sat alone in a bar, yet again, as his friends surround him, partaking in the celebrations that are supposed to revolve around him, wallowing in self pity.

He wouldn’t be thinking about Poppy, out in some fancy restaurant somewhere else in the city, with some stick-up-his-ass loser who doesn’t deserve a second of her time, and imagining her giving him one of those earth shattering smiles - the one where her the outside of her eyes crinkle in the corners, and every time he sees it he imagines the lines settling there as she ages, and it’s always a version of the two of them, old and grey, side by side, smiling together.

He imagines her taking him back to her apartment, curling up with him on the couch Nico helped her haul up the stairs after she had found it for crazy cheap off of some sketchy ad on Facebook marketplace. He sees her slowly replacing all those pictures she has of her and Nico with pictures of her and him, phasing him out of her space like she would eventually phase him out of his life.

He thinks about her taking him to her bedroom - the one he had yet to see in her new apartment, but imagines it’s just like her old one; way too many pillows and throws, a thick, plush duvet that looks like she’s climbing into a cloud, and a beat up stuffed toy her grandmother had given her when she was young. 

He doesn’t want to wish that Poppy is currently welcoming someone into her life that doesn’t suit her, but he can’t help himself.

He hopes this guy is late - and doesn’t even apologise for it. He hopes he orders off the menu for her, or criticises her choice of wine for not pairing with her choice of food like a complete snob. He hopes he’s awful to wait-staff. He hopes he’s type of guy who writes a suggestion on the tip line of his receipt instead of leaving a minimum of 20%. He hopes he chews with his mouth open, spits when he talks and scrapes his knife along the ceramic of his plate as he cuts his food, causing that toe curling sound that makes Poppy want to scream.

He hopes he doesn’t offer her his jacket, because she always refuses to take one out. He hopes he doesn’t think to give her a piggy back, because she always wears shoes out she knows she doesn’t want to walk in, but always wants to walk home if it’s nice out. He hopes he walks on the inside of the sidewalk, leaving her to the dangers of walking roadside, and walks too quick for her to keep up with little regard for how she likes to take her time on a night and stretch the evening out. 

He even hopes he smokes. Poppy hates smokers. And if, God forbid, they kiss, he’ll have smoker’s breath, and she won’t want to do it again. 

She won’t stand in front of him, eyes glazed over, lashes fluttering, brows furrowing, lips still pouting and fingers twitching to reach back out, yearning for more.

She won’t even kiss him back.

Not like she had kissed Nico. Not like she had clutched at his shirt like she wanted to hold him close to her forever. He wouldn’t get to hear that sweet, subdued sound she had made when his tongue had swiped tentatively at hers, or feel that slight pressure of when her lips had closed around it, sucking almost at the muscle before opening back up to allow for more of a taste.

No one else can get that.

No one else will savour it like Nico has, thinking about is for days on end, replaying the moment over and over until he has perfect recall of every small detail.

It’s probably a good thing she hasn’t shared much detail about this date, Nico thinks as he swirls the ice around his empty drink, sat right at the bar away from the sectioned-off area that Timo had rented out for the party.

If he knew more about it - about the who, about the where - he probably would be in a cab by now, knowing he was crossing a line but unable to do anything about it, his will outweighing any common courtesy just as it had a few nights ago. Or he would have spent the last few days in a google deep-dive, trying to figure out the kind of man her mother would approve of. Enough to set her up, at least - he doubts Priscilla Jensen entirely approves of anyone.

Nico finally makes eye contact with the bartender, and as she starts to make her way over, he feels like a divine intervention occurs - an arm falling onto the bar top beside his, a glimmer of metal flashing into his dark eyes - the reflection bouncing from a bracelet that is welded around the base of a slender hand.

“I’ll take another of these,” he lifts his glass when the bartender arrives, gesturing to the old fashioned he’d somehow landed on over beer tonight, “And whatever she’s having, please.”

 “Vodka diet coke, please,” a voice rings out from beside him, and once the bartender busies herself with the order, she asks, “Shouldn’t I be the one getting you a drink? I heard it’s your birthday,”

“Why should either of us pay when it’s going on a tab?” He chuckles, angling his body better to face her. 

“Ooh la-la, a tab,” Nia mocks, “Now I feel like I’m a part of an elite club!”

“I find it hard to believe you’ve never had your drinks put on someone else’s tab before.”

“Not the New Jersey Devils captain himself, it’s such an honour!” She raises a manicured hand and presses it to her chest, a playful smile etched into her features. 

“Did you come over here just to poke fun at me?” Nico asks, touching on the dynamic that has long been between the two of them. She mocks him, mostly all bark and no bite, he takes it on the chest, knowing she’s doing it from of her warped version of almost sibling-like love, and Poppy usually acts as the mostly-unnecessary mediator, dividing her attention between them both. 

“Of course I did,” she affirms, “You looked all mopey and miserable, how could I not?”

“How is me waiting for a drink ‘mopey’?”

“Uh, let me think,” she taps her finger to her chin, before lifting it to point at each feature she references, “The huge pout on your lips, your giant caterpillar eyebrows all slanted and frowny-,”

“Forget I asked,” he mutters, lifting his lips into a quick smile and thanking the girl behind the bar as she brings them their drinks. “Didn’t know you’d be out tonight,”

“I’ll be sure to send you an e-vite to my google calendar when I get home later.”

Nico’s throat tightens slightly at how similar Nia and Poppy are - always quick with a response, most of the time sarcastic, most of the time able to elicit a genuine laugh to rumble from the depths of his chest. “I see why you and Poppy are so close.”

“Hm,” she hums, making a show of checking her phone, “You barely made it two minutes, but it could be a new record.”

“A new record?”

“For how long you can go in conversation without mentioning her.”

“She’s your best friend, the one person we have in common, it’s normal for me to bring her up, Nia.” He reaches for his drink to take a gulp, hoping the ice might make his throat feel a little better.

He doesn’t even know why he’s denying his lack of willpower when it comes to Poppy - 2 minutes actually seems like quite the achievement when he thinks about how long he’s restrained himself from reaching out over the past 4 days. Nia approaching him like this has been the perfect excuse to think about her - to talk about her without feeling like he’s overstepping or assuming.

He could use this to his advantage.

“Is she a good kisser?”

Or not.

He chokes on his drink, thankful the liquid isn’t coming out of his nose with how much he hadn’t been expecting that question.

“She looks like she would be. I’ve always thought about it but there’s never been a right time to try it out. Maybe I should take a leaf outta your book and lay it on thick and fast when she least expects it.”

How he even thought he could gain advantage in this conversation is beyond belief. He’s out of his depth with Nia, as usual. She isn’t afraid to call him out - she never has been - and she’s the one person in the world Poppy would confide in. Of course she knows about the kiss.

“Is that what she said, I laid it on thick and fast,”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, lover boy.” She chuckles, picking up her cocktail and stepping away from him, “Thanks for the drink, Nico, try to enjoy the rest of your birthday party.”

“Wait!” He reaches out to stop her, not wanting to let a golden opportunity slip from his hands so easily. “You would have bought me a drink before, for my birthday?”

“I think you earn about 5 times my annual salary in a month, so probably not.”

“How about you answer a question for me?” He proposes, “As a gift.”

“I could,” she sighs, sitting down in the stool beside him, “But I heard you get touchy after gifts.”

He immediately regrets asking, but not enough to let her go. He’s come this far, and he has 4 days worth of questions he desperately needs answers to.

“Funny,” he gives a condescending smile, which clearly pleases her as she gives a genuine one back, lifting her spare hand to gesture for him to carry on. As if it’s that easy to narrow down all the things he wants to ask her.

One question. 

What did she say about the kiss? Did she like it? Would she do it again?

What did she say about him? About how she feels? About what she wants?

Where is she right now? What did she tell Nia about the date? About the who?

“The guy she’s out with,” he can’t even bring himself to say the D word, “Is he nice?”

The look she gives him is almost pitiful. In fact, there is no almost about it. She clearly thinks he’s pathetic, but it’s too late to retract the question now that it’s out there.

“I don’t think so.”

He doesn’t like the way his stomach turns at her answer.

He had wanted this, right? For him to be a gratuity-withholding, uncouth slob with bad breath. 

But the thought of her being out with someone that has the potential to hurt her, hurts him. His chest feels tight, his head feels muddled, and that everlasting itch returns to the tips of his fingers - the weight of his cellphone becoming that much heavier in his back pocket.

“I mean,” she carries on with a shrug and reaches for her own phone, “He was a no-show, so we’ll never actually know for sure.” She swipes at her phone until she brings up her message thread with Poppy, turning up the brightness to show Nico the picture she had asked her to send earlier. 

It’s a selfie taken in the overly tall mirror she had once made him pick up from Ikea, claiming it wouldn’t fit in her car and his was much bigger, and he doesn’t know why his first instinct is to scan the background just to confirm his earlier intuitions about her bedroom. Too many pillows, cloud-like duvet. He can’t see the stuffed toy, but he assumes it’s somewhere in there.

Poppy looks unbelievable. 

Her dress is short, like the one she had worn on New Years, fits snug around her waist and emphasises her curves in all the best ways. Her legs seem to go on for miles, adorned in knee high boots no doubt to provide some semblance of warmth. Her hair is pulled back, and she wears gold jewellery - rings, some small hoop earrings, and he’s only just able to stop his fingers reaching out to pinch at the screen because he can see the gemstone bracelet without the need to zoom in.

“Can’t be that nice if you’re standing up a girl that gorgeous, huh?” Nia asks, suggestively, leaning her chin into the palm of her spare hand as she looks up at Nico. “Some guys just don’t know how good they’ve got it.”

He figures he actually should be embarrassed about the relief that floods through him - washes over his entire demeanour, expression changing from defeated to victorious in a matter of mere seconds.

The crease that seems to have permanently formed between his brows smooths out, posture corrects itself, and his lips even almost turn up into a smile.

There’s a childish, territorial voice within him that wants to exclaim, Thank God! But he’s grateful that he’s able to mute it.

And, despite being privy to Nia’s games - despite knowing exactly what trap he is being lured into, what he’s about to fall for - he can’t help but suggest, “You should tell her to come out.” Because, despite knowing he had taken the bait, he can’t find it within himself to care. “I think I asked her one too many times to ask again.”

The one thing he had twisted himself into knots over since first hearing her utter the word date, hadn’t actually come to fruition.

There is no date. There is no uncouth slob.

There is Poppy, dressed as pretty as she is, practically waiting for someone to show her a good time. 

He can do that. He wants to do it - to be the someone that’s good to her.

“Oh, should I?” Nia asks, a knowing smirk causing her lips to twitch mischievously. She’s been playing him this whole time, and once again, he doesn’t care. “I don’t know, she seems resigned to spending the evening on her couch watching New Girl,” she sighs dramatically, clearly looking for incentive - once again, reminding him too much of the girl he longs for. “I don’t know if there’s much convincing to be done.”

“I’ll add you to the tab for the night.”

Rookie mistake, offering something up so quick.

“Is that all my efforts are worth to you, Nico, a few measly drinks?”

“What do you want?”

“I’m actually out with a client tonight,” she looks back somewhere toward the other side of the bar, Nico can’t even bring himself to follow her gaze. “Been trying to sign them to my agency for a while, and if I can fix this deal, I’m up for a promotion.”

“Nia,” he warns, not liking how long this story is becoming. Forget good things come to those who wait. He’s waited long enough. “What do you want?”

“They’re big Devils fans, I think a night with the team could really open them up to the benefits of working with me.”

“Bring them into our section.”

“And maybe some tickets, too.”

“Fine.”

Nia gives him a triumphant smile, “Great, I’ll let them know.” She salutes him as she stands back up, gathering her drink and phone between the fingers of one hand before backing away. “Nice doing business with you, Captain.”

“Aren’t you gonna text her?”

“Oh, Nico,” she jeers, using her free hand to grasp him by the chin. “Dear, sweet, naive Nico,” she gives his head a subtle shake before patting at his shoulder condescendingly, “She’s already on her way.”

If anyone asks, Nico isn’t admitting to keeping an eye on the door since Nia had made her way back over to her side of the bar, but he knows as soon as Poppy has arrived. He watches her make her way over to her friend, watches the two of them embrace and talk between themselves for a good minute. He watches and waits until her eyes meet his from across the crowded room, and it’s like everything else stops.

He’d somehow managed to immerse himself in the party spirit since he had found out she was coming, fitting back into the group, toasting along with them, engaging in conversations with his teammates, his mood vastly improved in comparison to earlier in the night - of which he’s sure Timo is relieved after his short-lived exile from Nico’s good graces — but everything fades to black when he sees her lips curve upwards from afar.

Someone is talking beside him - hopefully not to him, he thinks, he doesn’t remember being mid-discussion with anyone - but it’s just drowned out mumbling right now, and all he can do is tilt his head toward the doors that lead to the bathrooms, and wait for her to respond. When she nods and separates herself from Nia, he excuses himself from the group, edging out of their section and following her path, losing her a little in the thick crowd of people - the bar still packed from where they had played the Giants game earlier.

When he gets through the doors, he’s thankful no one else is lingering back there - no rowdy queue for the bathroom, no staff, no one but him and the girl who seems to be holding his heart like a hot potato, not knowing the best way to carry it without getting burned.

“Hi.” It’s a weak starter for a heavy conversation, but if he’s honest with himself, she’s taken his breath away.

The picture from before hadn’t done her justice. She’s a little worn into her look for the evening now, hair not so neat, skin a little shiny, lipstick faded - but this is exactly how he likes her, especially when he takes in the way her eyes gleam and her cheeks puff out with her smile.

He makes a conscious effort not to let his eyes drift directly to the smile - to her lips, which even the thought of them elicits such a vivid memory.

“Surprise!” she sings quietly, arms outstretched and hands shaking theatrically.

He steps toward her with his hands behind his back, fingers clasped together until he’s confident that his knuckles turn white, fighting the urge to curl his arm around her waist and pull her into him, needing to be closer. He watches intently as her eyes flick down to where his hands should be.

She backs into the wall behind her, not to escape his approach, but more to prepare herself for it - like she’s settling in and embracing it.

She isn’t running. She isn’t pushing.

She’s waiting.

“I’ve missed you.” Nico wastes no time in telling her the truth - telling her what she’s refused to believe every other time he’s said it, but he can tell with the tilting of her head and the rounding of her eyes that understanding has settled within her. She has no comeback, no it’s only been a few days, and he thinks she must have felt the drag of them in the same way.

“I’ve missed you, too.” 

Whatever anxiety has rooted itself deep inside him for the past 4 days dissipates almost immediately. 

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you.” He admits, without shame or reluctance. After Poppy had helped him overcome whatever had been censoring him before, there is no point now in holding back or beating around the bush. “You look so good, Mohn.”

A rush of confidence allows for him to close the gap, standing right before her as she leans against the wall, neck craning ever so slightly to look up at him. He still won’t touch, hands laying against the stone at either side of her hips, not daring yet to let even a sliver of his finger graze at her flesh.

“You look good, too.” She breathes, eyes glancing down to do an appreciative once over of his outfit, and he doesn’t miss the glint of pride cross through her eyes when she catches the glimpse of the gold that peaks out from the neck of his sweatshirt. 

“I’m sorry about your date.”

“Are you?” Her lips twist into a knowing smile. It’s an example of one of her many traits that he loves - she can detect his bullshit a mile off.

“Mmhm,” he nods, “I’m sorry a world exists where any man is stupid enough to stand you up, Poppy.”

“I’m the stupid one,” she argues, and he misses her gaze as soon as she takes it away, eyes darting to the floor in embarrassment. “I should have listened to you and cancelled in the first place.”

“I was stupid to ask that.”

“Maybe we’re both stupid.”

“Definitely.” He probably shouldn’t be agreeing to her calling herself stupid, but it comes out before he can think too much on it. They’ve both wasted too much time. 

“Did you have a good birthday?” She asks, and a slight movement between them catches his eye, her fingers twisting together as if she’s withholding her touch, too.

“It’s better now.” He smiles fondly as she rolls her eyes. 

“How are your family?”

“They’re good.” He doesn’t want to go into too much detail about how shamefully miserable he has been over the past few days - doesn’t want to tell her how his mom had called him out on his lack of contribution to conversations, and he’d managed to pin it on the stress of the season. She still raises a brow at his insufficient answer, and he expands before she can tell him off. “Everyone but Luca made it out, my sister had to go back already for work, but my parents booked a trip to Halifax to visit the Phillips’, I lived with them when I played up there, they have a few friends to visit in Canada but they’ll drop back to see me again before they fly home.”

He feels the tickle of soft fingertips at the inside of his arm, slowly grazing down as he speaks, and as he watches Poppy, he thinks she must not realise she’s doing it - letting intuition take over as she’s distracted by the conversation. He lets her take the lead on initiating any touching, and it takes all the restraint he has left not to barge through the door she’s attempting to slowly eke open. She’s the only person in the world who could make him audibly hear the metaphorical creaking.

“Did they get to watch you win?”

He doesn’t even know why he finds himself grinning at the question, but the tone in which she asks it bears a hint of pride. She had watched the game on Friday.

“My dad was pretty much in the stands in full gear, everything but the pads and skates, and my mom was repping Foundation merch, she’s run off across the border with my beanie.” He likes the way her face lights up.

“I’ll get you another.” She raises her other hand to card her fingers through his hair, and, for once, he’s thankful not to be wearing any sort of hat. The soft scratch of her nails is soothing, and he just about manages to stop himself leaning into her touch and purring like a cat.

That would be embarrassing.

He feels outnumbered, both of her hands on him, and it feels unfair not to be touching her - so when his thumb extends itself on the wall just beside her hip and strokes at the soft fabric of her dress until it’s softly digging in, he watches intently for any hesitation before he lays a palm flat against her side.

It feels like things are progressing both torturously slow and overwhelmingly fast at the same time. His heart feels like it’s slamming into either side of his ribcage, and like nothing else occupies his chest, the sound of it echoing as if banging on the walls of a deep, empty cavern.

“Did I already tell you how much I missed you?” He honestly can’t remember, but he’ll tell her again if he needs to.

The hand that had run through his hair rests now on the side of his head, her thumb swiping softly at his cheek as she cups the side of his face, and before he can even make sense of what is happening, he’s being pulled forward. 

He bends to her advances with quick reflexes to avoid clashing, and their noses bump just before their lips meet.

Her chest rolls forward until it presses into his, and both his hands grab at her sides to pull her flush against him, legs tangling, hips pushing together, bodies touching everywhere possible all the way up to their mouths. 

He gives her all the control otherwise, allows her to determine the pace, responding to her every move and every touch with fervour and heat. She pulls at him, one hand grasping at his sweatshirt and the other cradling the side of his neck, and he quickly lifts one to stifle the blow to her head as she collides back with the wall, barely noticing the pain where his knuckles meet the stone.

Their tongues press together at the same time, and Nico doesn’t even realise his lack of patience got the better of him until their battle for dominance kicks off between their lips.

He can taste the same vanilla lip balm, can smell her signature coconut scent, can hear soft, subtle moans, can only see the back of his eyelids, not daring to open them, just wanting to feel. And he can feel everything. 

He feels the softness of her hair beneath the hand that is protecting her head from the discomfort of resting against the hard surface behind her, can feel the skirt of her dress bunching up in his grip, can feel her touch, fingertips dancing at the the base of his skull, thumb pressing into his jaw, her other hand making that same grabby gesture at the thick fabric covering his torso, squished between his heart and her chest, and he thinks he can feel the thump of her own heart on the other side.

He can feel her thigh pressed between his, the friction causing a heat to build deep in the pit of his stomach, swirling and whirling down, down, down until it culminates into the hard press of his hips into hers, and a rushed gasp combined with a guttural groan causes their lips to part.

They take deep breaths in unison, their chests bumping with every inhale, and he tries otherwise not to move.

He opens his eyes to find hers still closed, scrunched shut, even, and he tries not to be selfish - ignores the need to get a good look at her, to have this version of her ingrained to his memory too - and attempts to coax her back to him.

“Poppy,” he sounds just about as breathless as he feels. “Are you good?”

She hums in response, a subtle nod given, but he needs to hear her say it, and he tells her as much with a quick squeeze to her hip. Her eyes flutter open, gleaming and bright, framed by thick lashes and crinkling slightly at the outer corners as her lips turn up into a mischievous grin. “Better now.”

His chest feels like it’s about to burst open, like there’s a bear within him that is going to break out and pull her into its clutches, dragging her back safe to her home in his heart.

“Do you want to get out of here?” He asks, because he has to - he doesn’t care if it’s rude to leave his own birthday party, doesn’t care that he’s been the most ungrateful person in the world all night.

He’ll make it up to Timo, get him something big the next birthday of his that rolls around. Throw him a party. Or he’ll take care of the tab the next time they’re out. Maybe even let him have the window seat the next time they’re on the same plane home. 

Except, he won’t be doing any of that. He’ll be taking the reins on booking flights and putting Timo straight into economy, smack-bang in the middle of a row surrounded by a family of 5, screaming kids, arguing parents, the back of his seat being kicked the whole 8 hours to Zurich.

Because, just as Poppy’s swollen lips part to accept his advances - as her chin lifts, about to drop with a big affirmative nod, and he’s about to get everything he’s wanted the past 4 days and beyond - the doors to the back swing open, and his 6 foot teammate stumbles through, arms outstretched as he notices the two of them practically intertwined.

“Here you are!” He exclaims, voice booming in comparison to the soft breathy tones he and Poppy had been previously speaking in. “Poppy, you made it!”

“Hi Timo,” Nico feels her retreat, feels her legs brush past his and back to her own space, her hand on his chest now the only part of her that touches him, and he follows her lead, taking his hands back and trying not to clench his jaw or his fists as she converses with the man who was once his friend. “How are you doing?”

“I’m alright, should be back on the ice in a couple weeks.” Timo had suffered an injury in one of their games at the back end of December, and hasn’t been fit to travel, and Nico finds an unspeakably bitter part of himself wishing it was something to do with Timo’s legs that were injured so he couldn’t have interrupted their moment. “Glad you’re here, this one has been miserable all night.”

He can’t be this oblivious, Nico thinks. Why is he still here? Why isn’t he retreating back to the bar and leaving the two of them to whatever he had clearly barged in on.

And when Nico looks back to his teammate, his long time friend, he sees the oh-so-evident glint of mischief and disobedience in his grey-blue eyes.

He is getting his own back.

Nico knows he was petulant to blame Timo for Poppy not being invited, knows there was nothing he could have done to change her going out on a date, or them not speaking for months while he was with Talia.

He doesn’t need him to enact his revenge to see he was wrong to ignore his texts, or to mope around at the party he had put so much effort into. 

He tries to give him a pleading look to stop whatever he is trying to do, but it’s no use.

“The guys will want to see you, Poppy, Jack’s beating himself up about his shoulder, could use a friendly face.”

“Oh,” Poppy casts a glance back to Nico, and he gives her a nod, implying that she go see to her friend. “I’ll go find him.” 

He can wait. He’s waited 4 days. He’s waited years, in fact.

And, after that kiss, he knows he won’t have to wait much longer. 

“You’re a real dick, you know that?” Nico mutters in their shared native language once he’s watched Poppy disappear through the doors to the bar, with a quick glance back and an apologetic smile before they closed. 

“Just saving my brooding captain from being arrested for public indecency,” Timo shrugs with a shit-eating grin as he passes Nico and heads toward the bathrooms further down the hall. “You’re welcome!” He calls back in English, raising his hands and giving a patronising thumbs up.

Nico runs a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face and wishing it was Poppy’s in its place.

It’s just an hour, maybe two, in the presence of his friends. Drinks, music, everyone in a good mood for the most part. It’s hardly like he’s walking out into a press conference after a 5 game losing streak and about to have all the blame placed upon his shoulders. 

It’s a party. 

Poppy’s here.

He can do this.

He can wait.

Next Chapter

taglist: @alwaysclassyeagle @bunbunbl0gs @idgaf-if-youre-here @youflowerr-youfeast @thearchersstuff @bellsdi0r @wonderheartz @jjgsunflower @butterflies35 @kenziepickle @josierosie @laheyxlover @mrsmattytkachuk (sorry if your tag hasn't worked btw or if I forgot you I'm a muppet tbh)

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

pt XIV good omens season 2 (still not traumatic) episode 2

Here we go. It might not have been traumatic, but it has made me utterly in love with a fictional character. Great.

While everyone runs around between episode 1 and 2 to use the loo or fetch emotional support fruit, in preparation for my inevitable gay panic for Crowley, I eat an emotional support banana as the intro sequence plays.

I realise too late that bananas remind me of fellatio.

The episode begins. There are incoherent screams of BILDADDY through the chat. The phrase religious fervour and ecstasy comes to mind. I do not say it.

God and Satan are betting on a poor bloke so his goats and kids are going to be dead, Crowley has a permit to wreak havoc, Aziraphale is scandalised.

Gabriel's angel hair is very Lord Farquaad. Everyone agrees.

Jimbriel is determined to make his new dad proud, and rearranges all the books in alphabetical order of the first letter of the first sentence. Aziraphale struggles to compliment him.

CROWLEY LIVES IN THE BENTLEY. I'M READY TO RIP THROUGH REALITY'S FABRIC TO GIVE THAT IMMORTAL SOME LOVE AND AFFECTION. AND OF COURSE HE STILL KEEPS ALL HIS PLANTS AND HAS THEM IN THE BACK. @neil-gaiman WHY MUST YOU CAREFULLY CRAFT BEAUTY THAT BREAKS ME.

Anyway.

NO NOT ANYWAY I'M STILL RAGING BUT WE HAVE A SUMMARY TO DO AND I'M A FUCKING PROFESSIONAL GODDAMN IT.

Angels are assholes. Jimbriel is very supportive bookseller's son.

The shit-job subtlety attempt last episode was very powerful because TOGETHER THEY ARE STRONGER! *unicorn music*

Aziraphale strokes Crowley's chest. The fandom sobs.

Crowley suggests getting humans wet to make them 'vavoom' and the apple falls from my slack jaw mid bite.

Aziraphale and Crowley are shit at interpreting human media.

Job storyline. If I open my mouth I'll start scream-crying about how Crowley didn't even kill the goats. He had both heaven and hell's permission, orders from God and Satan, and he didn't even kill the goats. Anyway no we're not doing this now thanks.

Crowley introduces Aziraphale to food. Aziraphale goes ham on the ox rib while Crowley has a little spring awakening about his kinks. I eat my other emotional support banana in honour of the blowjob angles.

Crowley didn't even want to reveal that he'd saved the goats to Aziraphale even though Aziraphale was looking at him with betrayal, because it was for the goats and he wanted to-

Sorry. I'm so fucking normal about goats.

David Tennant and his son are having a HECK of a time.

All Crowley wanted to do was ask questions and christ if he isn't angelic who is he put goats' safety over his-

Bildaddy is the best cobbler and obstetrician. Gabriel is an idiot.

Back in actual time, Crowley gives up on Aziraphale mid-flashback and they saunter off to facilitate some lesbian romancing.

OUR BOOKSHOP. OUR CAR. PLENTY OF USE.

Boundaries, Aziraphale, please. Someone reminds us that the Bentley is all Crowley has left. I fill with preternatural RAGE again.

Aziraphale poor baby has a crisis over betraying heaven. Crowley comforts him even though Crowley fell so every defence of heaven is an attack to himself. I'm totally normal and start eating my emotional support kiwi.

Still eating my emotional support kiwi when the episode ends. Crowley says Aziraphale is too pure and angelic looking to be a demon which means that she doesn't see how pure and angelic she was while making the stars, she thinks she was marked in some way, imperfect. It is okay for her to fall, not Aziraphale.

Anyway yes summary all done.

BUT THE GOATS. CROWLEY DEFIED HEAVEN AND HELL FOR GOATS. AND-

END END THE SUMMARY NOW.

[catsteinbooks]

The Thin Dark Duke of Hell

Haven't actually written a meta before, but I've been mulling this around in my head, so here's my take on why I think Crowley is likely to be a Duke of Hell in season 3.

Reason 1: it makes narrative sense

From a story-telling perspective, it's the logical starting place for season 3. Especially if we consider how the original idea was developed as a sequel to the book.

There's no body-swap in the book. Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley has heard from "their sides" at the end, so technically they're still connected to Heaven and Hell. They haven't been punished or kicked out. They even speculate that maybe everyone will just pretend it didn't happen.

And now we're approaching the Second Coming. The Big One. "All of us against all of them." Where are our heroes? Well, time has passed, things have happened. It's reasonable to think that maybe they've both been promoted. (Crowley, in particular, is often getting promotions, usually for things he didn't do.) And story-wise, they're set up as opposite numbers, so it makes sense that their positions as the sequel story begins will be of similar status.

Applying this concept to the screen version, we know Aziraphale has been offered the Supreme Archangel position. Therefore, if Crowley is to be his counterpart, he has to have a high rank in Hell. And there's a Duke of Hell opening to be filled. (Sorry, Shax, I think Crowley's going to snatch it out from under you.)

Reason 2: it fits Crowley's character

"What?!" you shout. "Crowley hates Hell! He turned them down! He doesn't want to go back!"

Correct. He doesn't. But he will if he thinks he needs to. Because he and Aziraphale have a huge, defining commonality: they love Earth and Humanity and don't want it to be destroyed.

Yeah, Crowley will probably wallow for a while. He deserves some time to get insanely drunk and cry. Sort of like he did when he thought Aziraphale was dead in season 1. But the thing is, Crowley always comes back. He's always ready to run. He always threatens to run. He hops in his car and drives somewhere. But he never actually leaves. Because there's no point in going away somewhere without Aziraphale. And that hasn't changed. If Crowley ran away now, he'd still be miserable, but without any music or whisky or his Bentley. It would be... pointless.

So what's a heartbroken, grieving, furious demon to do? Vent his pain in the best possible way: thwarting everyone and everything who hurt him and took away the angel he adores. He knows what Heaven is planning, because he saw it in Gabriel's file. He doesn't want Earth destroyed, he doesn't want Heaven or Hell to win. And he has an opportunity to sabotage the whole thing from the inside.

Which leads us to...

Reason 3: Crowley has a way into Hell already

There is a great meta here about Crowley's conversation with Beelzebub in Hell and its potential season 3 impact. The TL;DR version is: Crowley DID technically find Gabriel, and Beelzebub promised him anything he wanted (including being a Duke of Hell) in return.

Is it a somewhat dubious contract? Sure. Would that stop Crowley? *snort laugh* The demon who makes up legal clauses on the spot to save humans is well-equipped to argue his way into Hell's highest position in order to save the entire world. It's probably much easier than driving a flaming Bentley all the way to Tadfield.

So where does this leave us?

Aziraphale is up in Heaven, ready to burn it to the ground. You saw him when the Metatron mentioned the Second Coming. That was not a happy angel ready to do what he's told. And, frankly, Aziraphale is not actually capable of doing what he's told IMO. No matter how much he tries to follow the good/evil dynamic, he ultimately ends up choosing what is Right over what is Good.

Crowley in Hell would be doing the same kind of thing, albeit in a more subtle, sneaky way. After all, he spent 6000 years thwarting Hell all over the place and getting away with it the vast majority of the time. He knows how to mess with them. (And can you just imagine what would happen when demons like Eric asked him questions and he answered them?! He could gather his own little army with one Suggestion Box.)

So when shit hits the fan, as it inevitably will, we'll be left with both our ineffable heroes (gn) poised to do the exact same thing: destroy the machine from the inside.

Even if some of the other fan speculations prove true (memory wipes, for instance), I think it still makes narrative sense to have them both in equal-but-opposite positions. Because no matter how much the enemies are trying to mess with them, if you take a certain angel with an opportunity to fuck up Heaven and a certain demon with an opportunity to fuck up Hell and you bring them together (which, let's be honest, has to happen no matter what the storyline is), it's going to be pretty darn epic.

[queer-reader-07]

the thing that gets me about the fandom’s reaction to azi and crowley’s Kiss is how many people somehow missed that the point of the Kiss was not to show they were in love.

i feel like you have to have SUCH a narrow view of what love looks like if you think that two people need to smooch for it to be love. azi and crowley are so unbelievably in love the whole of season 1 & 2 (and the book) and it’s SOOOO obvious. and we all knew that, right? we all knew that they had something going on, there was love there regardless of what kind of love you thought it to be. it was undeniably there.

and yet. so many people have talked about how the Kiss is “the proof they’re in love” or have wondered why beelzebub and gabriel didn’t kiss too. and i’m just like. what about gabriel and beelzebub’s dynamic needed a kiss? you can tell they’re in love and a kiss would’ve felt so awkward in my opinion.

and i think in the end what this boils down to is that i don’t think kisses are inherently romantic, and a lot of people apparently do think they are. and i don’t think you need to have two characters kiss for them to be in love. are azi’s stolen looks, genuine smiles, and desire for closeness not enough? is crowley running into the burning bookshop and walking on hallowed ground not enough? what about a kiss would make their love any more real?

that Kiss was crowley’s last ditch effort to tell azi how he felt. to convey what he means when he says he wants to be an Us. The Kiss was crowley realizing that the acts of service weren’t enough to show azi how he loved him, his words weren’t clear enough, he had to /show/ azi. that Kiss was not there to be a “oooo they’re so in love” moment. and i think a lot of people missed the point because they were happy that they kissed in general.

i honestly couldn’t have cared less if azi and crowley ever kissed. and i don’t really care if they get a “proper” kiss in season 3 (whatever that means). because what makes their love so special is that they don’t need physical intimacy for it to be clear to literally everyone that they’re in love.

i’d rather they get to ride in the bentley as they go off for an extremely alcoholic breakfast at the ritz while listening to tori amos’ rendition of a ‘nightingale sang in berkeley square’. i’d rather crowley be able to walk into the bookshop and be able to take his glasses off again, because it’ll finally be a safe space again. i’d rather they actually fucking talk to each other. and if they kiss? whatever. because kisses shouldn’t be the end all be all of what love is. they shouldn’t be the thing that *has* to happen for love to be valid and real.

and maybe that’s me being unpopular on main, but oh well.

[humbledragon669]

S1E6 – The Very Last Day of the Rest of Their Lives P3 - from Sunday (the very first day of the rest of their lives) up to the departure of Shadwell and Madame Tracy

So here we are, the last day of the storyline. I was fairly sure the phrase “this is the first day of the rest of their lives” (or variations on the theme) is commonly used at weddings to the newly married couple, so I Googled it, and aside from an awful lot of Etsy links to wedding items emblazoned with the slogan, I came across this lovely summation of the phrase’s meaning:

I mean… wow. There’s so much that I could try to unpack there and apply directly to Crowley and Aziraphale (probably more so the latter of the two), I don’t really know where to start. So maybe I won’t. Call me lazy, but this definition says everything I could ever want to say about the use of this phrase being applied to this point in the storyline, and does so very eloquently.

Alright, next observation. When we rejoin Aziraphale(/Crowley), it’s broad daylight. There are lots of people milling around. When we saw both him and Crowley last, it was fully dark. The location they were in was a rural village and they were catching a normal scheduled bus. I don’t know about you, but I’ve lived in a rural village with a scheduled bus service, and I can assure you, they do not run through the night. We also know that Tadfield is only about an hour’s drive out of London. All of this means we have a period of time unaccounted for. I know that we will later come to discover that they have performed the body switch during this time, but we also know, from the switch reversion we see in the park, that it takes mere seconds to do. Given that the previous conversation between the two of them involved an invitation from Crowley for Aziraphale to stay at his place, I think it’s probably reasonable to assume that this is exactly what has happened. As a reminder, and because I actually haven’t brought it up for a while, my head canon is that they are already romantically involved as a couple at this point, so let me just say that a little louder to try and convey my excitement about this.

WE KNOW AZIRAPHALE STAYED THE NIGHT AT CROWLEY’S! HE STAYED OVER! AT CROWLEY’S FLAT! THEY DEFINITELY, 100%, SPENT THE NIGHT TOGETHER!

I know, I know, they could have just carried on drinking and chatting shit like we saw them doing in episode 1. But that is definitely not what happens in my head. This pair have a lot of making up to do. Also, this is my blog and my head canon. So there.

Ahem. Right. Now that’s out of the way, let’s take a moment to give praise where it’s due to Michael and David in these body switch scenes. The differences in their respective characters are noticeable but subtle. You could genuinely believe that Aziraphale and Crowley are actually Aziraphale and Crowley if you weren’t fully paying attention, which I suspect most of us weren’t the first time we watched the show, which is (yet another) indicator of what incredibly talented actors they are. I think it’s more obvious that Crowley isn’t really who he appears to be, but that’s not to do with the acting – it's the tartan collar and the fact that he doesn’t get into the Bentley. I think we all know Crowley would never get into a taxi when his beloved car was right there (especially when he thought it was lost forever), which he looks pleased to see but not overjoyed. This is a parallel of Aziraphale’s reaction to the bookshop he thought had burned to the ground – it’s unexpectedly reserved, almost assessing.

I’m actually a little bit sad that we didn’t get to see the real Aziraphale going back to his shop to find it back in one piece – I have a suspicion that would have been one absolutely ecstatic angel. Instead we see an uncharacteristically stoic reaction throughout the evaluation of the building. What is really telling is that Crowley (as Aziraphale) knows the inside of the bookshop well enough to be able to pick out a new set of books that weren’t there previously, which is a pretty clear indication as to how much time he spends there. The final Clue we’re given that Aziraphale isn’t really Aziraphale comes in the only line of dialogue we hear in this section. It’s brief:

Let’s set aside, just for a moment, the fact that the wording is rather un-Aziraphale-like (I don’t think he would liaise those words together: “Those are new”), and that the simple brevity of the sentence is similarly uncharacteristic, and even that there are no typical flustery hand gestures that we would typically associate with an excited angel. What really drives this Clue home, for me at least, is the entire pitch of Aziraphale’s voice is considerably lower than we are used to. Much closer to Crowley’s pitch in fact. It’s subtle, partly because the line is short, and there’s another ever-so-subtle difference in (Aziraphale as) Crowley’s gait when he walks to the taxi – it’s missing a bit of that typical Crowley swagger. Those tiny differences go to show how well Michael and David know each other that they can replicate mannerisms of a character that the other one plays so accurately, and I think we would all agree that without that chemistry this show really wouldn’t be what it is. Thanks guys, and fucking brilliant work.

Easter egg time: the “Just William” books that have manifested in the bookshop appear to be a duplicate of the same set of books on the bookshelf in Adam’s bedroom, which (considering Adam is responsible for the bookshop’s restoration) might explain how they ended up in the bookshop.

There’s a bit of dialogue in the scene with Anathema and Newt that suggests something that really is only hinted at in the series: that the people involved in the events of the day before don’t really remember them very clearly.

ANATHEMA: Did we save the world yesterday? NEWT: I don’t know.

This concept is made clearer in the book, with most people finding it difficult to believe that it is in fact Sunday, because they don’t really remember their Saturday at all.

Just in case you weren’t aware, the piece of music that the brass band is playing in St. James’s Park is actually another Queen song called “Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon”, which is a lovely little double-edged Easter egg (it being Queen and the story actually taking place on a Sunday at this point). And if you’re me (which, last I checked, I was), there’s an extra bit of excitement to be had in the lyrics of this song. You see, it’s my head canon that Crowley and Aziraphale actually get married on this particular Sunday, after the lunch at the Ritz. So imagine the squeal of delight that issued forth from my mouth when I read references to proposing and going on honeymoon in the lyrics. I mean, they don’t fit perfectly but hey, the song was written 15 years before the book – not everything can be so serendipitous.

Now, I love the fact that Aziraphale (as Crowley) orders the real Crowley an ice cream without hesitation as much as the next person. It really does show how much time they spend together.

My question is this: is the ice cream the personal preference of Aziraphale’s body’s physical taste buds, or Crowley’s mental personal preference? I can understand that might look a little complicated, so let me ask the question a different way: when Aziraphale and Crowley are in their own bodies, which one favours the ice cream, and which one the strawberry lolly? The answer doesn’t really matter, I just felt like it was a bit of a brain twister. Philosophical questions about body switches aside, the conversation here has a few more Clues peppered around for us to spot. As with (Crowley as) Aziraphale’s voice in the bookshop, (Aziraphale as) Crowley’s voice, at times, is subtly higher-pitched than we are used to, and his words more articulated. There’s also the fact that, when we first see the pair together again, Crowley (as Aziraphale) has taken up his usual position on (Crowley as) Aziraphale’s left.

It looks unnatural because we’re so used to seeing them the other way around. Crowley (as Aziraphale) does remedy the situation, and I’m sure it must be a conscious decision, because I’m also sure standing on the right side of Aziraphale would feel very unnatural for him. In fact, I not only think it’s a conscious decision, I think Aziraphale (as Crowley) signals to him that he’s on the wrong side. It’s tiny, and you could mistake it for a literal tongue-in-cheek moment when he asks about the bookshop, but it’s followed by a covert flick of the eyes to the right from Crowley (as Aziraphale), just before he moves casually to the other side.

Can we say non-verbal communication? We know very well that’s a running theme in the show. And all of these subtle Clues as so easy to miss because the whole conversation is so cautious, spoken low so we have to concentrate on hearing what they’re saying, distracting us from the things that would give the game away. Which includes the fact that both of them ask after the singular material object that matters most to them, despite the fact that the one asking about it isn’t the one it matters to (jeez, this is getting really confusing, isn’t it?). They manage to pass it off as casual conversation in their conspiratorial tones, but in fact it’s a plea for information. The final Clue comes to us in (Aziraphale as) Crowley’s use of the phrase “tickety-boo”, which should be a glaring indicator that the being on the floor is not who he pretends to be. We certainly never hear Crowley use this phrase, and he himself pointed out that it’s unusual even for Aziraphale to use it unless something isn’t right, but we can dismiss it as the ramblings of somebody who has just been hit very hard over the head with a crowbar, something that the warped rendition of the brass band in the soundtrack tells us is highly likely.

Side note: there is obviously another Sound of Music reference here in the departing words of the kidnappers. These references have previously been used to indicate an association with bad things happening that have been caused by Heavenly involvement. And as a personal side note, I was clearly delighted at myself when I wrote the words “it’s a bad omen” on my notes about this particular point because I wrote it in capital letters with a smiley face at the end. What. A. Saddo.

Let’s talk briefly about the face (Crowley as) Aziraphale pulls when Gabriel teases him about what they have planned for him.

I love this expression because it carries subtext on a couple of different levels. If you’re of the belief that this is really Aziraphale in the chair (which I think most of us would have been on first watch), it appears knowingly sarcastic, along the lines of “I sincerely doubt I’m going to enjoy any of this”, but if you’re already in the know about this really being Crowley, the subtext is more along the lines of “I really did see this coming, that’s why I’m not really Aziraphale, you slimy turd”. And the genius thing about the way that Michael plays it is that this singular expression fits either one of those possibilities perfectly.

Little side note: “wank wings” is my absolute favourite insult used in the entirety of this series, hands down. Also, a little question: if a tiny dribble of holy water is enough to completely obliviate a demon (see Ligur’s demise), why was it necessary for Michael to fill a bath with the stuff? The only obvious reason I can think of is so that we get to see (Aziraphale as) Crowley wearing his socks whilst in the bath and asking for a rubber duck, and to be honest if that’s the sole reason, I’m good with that.

Tiny possible Easter egg: Michael’s response to (Aziraphale as) Crowley’s comment about the liquid being holy water is the same as Aziraphale’s own response when asked what the contents of the flask were in 1967:

The holiest.

It was only whilst rewatching this episode for these write ups that I realised that the snarky comment from (Aziraphale as) Crowley wasn’t just there for comedy or for him to give his persecutors a bit of cheek.

This is a new jacket, and I’d hate to ruin it.

Which it sort of is, it having a tartan collar at Aziraphale’s liking. I don’t think this is a coincidence, not least because the original script line is “this is a new suit”, but also because we know from episode 2 that Aziraphale has a bit of a soft spot about jackets.

Hold on a minute, just hold on one bloody minute. What the hell is this noise?

I only heard it by chance when I was trying to clip something else. Do you hear it? It’s pretty subtle (not to mention short) so I turned the recording levels on the clip up. For context, this is right before he asks if it’s ok for him to take his jacket off. There’s the rising sound of a choir singing in an open vowel sound that ends abruptly with a little “ting” noise. I think it sounds an awful lot like one of the collection of sounds we’ve been introduced to that signify that a miracle has just performed. And if that’s true, what miracle has just been performed and by who? This one will genuinely keep me awake tonight…

Back on Earth, we see Shadwell reading a book which appears to be about psychic phenomena and demonology, complete with a very accurate rendition of the demon that was just destroyed in the bath of holy water. Presumably his choice of literature has been influenced by the events of the previous 24 hours. Somebody has made some sort of notes or markings on the adjacent pages, but unfortunately I cannot make out what they are. He’s also listening to “Jerusalem” again (as he was in episode 4), which makes me wonder if he has any other music other than that in the apartment at all.

There are two things in the text that I find interesting, one of which is more of an Easter egg. It’s very difficult to see because the writing is so small, but there is a reference to the author of the New Aquarian publication that Anathema and Adam so adore:

The other lies in the following passage of text:

...if communication with those who have been possessed or passed into the unseen be possible, why should it be necessary to have a connecting link in a so-called medium or demon hunter, especially a perfect stranger and of other order of mind? Surely our loved ones who have recently entered the spiritual world would try to communicate directly with them dearest to them: a father or mother would be more likely to be sensitive to the spiritual presence of their beloved child that an uncongenial stranger.

This feels like it might be a reference to Aziraphale’s actions after he was discoporated – he returned to the being dearest to him knowing that he would be more likely to sense his presence. If this is the case and this was purposeful, I am once again struck by the incredible attention to detail on display. It makes it so obvious that this was a show loved by everybody involved in its creation, and they have every right to be proud of their achievements.

There’s quite a lot to cover about Shadwell and Madame Tracy’s relationship in the remaining 20 minutes of the episode so it’s nice to see that there’s no time wasted in reminding the audience that they have been living an odd sort of joint existence for a while (not actually that dissimilar to our hero pair really) – his insistence that she leave the plate outside the door speaks volumes about this not only being a regular occurrence, but that this arrangement (no pun intended) is one that both parties are comfortable with. And let’s just take a moment to appreciate how smitten Shadwell is when he sees Madame Tracy at the door. It’s especially lovely because the outfit she’s wearing is deliberately plain and unflattering, yet seems to be of immense pleasure to him.

And just as a quick side note, I LOVE that shot from above of Shadwell leaving his own apartment and entering Madame Tracy’s. There’s something about it that’s so slick, and it feels like we’re being shown that the barriers between this couple were all of Shadwell’s own making because the walls and doors are so easy to traverse.

Do we think there’s something of an ironic anti-racism/anti-xenophobia joke in the little exchange between Baddicombe and Newt? I do not wish to cause offence to anybody, so I will try and demonstrate the point I’m trying to make with the following clip instead (which, very appropriately, the actor who plays Baddicombe is actually in):

Possible Easter egg: the year that the law firm that Baddicombe works for was established in 1692, the year that the Salem witch trials began in Massachusetts.

The next scene is the last we see of Shadwell and Madame Tracy (at least for this season, who’s to say they won’t be back in season 3?), and sadly I don’t have much to say about it other than this is the only time we ever hear Shadwell being honest about the size of the Witchfinder Army. I don’t think he’s ever lied to himself about the fact, but he’s certainly not been telling the truth to other people.

This part has gone on for quite a bit (surprise miracle noise can take part of the blame for that one), so I feel like the last sighting of a pair of characters might be a convenient place to wrap this part up. Bye (for now) Shadwell! Bye (for now) Madame Tracy! As always, questions, comments, discussion: always welcome. See you for the next one 😊

[ineffablenlghtingales]

Good Omens 1 x 02

(Look I'm making official header stuff for this now, because it's a thing. I will do it for every episode I see, since this show is just that good.)

Okay, just finished 1x02 and it did not disappoint.

I have to say, one of my favorite bits was Crowley with his plants. The demon has plants and talks to screams at and threatens them. Is he a drama queen? I think so.

So I think it was interesting, laying out the story with the witch and her prophecies, but there's a lot of characters being introduced and I've got to pay good attention to keep up with who's who.

I kind of like Anathema...I don't know if she'll have a bigger role or not later, but she's kind of quirky. I absolutely loved the bit when Aziraphale and Crowley are driving. Crowley hits her (or according to him, she hits him)

Aziraphale: You hit someone. Crowley: I didn't. Somebody hit me.

And the two of them do those subtle fixes/changes to things. Aziraphale heals her (and the bike) and Crowley fixes the Bentley or does something (I can't quite make it out in the dim lighting).

Oh then there's the part where the Ineffable Husbands are in the Bentley talking about the mix-up with the babies. That was good. Azi's waxing eloquent about the downfall of evil and Crowley's like "It was just a normal cockup."

Also when the two of them arrive at the place that used to be a convent and Crowley gets hit by the paint gun. Some guy comes up and might have been about to ask questions when Crowley just whips out this horrific monster face and scares the man shitless.

Okay so I randomly saw on AO3 the tag #Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon and I thought it was funny bc lol when is a demon bad at being a demon...well, when he doesn't actually do nefarious things or manages to save/help people when he could make their lives miserable = being a bad demon. So when Crowley gave them real guns and made it so that they all have miraculous escapes, I'm over here, thinking, "Excuse me, sir, you are very bad at being a real demon."

Okay questions: when Aziraphale's telling him that he's nice, Crowley slams him against the wall and growls, "I'm not nice. Nice is a four letter word." Before he can finish, the woman who used to be Sr. Loquacious interrupts them. What did Crowley mean by that? Why does he bother specifying that?!

Also why does Crowley say "How the heaven" and not "How the hell"... Is that just a thing in all of this?

Anyway, I loved it! I'll be watching the next one tonight.

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