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katy-133 · 6 months ago

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Some Ace Headcanons and Tropes

Happy June, I made this post for discussing characters who I headcanon as ace, as well as discussing some tropes related to ace coding.

Ace, or asexuality, is when a person feels little to no sexual attraction towards others. This is separate from being aromantic, which is feeling a lack of romantic attraction (though an asexual person can also be aromantic, not all ace people are).

For some of the characters I've listed below, I'll specify as romantic ace (aka, aceallo), someone who feels romantic attraction whilst feeling a lack of sexual attraction. Or demiromantic, someone who feels romantic attraction only after forming a deep emotional bond with a person. Others I'll use the ace umbrella word exclusively.

While you can headcanon characters that fly in the face of canon, I like my ace headcanons to be canon-friendly. Meaning, if the story were to ever confirm that the character is ace, it would not contradict previous characterisation.

Bertie Wooster from Jeeves & Wooster as romantic ace:

The entire book series (and tv adaptation) is about Bertie trying to find ways of getting out of arranged marriages and accidental engagements with various women. These woman are canonically stated to be beautiful--sometimes by Bertie himself. Therefore, Bertie doesn't want to marry them because he finds their looks off-putting, he doesn't want to be with them for another reason. So the plot can be read as an ace story (it is a common experience for ace people to feel pressured by their family to marry someone). Bertie can be read as specifically romantic ace. He's fallen in love (with Miss Wickham and Pauline Stoker). In the books, there's this running motif of Bertie (who narrates the stories) describing his butler-valet, Jeeves, in a way that a person would typically describe their love interest or spouse, with Bertie sometimes making the comparison himself. This has led to interpretations of Bertie being in love with Jeeves.

Crowley from Good Omens as romantic ace:

Is a demon who falls in love with an angel and proceeds to pine for him for 6000 years (which I'm sure is some sort of slow burn world record). There's this trope that demon characters will aggressively flirt and try to seduce another character (the trope's origin stemming from the idea that evil and corruption is seductive in some way, as well as links with the succubus in folklore), which Crowley markedly subverts. Also, take Lucifer in the titular Fox/Netflix series (also based on a work linked with writer Neil Gaiman) and compare him with Crowley in that aspect--Lucifer acts more allosexual and is canonically in multiple sexual relationships. Fiction isn't created in a bubble, so this trope's context helps to code Crowley as ace, as he's subverting a trope (human-looking demons) linked with allosexuality ("demons are seductive"--though ace people can also flirt, in fiction it's often used as a shorthand for allosexuality).

Tintin from The Adventures of Tintin:

Is never given a love interest in the canon, nor shows interest in pursuing it, despite the series being 24 albums and the other protagonists of the "globetrotting adventurer" genre often have love interests (James Bond, Uncharted, Indiana Jones). Similar to Crowley, above, Tintin is subverting a staple aspect of the genre he exists in.

Sniper (Mick Mundy) from Team Fortress 2 as romantic ace:

Sniper never shows attraction towards a woman in any part of TF2's canon (which is particularly notable to me compared to some of the other mercs, who do). We see that Sniper's closest loved ones are his parents; he has no wife or girlfriend (the Administrator only threatens his parents also in the comics). While Sniper's backstory is a direct homage to Superman and is about him being adopted from outside his place of birth, his backstory can also be read as queer coded (he didn't fit in with his peers and he felt like there was something that made him different from them). Sniper is considered to not be attractive by typical Australian standards (in TF2's universe, Australians have superhuman strength and grow moustaches, due to a fictional element called Australium), so Sniper may have never had a relationship while living in Australia, but wanted to. His design and character based on Crocodile Dundee (the lead in a romantic comedy film), but despite that association (and repeated references to it), Sniper has no love interest.

Nick Valentine from Fallout 4 as romantic ace:

He's a robot detective (in the Fallout universe, he's not actually a robot, but a "synth," or synthetic man, but in terms of his character archetype, he falls under the robot archetype. Unlike other companions in the game, you can't be physically intimate with him to gain stat boosts. He has a deceased fiance whom he remembers fondly, and whenever he talks about her, he doesn't allude to sexual attraction, allowing the player to read his love for her as exclusively romantic. Robot characters being ace coded is an old trope with negative associations (such as ace people being viewed as "cold, robotic, and/or emotionless"), but Nick Valentine (being a companion character who gets his own backstory and inner conflict) ends up feeling more human than other characters in the story, subverting the trope. Nick Valentine's symbol is a heart. A neon heart is on his detective agency sign, which you see before you even meet him, a reference to his surname (Valentine = heart). The ace of hearts is an ace symbol for romantic aces (with other card suits representing other aces). Though I would guess naming him Valentine was done to reference different noir detectives (whom Nick is inspired by) being named after card suits (Sam Spade, Nick Diamond), the ace association is still there for viewers.

Reigen Arataka from Mob Psycho 100 as romantic ace:

When Mob asks Reigen for advice on confessing to a crush (season 3 in the anime), Reigen cheats by reading advice he found online. His colleague Serizawa notices this and notes that Reigen is inexperienced with relationships. Later on in the conversation, Reigen tells Serizawa that he thinks he'd be rejected if a woman got to know him for who he really is. He's referring to being a con artist, but the scene can also feel ace coded if you read it as Reigen being worried that a girlfriend would dump him if they found out that he was asexual. Earlier in the story, Reigen has a conversation with the spirit Dimple about a spirit stalking a woman. Dimple says, "It's pretty uncommon for spirits to have any sexual desire. We couldn't reproduce if we wanted to." Reigen replies, "Is sexual desire always a part of love, though? I-I really don't want to talk about this with you." Meaning that Reigen separates romantic attraction from sexual attraction.

Dexter Morgan from Dexter as demiromantic ace:

Does not show sexual attraction in the books, as well as the first season of the show (but does show sexual attraction in later seasons that deviate from the books, but we don't talk about those seasons). He describes himself as not being interested in sex. As he puts it, "For me, sex never enters into it. I don't understand sex. Not that I have anything against women, and I certainly have an appropriate sensibility about men, but when it comes to the actual act of sex, it's always just seems so undignified."). Again, similar to robot characters, killers being coded as ace is an old trope with negative connotations. It equates sexual attraction with humanity, empathy, and good moral alignment--implying that asexual people are in some way inhuman or cold. While he's still an antihero or villain protagonist, Dexter in a way subverts this idea, as he only targets other killers, and as the story progresses, he learns more about humanity and it becomes clear to the reader that he's not as inhuman as he describes himself. Dexter also has a girlfriend, Rita, and they're in a celibate relationship due to her past trauma with her ex husband. This leads to conflict in their relationship when Rita later starts questing if they should remove the celibate part of their relationship and Dexter tries to find ways to keep it. Dexter agrees to being her boyfriend at first to help "blend in" as a normal human, but ultimately proves to genuinely care about Rita as a girlfriend. The dramatic irony of him being ace coded and living in Miami, Florida was also a great choice ("Every night in Miami is date night," as Dexter puts it). It leads to Dexter constantly bombarded with his allo colleagues talking about their relationship problems and him awkwardly trying to pretend to relate to it. This can be read as queer coded, as Dexter is trying to fit in while feeling like there's something about him that makes him different from those around him.

Sherlock Holmes:

Film (and to a lesser extent, television) adaptations of Sherlock Holmes have a habit of making the character Irene Addler as Sherlock's love interest. She is not this in the original books, she is known as "the woman" because she taught Sherlock the important lesson of not underestimating someone because of their gender. Sherlock shows no romantic interest in women in the books, with his strongest bond being with Watson. Watson, the narrator, frames it as Sherlock being married to his (Sherlock's) work, which is a trope that invites ace interpretations (read as: It's not just "the work" that keeps them from pursuing sexual relationships--it's their orientation that led to them pursing "the work," reversing the framing). Similar to the "cold killer" character type talked about with Dexter, the "married to their work" trope can have negative inference that the character is cold or unfeeling by valuing their work over their interpersonal relationships. Though in the Sherlock Holmes books, Sherlock is shown to care about Watson as well as show compassion to other characters, including the culprits of some of the storys' mysteries.

Tropes are patterns in storytelling. They're tools, and can be subverted and altered in different ways. They have a history, and learning about their origins and their purpose in a story can help inform you as a storyteller.

In conclusion:

"Aces!" -Sniper

#asexuality #tropes #team fortress 2 #my art #my text #tf2 #blender #3d #headcanon #essay #tintin #good omens #dexter #fallout 4 #mob psycho 100 #jeeves and wooster #sherlock holmes #my essays

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moonyinpisces · 1 year ago

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🥃 alternate reunion | post s2 good omens snippet

to celebrate finishing act 1 of my s3 fic how do we turn on the light? , here's the original snippet for aziraphale and crowley reuniting after s2. i had began writing this before chapter 1 was even posted, and if you've read hdwtotl, you can see how different the plot ended up along with a few key similarities. the tone of this scene for the story i was writing felt way off so i did away with 99% of it in the actual chapter, but i feel bad about it existing all lonely in my snippets doc, so. enjoy!

1.7k words. context: aziraphale has been supreme archangel for 3 years, and has received instructions from the metatron to meet with the grand duke of hell to negotiate sanctions for the second coming. aziraphale assumes that crowley's been asleep this entire time. he was wrong.

He approaches Marguerite’s, the ivy climbing the walls having died from the winter chill. He glimpses the outdoor seating, feels a flash of something—a memory of—

‘Smitten, I believe. You’re being silly—‘

Aziraphale shakes it away, blinks in rapid succession until the image fades. The interior is more or less as he remembers it, lightly Tuscan and dimly-lit enough that it made every conversation somewhat intimate. The server is unfamiliar, and Aziraphale is grateful that he’s not meant to have small-talk with someone who recognizes him. Someone that he may or may not end up recognizing back, all this time later. He requests the table up against the window at the far corner.

He purposefully doesn’t look at his bookshop through the window, can remember—the last time he was there, when—when Crowley—Snap out of it, he thinks desperately. His memories are becoming too much to contain, fragmented as they are, and it’s enough to make him wary, intensely disoriented. Perhaps it can simply be attributed to his return to Earth, but, no, there’s a feeling in the air, something unfamiliarly evil but familiarly miserable. Almost as if there’s a… badness about London, now, something miserable seeping into the concrete, cloying the smoggy air. Either that means the end times somehow already began in his absence, or—

Crowley’s awake.

The thought makes Aziraphale's unnecessary heartbeat falter, makes his hand flutter to his puff-tie and dig into the fabric. There’s no guarantee, of course, and three years is on the shorter side for the handful of times he’s slept a period of time away, but—

Through the window, Aziraphale can just see the building next door. Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death. There’s a woman—Nina, her name is Nina—wiping down the outdoor seating, stacking up the dishware following the lunch rush. He watches a familiar figure come out from inside, donned in an apron and a sunny dress, immediately reaching her arms forward to help Nina with the load. Maggie, he remembers with a rush of warmth. Nina says something to her with a crooked smile, and Maggie laughs, then tips forward to press their lips together over the stack of dirty plates between them. The gaping, dormant thing in Aziraphale’s chest lets out a slow, mournful whine. A flash of red and black passes his vision.

It all happens rather quickly after that.

First, something sharp and jagged slides between his ribs, buries into his organs, the celestial ones. He jolts, gasps, immediately pressing a hand low to his chest, grabbing at—nothing. He looks down and frowns, seeing no blood, golden or otherwise. A voice pulls him back up.

“Are you ready to order?” The waitress asks him.

“I—“ he starts, then smells it. Staticky, slight, but deep still, like—like the ocean before a storm, or the smoke after the incense has already burned off, like bourbon and he feels—he experiences it all again, every moment together in the past 6000 years, the things he poured futilely into ink and pressure to suppress, and—

When Crowley slides into the seat across from him, something fractures and mends at the same time, like re-breaking a bone. It’s all he can do to stare.

Crowley’s looking at him evenly. Crowley’s there, he’s perched in front of him like a—a materialization. It feels impossible, Crowley being here on his own volition. And now he’s raising an expectant brow, and when nothing is forthcoming he looks to the waitress, then back to Aziraphale. “Erm,” he says awkwardly. “I’ll have a double Macallan, neat. He’ll take—“ Another look. “A dry vermouth, maybe. The sweetest one you’ve got.”

His voice. Aziraphale’s fingers clench into the seat of his chair so tightly that the wood splinters.

The waitress departs. Crowley crosses a leg over his knee, leans back casually in his chair like he’s going to fall right out of it. He’s wearing a black turtleneck and a thick, dark-gray blazer. A fine maroon scarf drapes untied around his neck. His hair is identical to how it was three years ago, only—wavier. Disheveled, maybe. It’s not the worst bedhead he’s been afflicted with, in comparison to all the others. There’s dark circles just visible beneath the bottom curve of his sunglasses. He’s tilting his head imperceptibly up and down, and it takes Aziraphale a moment to understand that he’s being scrutinized right back; if Crowley has an opinion over Aziraphale’s own change of wardrobe, though, he doesn’t voice it.

“Hello,” Crowley says finally, almost politely. He has his hands folded at the curve of his knee, pulling his arms taut, and he says in a too-delighted tone of voice, “Been too long, hasn’t it?”

Aziraphale blinks. That’s the only possible movement he could make. “I—“

“—Of course, maybe it wasn’t long enough, to you,” he acquiesces with a tilt of his head, as if Aziraphale had voiced anything of the sort. His ankle is bouncing in midair. “We’ve certainly gone longer, though, haven’t we, Oh Supreme Archangel of Heaven.” He announces each part of the title distinct from each other, lips curled into a frown that looks more like a barely-schooled smile. “Who would have thought it, truly? Not me. Especially not me. You could have given me thousands of years, and I’d never have guessed this is where we’d end up.” He leans over his crossed leg dangerously. “Do I need to call you some sort of—I dunno, special biblical thing? Bow my head? Bend the knee?”

Breath rushes back into Aziraphale’s chest, and he dislodges his grip from the chair. He tries to look away from Crowley, back out the window unseeingly, but it’s as though his body can’t physically bear the absence, and his eyes snap back forward. He tries to form words that don’t exist.

The waitress returns with their drinks. Crowley barks out what sounds to be a genuine laugh, takes his whiskey and throws it back like a shot. His throat ripples beneath his turtleneck. He drops his hand back to the table with a thud, but keeps his long neck tipped back. “Fuck,” he sighs, long and slow. “Been a long time since I’ve imbibed, to tell you the truth.”

“You’re a demon,” are unfortunately the first words Aziraphale can find. They come out automatically, well-practiced. “You never tell the truth.”

Crowley drops his head back down and grins. It’s entirely teeth. He gestures towards Aziraphale with his empty glass, and says conspiratorially, “Is that what you’ve been telling yourself, then?”

Blinking rapidly, Aziraphale finally musters the ability to pull himself from his reverie. He looks down to the dry vermouth. Perfect guess, of course, though—he’s not sure he could swallow it without it coming back up. It’s been a while since he’s ingested anything. “What are you…” His voice softens. “What are you doing here, Crowley?”

It’s a hard moment, the way Crowley looks at him. His eyes are only glints behind his glasses, somehow both dulled and intensely alive. Then he sniffs, clenches his jaw and snaps to refill his drink. “What do you think?” He says tiredly, as if he’s exhausted himself of whatever charade he was trying to put on, just now. “Where else would I be? You’re here. I’m waiting for you to tell me why, by the way, though I—hah, I have a sneaking suspicion I know what it is already.”

“This isn’t—“ Aziraphale can’t look at him directly anymore, needs a moment to acclimate. “This isn’t a social call, Crowley. I’ve returned to Earth to—“

“—Make a deal with the devil?” asks Crowley, quirking a brow again.

Aziraphale frowns. He knows Hell talks, just as Heaven does, but he’s under the impression—well, Crowley had said he’d given it all up, before. An independent agent, if an agent at all. A proper human. Aziraphale eyes him from the peripheral. “How do you know that?”

Crowley freezes. His glass is suspended halfway to his mouth. “You…” His expression does something complicated. “You don’t know?”

Though he doesn’t know what Crowley’s referring to, these past three years has told Aziraphale that the answer to that question is usually ‘no’. Spending time aimlessly in Heaven has convinced him more than ever how little he truly knows. So he just shakes his head. Crowley watches him do it, eyes tracking the movement like he’s simultaneously a predator and an animal of prey.

“They didn’t tell you?” A dramatic juxtaposition to the feigned pleasantries earlier, Crowley’s expression tightens into something hard and angry, a rarely-seen darkness slithering just beneath the surface, causing his nose to twitch, his jaw to tense impossible more. He slams the glass back to the table, whiskey splashing up and over his fingers. It sizzles at the contact. His skin flashes imperceptibly, makes dark clouds roll rapidly in outside, causes the light directly above them flicker—Aziraphale has only seen him like this a handful of times before, and usually he’s nearly discorporated in what comes next, so he leans back in his chair cautiously.

But Crowley takes a deep breath. The light steadies, the sky clears. He looks away, out to the bookshop across the street, and laughs something humorlessly. There’s no clarification.

Aziraphale starts carefully, “I was told—The Metatron told me that I’m to meet with the—the…” Crowley doesn’t move. Aziraphale trails off, and that feeling returns, the one that’s fear, but comes before it still, like—like—

Oh. Oh, no.

Crowley’s still staring out of the window, tonguing at the inside of his bottom lip. His other lip is curled up, baring his bright, bright teeth. His crossed leg is now entirely flexing and unflexing with a rapid, inconsistent rhythm. And then something in his expression shutters, flattens, and he looks back to Aziraphale with his mouth pressed tightly together in a ghastly interpretation of a smile.

“Oh yes,” he says slowly, sardonically, tipping his head up like he’s basking in the realization. He holds his hand out over the table, long fingers twitching, perhaps wanting to curl into a fist instead. “Grand Duke of Hell, at Lucifer’s service. Can we begin?”

Dread, Aziraphale remembers weakly. The feeling is dread.

#good omens #good omens fanfic #good omens snippet #grand duke of hell #grand duke crowley #supreme archangel aziraphale #aziracrow fic #post season 2 #ineffable husbands #good omens ficlet #hdwtotl #moonyinpisces writes #can you believe that in my OG plan for hdwtotl god didn't give aziraphale instructions??? what was i doing #crowley's outfit was WAY better though. which is why i changed it lol

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kworus · 1 year ago

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As promised, here's an analysis of why I firmly believe Aziraphale's actions in s2e6 are in character and why I don't believe in the coffee theory. Obviously I could be wrong but I've been overanalyzing everything to distract myself from THE HORRORS so here's this. ***good omens s2 spoilers below.*** this is kinda long btw

If yall dont know, the coffee theory revolves around the coffee the metatron gave to Aziraphale, and claims that he was poisoned/brainwashed by said coffee. The two main arguments, excluding that to many aziraphale felt ooc, are that a small miracle sound could be heard and that the metatron puts some attention to the amount of almond syrup in the coffee, as if he was hiding some kind of smell. I lowkey believed this theory because it is true that Aziraphale´s actions feel weird, and something else has to be going on. But that is because we are seeing things from Crowley´s point of views.

Crowley sees this as Aziraphale choosing heaven over him, the same heaven that betrayed him and treated him like shit. On top of that, earlier he saw Gabriel and Beelzebub end up together so easily, and that is just so unfair to him. However, Aziraphale thinks he is not *going back* to heaven, he's changing it, because he truly believes heaven is good, its just the people running him that fuck everything up. Where Crowley saw an injustice with how easy it was for the ineffable bureaucracy aziraphale sees a chance, specially since he's now replacing Gabriel. If he could do it then so can he! He can make heaven worthy of him and Crowley.

Now i want to go back to the metatron for a moment and how i think he really is manipulating aziraphale. If he has the power to brainwash aziraphale to do whatever he wants what is the point of telling him he can be with Crowley to convince him? What the metatron is doing is convincing aziraphale that they are on the same side, after all they both enjoy human food and the metatron doesn't mind that he's with Crowley. It's also important to note that azi doesn't know in detail that even Gabriel couldn't convince the other angels of not making another armageddon. But even if he knew he has the metatron on his side right? He believes it can be different with him in charge. The coffee is just a way for the metatron to show his “human side” to aziraphale.

Back to aziraphale, one of the moments where he felt heavily out of character for me is when he says nothing lasts forever because he spent a whole season saving the earth just so he could enjoy earthly pleasures with Crowley, and he loves his bookshop so much. How can he give this up so easily? But what he probably meant was that he's willing to give everything on earth that he loves to safely be with Crowley, and his only way to do that is to change heaven from the inside. Otherwise, they would be fighting the armageddon over and over again. This IS in character for him if you see it from his perspective.

Finally, if aziraphales decision was only atributed to some kind of brainwashing all of the possible ineffable husbands future arc would lose all its meaning. Aziraphale has said at times that crowley goes too fast for him (he said it about driving too fast but symbolism) 6000 YEARS IS TOO FAST FOR HIM!!! He needs time to process everything and we even have a parallelism with nina and maggie. Everyone was expecting them to immediately end up together just because they fell in love and nina is now single, but she needs time and thats realistic!! Shes not ready for another relationship but eventually she will, and maggie will wait for her. Aziraphale and crowley have a similar situation, only with 6000 years of angst and ineffability. The coffee theory would erase all of the complexity and chance of development of aziraphale character. Lets remember that this is the worlds slowest slow burn, it wont become fast all of the sudden. So i guess we just have to wait and see and thats gonna drive me fucking insane.

#good omens #go2 #good omens spoilers #ineffable husbands #coffee theory #im going insane im trying to cope #ineffable divorce

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fuckyeahgoodomensfanfic · 1 year ago

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Good Omens Fic Rec: Enemies Closer

He still wasn’t sure how he was going to explain this to head office. Probably something along the lines of keeping his enemies closer. Though ‘enemy’ didn’t seem to fit Aziraphale anymore. Certainly they were still Enemies, but Crawly had never put much stock in the whole hereditary destiny crap. [6000 years of Crowley adapting to humanity and this terrible, sneaky thing called love.]

Length: 69,086 words

AO3 Rating: Explicit / Spice Level 🔥🔥

Best for: Mostly Safe in Public, Through the Ages, Comedy, Slow Burn, Taking Breaks

Triggers: None

Read it here, fic by Laur

*Minor Spoilers* If you've ever wished for an extended version of the historical montage from S1 E3, then you need to read this story. This is an excellent through the ages story that fits so well into the established canon. It's not necessarily a comedy but it's hilarious! There are dozens of moments I laughed out loud in this. The dialogue is so reminiscent of the show it's just delightful. This story has such good pacing, never dragging out scenes for too long. You'll go through many years but in a more vignette form, small moments that our pair can reminisce over later. It'll tackle some rough patches, moments of grief and despair during human wars and plagues, but it doesn't give into melodrama.

An ongoing theme here will be questioning Heaven, Hell, and God. A line I saved for myself was, "It's incredible what violence humans will commit when they think God's on their side". I think some fics forget what these concepts mean in real life and just use them to keep Crowley and Aziraphale apart. This story isn't afraid to make us think about what religion has done to humanity over the years. In the end, it invites our characters, and us, to try to make peace with the fact that we will never get our questions answered.

Couple other highlights that I want you to look out for: an actual demon/angel on your shoulder moment, birds, a hug, don't get high with your crush, all of chapter 10, the deleted bookshop opening scene,*waves hands* gay vibes, and Turkish baths. I just really recommend this one. It's very entertaining and feels like it belongs in the canon. Some minor sex scenes towards the end but you'll be fine in public for the most part. It's not a super long read but if you can't commit a full sitting and need something to go back and forth with, I think this is a good pick.

Read it here, fic by Laur

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfic #fanfic rec #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #good omens fic rec #aziraphale x crowley #ineffable idiots #long #two flames #through the ages #mostly safe for public #pick me up #comedy #slow burn #taking breaks #Enemies Closer #Laur

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captainvulcant · 1 year ago

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Communication and Escape Velocity - Couples in Good Omens Season 2

Something that I really love about Good Omens is all the little ways in which things are balanced (light and dark, good and evil, young and old, etc), and mirrored (various couples vs each other, the Them vs the four horsemen of the apocalypse etc). As someone who likes both symmetry and metaphors this is very satisfying, and I love that we see it in season 2 also with the three main couples portrayed.

What I find super interesting though is the differences in each relationship, particularly with regards to the speed the relationship progresses at, and the amount of communication between the partners.

First we have the newest couple: Maggie and Nina

I don't think we're told exactly how long they've known each other, but certainly their relationship as anything other than people who work on the same street is new. Throughout the 6 episodes their relationship progresses the fastest, from acquaintences to acknowledging their feelings for each other. They also have the most open and frank communication of all three couples (even when they are disagreeing their communication is proactive and they both understand what the other is trying to say), and though they don't end up together their resolution is still satisfying because you know that this was the right decisions for them in that moment, reached together through good communication and good decisions.

Communication 9/10 | Speed 8/10 (8 rather than 9 simply because they also put the breaks on their relationship)

Next we have Gabriel and Beelzebub

If we assume this takes place four years after the first series then Gabriel and Beelzebub have been meeting up for that whole time and their feelings have developed in this period. They've also gone from enemies on opposite sides of a celestial war to leaving everything behind for each other. For humans this would be a reasonably normal timeframe for this kind of change. For beings as old as these two this is like getting the bullet train vs going via donkey.

When their relationship starts they're not open in their conversation, but as it progresses they start to be more honest with each other and their communication improves. They realise that they both have a lot in common and that neither of them wants the war to go ahead. They realise their feelings for each other and make a mutual decision to leave for a new life together.

Communication 7/10 | Speed 7/10

And then finally we come to Aziraphale and Crowley

Their relationship has been building for the past 6000 years. It is the slowest of slow burns, but much of that is because their communication is not in harmony. We the audience knows they're in love, random strangers they pick up in cars know, people serving them coffee know. And they know, or at least each knows they love the other. But, unlike the previous two couples, this is not communicated well between Aziraphale and Crowley. In fact, the couple with the best communication even tells them this

They had to invent an apology dance because they're so bad at talking (ok, admittedly this is my interpretation, and it is hilarious, but I do think there is something to Aziraphale and Crowley's invention of so many rules and habits and routines with regards to each other. It's like dancing - they like to follow a certain series of familiar steps because it gives them a safe framework to work within when it comes to each other. This is also shown in their formulaic approaches to getting Nina and Maggie to fall in love).

But this results in a situation where, when they do communicate, they often say things they don't mean

or say things to obfuscate what they do

That isn't to say they haven't made progress from season 1, they definitely have. But the other two couples are there to hold a mirror up to Crowley and Aziraphale and say, look here's what can happen if you would just be honest with each other. Instead, Aziraphale and Crowley tend to assume what the other means in any conversation and usually get it wrong (hinted at in their conversation about Gabriel at the beginning of the series and then clearly shown in that disaster of a conversation at the end).

Instead they give each other gifts and quality time and use physical actions to try and express what they can't communicate well in words

Communicating might not solve everything and make things simple and easy (Maggie and Nina), it might create more problems and cause a series of ridiculous events (Gabriel and Beelzebub), but, as we have seen, when these two are alligned in their communication and thinking and goals they can create miracles of such magnitude it sets off alarms in heaven.

Communication 2/10 | Speed (Pre Season 1) 1/10, (Post Season 1) 4/10

#good omens season 2 #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #good omens season 2 spoilers #mpost

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ao3feed-ineffablehusbandz · 1 year ago

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I am truly damned

by Chillax_92

„Something smells evil,“ Sandalphon had said - and had turned Aziraphale's world upside down. Crowley hadn't smelled evil to him for God knows how long. How was that possible? And what could that mean?

How a small question led to Aziraphale question everything he thought he knew about him and Crowley.

Words: 3458, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Good Omens (TV)

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens), Sandalphon (Good Omens), Gabriel (Good Omens)

Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)

Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens)

From https://ift.tt/zNugkOJ https://archiveofourown.org/works/48777376

#ao3feed ineffablehusbandz #ineffable husbands #good omens #aziraphale #crowley #anthonyjcrowl

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thelongestway · 1 year ago

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ok, so. very long post of crossover brainrot incoming, you have been warned. but first, if you only know Good Omens and play video games AT ALL, but haven't played FFXIV, - please do not go below the cut. It contains a retelling of the FFXIV plot in Good Omens terms, complete with videos. But if there's ever a chance you might play - go in blind. The FFXIV storyline is an EXTREMELY well written slow burn, and is much better without spoilers - and I am a person who usually does not mind them. It's just so much fun watching their worldbuilding and putting the pieces together for the first time. The GO-relevant stuff is mostly in the last two expansions, Shadowbringers and Endwalker so I am basically going to spoil most of their bigger plot twists below, as they are relevant to these plotbunnies. If you know both, though, or know that you will never play the game - enjoy the brainrot!

(Edit: oh fuck the reblog doesn't show the readmore? SPOILERS START HERE GO AWAY IF YOU HAVEN'T PLAYED).

The first big meta-plot of FFXIV can be very easily translated into Good Omens terms. Short version: "pre-Fall ineffable bureaucracy in process of creating Earth encounters Armageddon; creates mortals in order to forestall it, most Ancients angels are lost in various ways during the process, but the few who remain who want to bring back Paradise at the expense of destroying Creation as you know it. On top of this, it is now Armageddon 2 - electric boogaloo, and the new mortals (you!) have to fix it." At one (very late, several hundred hours in) point in the game, you get to see (for Reasons) what the pre-Fall bureaucracy was like. And it's got so much resonating with Good Omens worldbuilding. I mean, look at these two - an archangel member of the Convocation and a humble principality the head of the Bureau of the Architect. They are certainly not Aziraphale and Crowley - for one, Crowley was never quite so tetchy before the Fall as Emet Selch, and Aziraphale was never mischievous in the same way as Hythlodaeus is. But the VIBES. Especially starting at two minutes.

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I mean, look at poor Hythlodaeus, who has to approve all the designs. ALL the designs. Tell me he and pre-Fall Crowley wouldn't get on.

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There's even miracle finger snaps!!!

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And then, of course, there is the Fall and the War, and Armageddon. Which are very different from the Ineffable Plan. But listen. Listen. This would work so well. There were no mortals before the Fall. There were creatures, certainly, and beasts, but no mortals. They hadn't planned on even having proper mortals, just on... Creating. (Crowley would've loved it. Nobody would've taken his stars down in 6000 years). But then The Final Days Armageddon came. I'll leave aside as to why Armageddon started, but let's just say that it manifested as angels losing control of their powers of creation. Armageddon in FFXIV is EXTREMELY Biblically-coded. There is even the great beast Therion.

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Imagine. Imagine if all the demonic horrors of the Armageddon etc were NOT the result of an ineffable plan, but suddenly miracles just... Twist themselves into this. The more power, the worse it is. The angels, of course, took action. A full half of their number discorporated themselves to create a god. Not God. A god. A living shield that paused, although it did not stop, Armageddon, by holding in check the laws of physics, even after corrupted miracles ravaged much of Creation. The angels' very Effable Plan was to enable mortal life to grow and multiply under the shield... And then to sacrifice the souls of that new life into the shield. And allow their brethren to reincorporate. And then restart Creation from there, maybe.

Imagine all of Creation no longer made for angels to care for, but made to be sacrificed for the angels.

At the heart of the shield was the youngest archangel of them all, Themis, the most dutiful archangel holding the title Elidibus - the Mediator of the Convocation.

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The Plan was put into motion.

Yet one of the oldest archangels, Venat, an archangel so old that she gave up her seat among the Convocation to make way for her apprentice, an archangel who had travelled across all the reaches of the new world and loved it for what it is, Knew (for Reasons) that these desperate measures would not save the angels, but lead to a perfect, but dead, Creation. And she Knew that the very mortals the Plan would sacrifice would be affected by Armageddon differently, and have a chance to not just forestall it, but end it utterly, even as they could never reach angelic perfection. Yet she failed to convince most of her fellow angels of this. The Plan continued. Now imagine. Imagine an archangel raising her sword against the heavens. Imagine her saying: "No longer shall man have wings to bear him to Paradise. Henceforth, he shall walk."

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Together with a small host, she instigates the Fall. She becomes a second god, a counterpart to the Mediator's god, still working to enact the Plan. While He defends the newly-stabilized creation against Armageddon, She shatters the souls of nearly all remaining angels, and lets these shattered souls mix with the new life, and so the mortals as we know them are created, and go forth and multiply, and do good and evil. Where She can, She blesses the mortals, ensuring they are resistant to angelic or godly meddling (granting them free will), but mostly She ensures that the sacrifice of new life is made impossible. Her only commandments are "Hear - the song of Creation's end. Feel - the darkness of hope's demise. Think - and find your way in the darkness." I think both of our erstwhile angels would've gotten along with Venat. Imagine Crowley knowing a goddess who told him to go forth and find the answers, and who had enough hubris to turn against the heavens. Imagine Aziraphale knowing a goddess who loved the world in all of its sensory glory, and who, out of that love, let all the angels Fall to save Creation. Imagine the newly-born goddess being largely silent, as it is all She can do to hold the line. Imagine the newly born god who can but hold together the discorporated essences of all the sacrificed angels and loses himself in the effort, who has nothing but shards of memory and a sense of duty left, who continues to struggle in vain to complete the Plan. Imagine there being only two other angels who escaped the Fall. Imagine them casting about at the newly-created mortals, horrified at seeing bits and pieces, glimpses of familiar souls, reincarnated, suffering, dying, over and over and over again. Imagine them also Falling, but in a sense far closer to the Good Omens' version: hating the new Creation, working to destroy it, to use it all up in order to return to the Paradise from which they Fell, working to merge the shattered souls in truth - for who cares about these new diminished mortal creatures, who are mere shadows of the angels they knew? If one kills all the new mortals properly, they reason, they will get their angels back.

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Imagine a world with two silent gods, and only an emergency beacon playing the commandments: "Hear, Feel, Think" to any mortal who can hear it. Imagine two angels seeing echoes of their loved ones in mortals and working over aeons, slowly losing their minds, to bring those loved ones back, sowing untold destruction to damn newly born mortal life. Imagine the mortals being as unaware of this as of the War between Heaven and Hell - until Armageddon resurfaces once more. ***

There are so many storylines here. Crowley and Aziraphale, Unsundered for some ineffable exception to the Effable Plan. Living in the world of mortals and slowly learning that the natural disasters which mark the turn of the eras are not natural (Crowley the Starmaker would know!!), that they are not alone and that what remains of the Ineffable Bureaucracy wishes to destroy the world that they have grown so fond of. Or just crossing over into a world where idol worship abounds, but there are also other, silent gods, whose respective touches feel almost, but not quite, Heavenly and Hellish. Investigating, and hearing "Hear, Feel, Think" on a loop, and realizing this goddess is ineffable not because it is her Plan, but because she has no strength to speak. Meeting angels who never Fell - and yet would be Fallen by any definition Earth has, working to secure souls for an infernal engine that is still needed to stall Armageddon. Learning of the Effable Plan and realizing that it is no better than the Ineffable Plan. Taking a stand hand in hand with the mortals, as always. Or conversely. Say, the Sundering happened on Earth, with one small change: Venat convinces the angels, and so both the shield and the mortals are created as answers to Armageddon, yet a full half of the angels remain Unsundered. Those who are left work in two ministries. The Heavenly host work to preserve humanity and develop it so that they may end Armageddon - but the closer they are to Her, the more they are affected by the power of Stasis and Light which She must channel as Her part of the shield, the more rigid and terrible the bureaucracy becomes, the less they understand humanity.

The Hellish host, meanwhile, have been tasked with stalling Armageddon, pouring their souls into the shield. Countless friends have disappeared into it fully. The Hellish hosts were promised it was temporary, but humanity, the promised salvation, has not yet done anything to end Armageddon. So perhaps the Heavenly host is wrong. Perhaps humanity cannot stop Armageddon. In that case, Hell does not see any reason why the mortals should not be used to fuel the shield instead. And only two angels Ancients are close enough to humanity to see that the whole system is slowly failing.

I think that post-season 2 I need to introduce the Good Omens fandom to the notion of FFXIV Sin Eaters. The Sin Eaters are born of a world that has an... Artifical overabundance of Light. To put it very simply, in FFXIV, Light is the power of Stasis and Preservation, whereas Darkness is Life and Change. An overabundance of immortal, dog-eat-dog life is found in a world subsumed by Darkness. But in a world subsumed by Light, people and creatures who are affected too much by it become Sin Eaters. Or, called another way: The Forgiven. Forgiven Hypocrisy

Forgiven Cowardice

Forgiven Venery

Forgiven Obscenity

And, of course, the local... Archangels. Such as: Lightwarden Philia

Lightwarden Storge

I am now turning over everyone from GO in my head with this stuff in mind. Forgiven Curiosity-Crowley. Forgiven Naivety-Aziraphale.

#ffxiv #ffxiv spoilers #good omens #crazy crossovers #bloody insane crossovers #so much fanfic potential #maybe one day #no seriously spoilers #if you ever plan to play turn back #if you want to join the brainrot pls go ahead #cringe is dead #endwalker spoilers #shadowbringers spoilers #fanfic #fanfic ideas #Sharlayan is Noah's ark and has tons of books and terrible food #long post #very long post #horrible crossover thoughts

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edupunkn00b · 3 years ago

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Punks, Poets, Parents - Ch. 10: Safe

Prev - Ch. 10: Safe - Next - Master Post - [ A03 ]

Fic rated M, this chapter rated T - CW: very vague reference to drug abuse, social service interactions, homophobic microagression, swearing - WC: 4506

Sometimes, I try to do things And it just doesn’t work out the way I want it to - Institutionalized, Suicidal Tendencies ---

Monday, March 12, 1984

“Hey, Pat, we made it through another Monday!” Barb leaned over Patton’s desk, gently elbowing his shoulder. “We’re heading out for happy hour. Wanna come?”

Patton grinned, throwing his head back, “You know it!”

“Patton?” Bridgette’s brittle voice drew both social workers’ attention.

“We’ll be at The Wall. Meet you there?” Barb whispered. Patton nodded as she slunk away, waving slightly at their supervisor.

“Yes, Bridgette, is there something I can help you with before I head out?” Patton looked up as she approached his desk, arms crossed in front of her.

She frowned at him, “You haven’t turned in a removal report yet for the Heaney case.”

"Well, yes," Patton tried to hide his wince. “About that….”

Sighing, she stared down at him. “You haven’t removed the child yet, have you?”

Picking up the file, Patton turned to Logan’s official recommendation letter detailing Jay’s improvement in the six months he’d been living with Remus. “The child’s teacher has strongly recommended—”

Bridgette read over his shoulder. “Sanders?” She narrowed her eyes at Patton. “Any relation?”

Patton cleared his throat, “Well, yes, actually, he happens to be my brother.” He chuckled lightly at her sudden intake of breath. “Small world, huh?”

“This is highly inappropriate. I directed you to remove a child from an unsafe living situation.” She put her hands on her hips, jaw tight. “You ignored my instructions and instead followed the advice of your brother?”

“Yeah, it sounds bad when you say it like that, but—”

“But, nothing, Mr. Sanders. Do your job. Remove the child and get him into a proper foster placement.”

“Tonight?” Bridgette glowered at him. Patton looked at the clock, “It’s after five… and we don’t have any space in our approved foster families. He’ll end up at a group home tonight.”

Her voice was sharp. “And if you had processed this removal properly, he might not be in this situation now.” Hanging his head, Patton opened the file, turning to the contact page and reaching for his phone. “What are you doing?” she snapped.

Patton froze momentarily under her icy glare. “I—I was going to call Mr. Puños and let him know—”

“You never call before a removal. They’ll just take the child and run.”

“I really don't think Mr. Puños is a flight risk. He’s got a job, a brother… he writes for the Village Voice.”

Bridgette shook her head. “Go and get the child now and place him somewhere where he’ll be safe.” She sucked her teeth. “Officer Davids is on duty at the 7th precinct tonight. Call him for an escort.”

Patton shook his head. “He’s not dangerous, Bridgette.” She raised an eyebrow, lips pinched. “I’ll bring Officer Davids’ number, but it won’t be necessary.” Bridgette remained at his desk until he stood, putting on his jacket and turning off his desk lamp.

“And I want the removal report on my desk before I get in tomorrow morning.” Nodding, Patton picked up Jay’s file and left the office, steeling himself for what was coming next.

---

Patton could hear music and Remus’ muffled voice as he approached Puños’ door. Glancing to his left, he saw the Marshal's notice plastered on the door to Alice’s old apartment, bright orange tamper tape covering its lock and seams. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He squared his shoulders, pulling himself up to his full 5’8” stature. He closed his eyes and knocked firmly three times.

The music lowered and he heard footsteps and the sound of something brushing against the inside of the door. The peephole darkened briefly as someone looked through. A few moments later, Remus opened the door, a guarded mask falling down over his face.

He wiped his hands on his apron, looking over his shoulder as Jay peeked around him. Remus watched as his eyes widened, taking in Patton’s slacks and pressed shirt, thick folder under one arm, Bureau of Child Welfare ID badge hung prominently around his neck. Jay backed away, heading into the bedroom and closing the door.

“That was Jay,” Remus murmured quietly. He cleared his throat and opened the door, inviting Patton in with a wave. “Would you like to come in? We were just getting ready for dinner.” Remus’ eyes darted to the kitchen. “In fact, excuse me a sec…” He raced to the kitchen and covered a saucepan and lowered the flame. Then he opened the oven, peering inside. He closed the door and turned the oven off, wiping his hands again on the apron wrapped around his waist.

Remus swallowed, watching as Patton looked around the kitchen, eyes landing on the place settings, a few of Jay’s drawings displayed on the refrigerator, the bowl of fruit on the counter. “Um, can I get you something? Water? Coffee?” He tucked his hands into his pockets under the apron, hiding the way they shook.

“No, thank you, Mr Puños. I, um, I won’t be here long.” Patton opened Jay’s folder, pulling out a bright yellow sheet of paper. Remus felt his heart leap into his throat when Patton handed it to him.

He read the top line, Emergency Order for Removal of a Minor Child and momentarily squeezed his eyes shut. The page shook as he gripped it in his hands, forcing his eyes open to read the entire sheet. Due to the recent arrest… minor child… un-related custodian… history with child services….

Remus looked up at Patton, eyes wide and starting to burn with unshed tears.

"Please don't do this, Mr. Sanders. Jay’s doing so much better here. Please." Remus lowered his voice. "What if he ends up in a group home? You can't tell me you think he'll actually be safer in one than he is here.

"He's gotten into a routine… Jay hasn't missed a single day of school since he's been staying with me. Look at him… he smiles. He draws, he's reading…” Remus reached toward Patton but quickly lowered his hand, biting his lip when Patton took a step back. “Please don't take him and toss him to chance," he whispered, voice cracking.

Patton looked down at the file in his hands. “I'm sorry, Mr. Puños. I really am, but my hands are tied. His mother is in prison and his father's whereabouts are unknown. While his mother is incarcerated, he's a ward of the state."

Patton looked around as though his supervisor was watching over his shoulder. "Listen, I’m not supposed to tell you this, but you can apply to be classified as an emergency foster placement with my approval and the recommendation from at least two other adults in his life. A doctor who knows you both, a relative, or a teacher.”

Remus nodded.

“You aren't in a relationship with anyone, correct?” Remus’ jaw tightened but he nodded. “Good, that means you won't have to disclose your”—Patton gestured vaguely—”orientation, so I recommend you keep it that way.” Patton fanned through the papers in his arms. “I will note in Jan—Jay's file that you have been completely cooperative every step of the way."

Patton stared significantly at Remus. "That includes tonight.” Patton crossed his arms, holding Jay's file against his chest like a shield. "I didn't bring a police escort, but I will return with one if I have to.” He softened his voice. “I need you to cooperate with this removal, Mr. Puños. Resisting will make it impossible for me to recommend that Jay be officially placed in your care, even as an emergency placement. Do you understand me?"

"Where will you take him?"

He sighed. "It's late and… I don't have any family homes available right now.” Patton shook his head. “He’ll go to a group home tonight… there might be a bed at New York Foundling."

Remus dragged his hand down his face, muttering a curse under his breath. "Can you at least get him in the preschool room?"

Patton started to shake his head, "Jay's a first grader… He—"

Remus stared down at the shorter man, whispering fiercely, "Yeah, he's a first grader the size of a four year old who doesn't speak. You know what they'll do to him if you put him in with the K-6 group."

He hugged Jay’s file against his chest. Finally, Patton nodded. "I'll get him in with the younger kids."

“Thank you.” Remus sighed, rubbing his mouth roughly. "Can I have a minute to say goodbye to him? And I'll need to gather his stuff."

"Yes, of course."

Remus closed his eyes, pushing back the tearing ache in his chest, his head, his gut. He took a deep breath, then pressed on a smile and walked toward the living room.

Jay scrambled away from the doorway and onto the couch, fingers twisting together in his lap. His backpack was next to him, already stuffed with his clothes, the hem of a pant leg and the corner of his Grover book poking through where the zipper wasn’t fully closed.

Remus grit his teeth, choking back the sob threatening to escape his throat. He knelt down in front of Jay, taking his tiny hands in his own.

“I guess you heard a lot of that, huh?” Jay wouldn’t look up but nodded. “Hey, did you know that this Mr. Sanders is your teacher’s brother?” Jay’s eyes widened and he looked over Remus’s shoulder at where the younger Mr. Sanders watched from the doorway. He narrowed his eyes, scowling. “He’s Mr. Sanders’ little brother.” Remus made a show of turning to look with Jay, “You can kinda see the resemblance, huh? Maybe”—he made an exaggerated squinting face, trying to pull a laugh out of the boy—”if you squint you can see it?”

Jay looked back at Remus, mouth turned down and eyebrow raised. “Well, the important thing they have in common is that they both really care about making sure kids are safe.” Remus swallowed against the lump in his throat. “In fact that’s this Mr. Sanders"—he tilted his head toward Patton who still watched them carefully from the hallway—”It's his entire job. To keep kids safe.” Jay stared into his eyes and Remus bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, fighting to keep his voice under control and the tears at bay.

“So Mr. Sanders here is going to bring you to a home where he knows you will be safe.” Jay just frowned at Remus, leaning in to hug him. Remus held him until the lump in his throat threatened to choke him and the burning behind his eyes began to spill over into tears. He stood up, holding out a hand for Jay. Remus pushed another smile onto his face, “Mr. Sanders will take good care of you. And he and I will talk about when you and I can see each other again, okay?”

Jay nodded, clinging to his hand as Remus picked up his backpack. Remus tucked the book and jeans in and closed the zipper completely. Remus breathed against the iron band that wrapped around his heart when he realized that Jay must have started packing the moment Patton had arrived.

Remus stared into Patton’s eyes. “I will call you in the morning to see how he’s doing. You’ll get that emergency placement application from me tomorrow, as well.” Patton swallowed, nodding.

“All I want is what’s best for Jay, Mr. Puños.” Remus bit back the sneer that tried to force its way to his face and instead looked down at Jay. Forcing one last smile, he took Jay’s hand and placed it in Patton’s.

“I’ll see you as soon as I can, okay, Buddy?” Jay nodded and sighed, hugging Remus’ leg for one more moment, then suddenly letting go, standing next to Patton. Remus handed Jay’s backpack to Patton and watched them leave.

Remus stood in the doorway until he heard the faint clang of the lobby door closing downstairs, then he stepped back inside, closing and locking the door behind him. He leaned his back against the door, and slowly slid down, gripping his hair, tears coursing down his face. He sat, bent over himself, sobbing until he was emptied of anger, of sadness, of everything.

He pulled out Patton’s business card from his pocket. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll jump through their hoops. Tomorrow.

He let out a shaky sigh. So what do I do tonight?

Remus checked the time on the coffee maker. 6:58. He shrugged. There’s always CBGBs. It was Monday, open mic night. There might be someone good playing. Who the fuck are you kidding, man? You don’t care who’s on stage. You just wanna blow off some steam. Or blow off some—

He stood up and walked to his bedroom to change.

As he pushed the clothes across the rod in his closet, searching for the trashiest things he could, he heard Roman’s voice in his head. ‘C’mon, Re… you know what’s gonna happen if you show up at the club alone…'

“Well who the fuck do you expect me to go with, Ro?” he muttered under his breath as though Roman was in the room with him. “Look around! I am fucking alone.”

‘Don’t go like this, Re. Don’t go alone. The temptation will be too strong.’

He choked out a laugh. “That’s really fucking easy for you to say, Ro Bro. You’ve still got somebody. I lost everybody.” He scrubbed at his face to force the tears to stop. “I don’t even have you.”

He slammed his closet door shut and tore off his clothes, tugging on the leather pants and mesh shirt he’d pulled out of his closet. He went to the bathroom, tracing on eyeliner with a shaking hand and spiking up his hair. He yanked open his top dresser drawer, and grabbed a handful of bracelets and spiked wristbands. His breath caught when his fingers brushed against the old sock that hid his small stash of emergency cash. His hands trembled as he pulled it out and stared at the wad of twenties. Maybe just a little. Just to get through the night. Not enough to fuck him up for days. Just enough to shut off his brain… just this one time…

Still shaking, he carefully counted out three bills and pushed them into his pocket. He put the rest back and, after hesitating a moment, pulled one more twenty from the wad and pocketed that, as well. As he shoved the drawer closed again, a piece of construction paper flew out and he stomped over to pick it up.

Turning it over in his hands, he saw it was one of Jay’s drawings. A new drawing, one he hadn’t seen before. He brought it closer to the light and he sank to the floor, a sob bursting from his throat when he saw what Jay had drawn.

In the center of the page was a little boy in a yellow t-shirt nearly the same shade as the Ewok shirt Remus had just bought for him at that little shop on Canal Street. The boy had curls sticking out of his head and a pink scribble drawn on the left side of his face. He had one of those big sideways capital letter D smiles covering the lower half.

On his left side, the boy was holding hands with a tall figure with neon green scribbles coming out of his head and a big green scribble over his smile. He was dressed in a green shirt and wore an apron. He had a stick in his hand. Remus squinted at it until he realized it was a spatula.

On his other side, the boy was holding hands with a stick figure with black hair, big squares over his eyes. That figure wore a blue necktie.

Remus stared at the drawing, scrubbing the tears from his face. Jay must've just drawn this. They'd bought the Ewok shirt on Saturday. Just two days ago. Two days and this poor little boy's life had been turned upside down.

He dragged his hand over his face, wiping away fresh tears. Remus looked down at the streaks of eyeliner on his hands and stood up, carefully holding Jay's drawing by the edges so as not to wrinkle the paper or to get his smeared makeup on the picture.

He walked out to the phone on the wall in the kitchen, slowly dialing the number by heart. It rang a few times before he got an answering machine, Logan’s precise tones reciting the greeting, ‘You have reached the Sanders residence….’

Remus took a deep breath, waiting for the beep and just let the words pour out of him. He had nothing left to lose and maybe, just maybe, Logan would help him. Would help Jay.

“Hi, um, Mr. Sanders, it’s me… Remus. I know, I know… I’m not calling for me. I’m calling for your help with Jay. I need your help. Please… Okay, fuck it. I’m gonna stop by the school tomorrow afternoon. I hope you’ll see me. I hope…” He sighed heavily. Fuck hope. Hope hurt so much. “Please.”

Remus hung up the phone, scrubbing another round of tears from his eyes then picked it up again, calling an old, familiar number.

She answered on the fourth ring. “Theresa, hi, it’s me, Remus…” he huffed out a small laugh that turned into a sob. “Listen, do you have a minute? I could use your help with something.”

ID: A child's drawing in crayon of a child with a pink scar on his face in a yellow t-shirt holding hands with a man with green hair and another man with a blue tie and eyeglasses.

---

Logan stood in front of the answering machine, a towel wrapped around his waist. His wet hair dripped on another towel he'd hastily draped over his shoulders when he heard the machine beeping just as he'd turned off the shower.

Rushing toward the machine, all he'd caught was Remus' whispered plea, "Please…."

He pressed the play button, listening to the message in its entirety. His heart seized when Remus' voice cracked in the recording. Finally the message ended, Remus' final broken "Please…" echoing through the apartment.

He was reaching for the phone to call Remus back when it rang again. Fumbling the receiver, Logan rushed to answer, “Hello? Remus?”

Patton sighed on the other line. “No, it’s me. Um, listen, I need to work late tonight. Don’t worry, but, um, don’t wait up.”

“Pat?” Logan’s brow furrowed, “Are you okay? You sound—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I just… I have some things to take care of here.”

“You only work late when you have a remov—” Logan’s eyes shot open. Remus’ message echoed in his ears. I need your help with Jay.

“Pat? What have you done?”

“I’m sorry, I had to, Lo. My supervisor—”

Logan slammed the phone down and raced to his room, throwing on the first shirt and pants his hands touched as he yanked open his dresser. On his way to the front door, he dragged his hands through his hair, slicking it back and away from his face, and pushed his arms through his jacket sleeves, his feet into his shoes. He grabbed his keys and his wallet, and ran out the door, remembering just in time to lock it behind him.

---

Remus sat at the kitchen table, the surface covered with papers. There was a yellow notepad where he'd scrawled Theresa's advice while they'd talked. There was Jay's latest report card, a few samples of his writing, and the slips from his latest doctor's visits showing his growth over the past six months that he'd been with Remus.

What still held Remus' attention, though, was Jay's drawing. He stared at, gently rubbing his fingertips over the crayon marks, touching a spot where Jay had colored so vigorously he'd started to warp the paper. He looked up, frowning, when the doorbell rang.

Shaking his head, he put down Jay's drawing, slowly rising. He moved to the door and peered through the peephole. He pulled back and took a deep breath before pressing his forehead against the door, eyes squeezed shut. He took another breath, and stood up straight, squaring his shoulders and pressing something approximating a smile onto his face. Remus opened the door.

"Mr. Sanders… hello. I—” Remus' voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "I just left you a message on your answering machine about fifteen minutes ago. I—”

Logan nodded, his still-damp hair flopping in his eyes. He raked his hands through his hair, pushing it back. "I got your message. And I spoke to Patton."

Remus looked more closely at Logan, noting his wet hair and flushed cheeks. His brow furrowed. "Is it raining?"

The flush darkened over Logan's face and he shook his head, touching his hair, "No… I… I was in the shower when you called. I…" he looked down at his shoes. "I just came as soon as…" his voice died. "I can go… I—”

"No, please, come in, come in… I'm sorry, I'm being rude." Remus opened the door all the way, "Please…" Feeling the unseasonably chilled air pouring in from the hallway, Remus shivered. "You must be freezing. Can I get you some tea or coffee?"

Logan opened his mouth, starting to shake his head, but his words were interrupted by a shudder.

Remus raised an eyebrow as he locked the door. "C'mon, in the kitchen with you. It's warmer in there, too." Logan smiled gratefully and followed.

Logan looked at the papers strewn across the table as Remus started the kettle. He furrowed his brow, picking up Jay's report card, turning it over and re-reading his own comment on the back. 'Jay is a delightful child and it is gratifying to see him begin to come out of his shell. His improvement this quarter is a testament to both of your hard work.'

He looked up at Remus only to see the taller man had been watching him. He looked away, putting down the report card. "You can apply to become an emergency foster placement."

"Yeah, your br—the social worker said that, too." Remus turned to take down a box of tea. He fiddled with the flap on the box. "He said I'd need recommendations. Would you—”

"In a heartbeat."

Remus nodded, pulling out two mugs and placing a tea bag in each. "I was planning to ask Jay's doctor, too."

"I will speak with Principal Wilks to get his recommendation, as well." Remus looked up at Logan's words. "Higher level recommendations can help."

Remus pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing hard. He nodded a few times and finally croaked out a quiet, "Thank you." Logan's heart clenched as he looked at Remus' red-rimmed eyes and the constant flexing in his jaw. Logan's hands twitched at his sides and he took a step toward him just as the kettle started to whistle.

Wordlessly, Remus poured the boiling water over the bag in each cup. He placed one cup on either side of the table and sat down. They sat across from each other, each cradling a steaming mug in their hands. Neither spoke for a long while.

Logan took a careful sip, assessing the papers between them. Jay’s drawing was partially obscured by an immunization report and Logan tugged it out, noticing some improvement in his schematic realism. He sucked in a shaky breath when the full image was revealed, his eyes bouncing between the figures Jay had drawn.

Finally Remus broke the silence, tapping his fingers against his mug before tugging at his hair. "I have to get him back."

Logan met his eyes. "I will do absolutely everything possible to help you." Nodding, Remus turned away, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. Logan looked down at the table. They sat quietly together for several more minutes before Logan asked, "Did Jay take his journal with him?"

Brow furrowed, Remus shook his head, "I… I don't know…." He stood up and walked toward the living room bookcase where Jay ordinarily kept it with Remus's notebooks. Logan followed, entering just as Remus turned around, the tiny book in his hands.

Remus cradled the book, opened to the first page, running his fingers over the carefully printed words. Biting at his lip, he closed the book and presented it to Logan. He folded his arms around himself and blew out a hard breath. Accepting the journal from Remus, he sat down on the couch, thumbing through the pages. Jay had already filled nearly the entire book with words and bits of sentences and little drawings.

Logan grew very quiet. Remus gingerly sat down next to him, leaving space between them. Logan felt his eyes on him as he read through the little book.

There were other tiny sketches of a little figure holding hands with one or two taller ones. Many were just the smaller figure with a green-haired one. Some with just the bespectacled one. As the book progressed, more and more of the little pictures interspersed with Jay’s printed words were of all three together.

Logan closed the book, stroking the cover between his hands. "Remus, I need to apologize. I never should have withheld from you what I knew about the case. I should have told you what Patton told me. I should have told you—” he let out a shaky sigh when his voice failed, breathing in and out a few times until he could speak again.

“I thought I had it under control. I thought I had made him understand how much Jay needed you. But all I did was keep you in the dark and it left you unprepared.”

Remus sank back into the opposite corner of the couch, bringing up his knees close to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, listening. Logan shook his head, “Since I was a teenager, I have lived two lives, hiding half of me from the other. I became so accustomed to that duplicity that I… I didn’t realize how much I was doing it with you, too.”

Remus sighed and hugged his legs closer to his chest. “I’m not mad at you, Logan.” Remus’ jaw trembled, his voice broken-sounding. “I understand you were trying to help.”

Logan took another breath and held it for a moment before suddenly whispering. “And I lied to you."

Remus stiffened and shifted in his seat, moving even further from Logan and facing him. "Yeah?" He frowned, "What about?"

"I thought that if I proved to my brother that I was completely objective and was not allowing my personal… attachment to you to cloud my judgement, that he would listen to me when I told him it would be a mistake to remove Jay.

"So when you asked me if I… " He looked down at his hands, pressing his lips together. “If I loved you….” Logan fought to control his trembling hands, rubbing them back and forth on the legs of his pants. "I lied."

Finally, he turned to face Remus and his breath caught in his throat at the pain and hope he saw swirling in Remus' bright green eyes. "The truth is," Logan shook his head, "I… I can't stop thinking about you. Not since that first night I saw you sing at CBGB’s. You're my first thought every morning and my last thought as I fall asleep. I…" Logan's voice broke and he looked away. "And I can't stop thinking about the first night we kissed….

"I'm so sorry I hurt you… I thought it was the only way for Jay to stay with you. I should have just told you the truth… Being here with you…." He shook his head again, "I can't pretend this is just lust or infatuation. It is so much more. Remus, I love you."

Remus sat very still, watching him. Finally he whispered, "Do you really mean that?" He held his breath, waiting for his response.

Logan faced him, reaching for his hands and pulling him closer, "I do, I love you, I—”

The rest of his words were lost in the crush of their lips, as their mouths, their bodies, and their hearts finally came together. ---

taglist: @mavenmush @braingoburr @lunatatic @demon9980 @crossiantgay @psychedelicships @justmeandmygayships @ts-creator-boost @bluerosesbleedred

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greenbergsays · 5 years ago

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You did ittt!!! OMG I was absolutely convinced that I should not get into a new OTP after that emotional train wreck Destiel but here I am, obSeSseD with Good Omens after I all that talking of yours (had to try) My friend said my eyes looked like shiny orbs of joy when we were watching this scene with Crowley pushing Aziraphale up the wall. Frickin hell, I'm trash now. Just trash. FUUUC how do we manage these feels? I need it to be canon, just this once! It will be, right? Do you know anything?

Take my hand, my friend, let me take you on a journey.

To understand the true significance of what we’ve been given, we need to begin earlier. A little more than 6,000 years earlier, to be precise. Just after the beginning.

An angel and a demon stand side-by-side, watching as the first humans make their way across an unforgiving landscape.

Angels and demons are, as one angel will later explain to his demonic counterpart, “hereditary enemies.” They’re supposed to hate each other. They’re supposed to distrust each other.

They are not, however, supposed to stand amiably beside each other on a wall as these two currently are. The demon, in particular, is not supposed to casually begin a conversation with an angel.

It would not be remiss to say that the connection between this particular angel and this particular demon is instantaneous. There is information shared in this first conversation that one would not normally share with an enemy.

“I gave it away,” says Aziraphale, and Crowley smiles.

It’s information that could very easily be used against the angel, but it never occurs to the demon to do so. Instead, when his companion voices worry over doing the wrong thing, Crowley comforts him and then answers that worry with one of his own: what if he’d done the right thing?

Crowley began this conversation and he is the one that keeps it afloat. A connection is forming between them, because Crowley–perhaps unknowingly, perhaps not–reaches out for it again and again.

Over the years, that connection only grows.

In 3004 B.C., Crowley once again approaches Aziraphale. He begins their conversation by gently teasing about the sword. He’s saying, “I remember you. I remember what we talked about. It’s been a while, but I haven’t forgotten.”

Something that is, we will eventually understand, important to Aziraphale. He’s dismissed by his own faction, but he is not dismissed by Crowley.

In 33 A.D., Crowley says, “Oh, no, I’ve changed [my name].”

It’s important to note this moment. 2,000 years in the future, a demon will ask, “What’s he calling himself up here these days?”

2,000 years and his name isn’t widely known among his own faction. But in 33 A.D., he makes sure that Aziraphale knows it. It wasn’t important to him that all of Hell knew what to call him; it was only important that Aziraphale knew.

In 41 A.D., Aziraphale approaches Crowley. This is important. He hasn’t before, but now they are familiar enough that he feels comfortable doing so. And more than that, he wants to share something that he likes with Crowley. Through one little “temptation,” he tries to build a deeper connection.

And, too, both here and in 537 A.D., we find that Aziraphale can recognize Crowley by voice alone, even through a suit of armor.

By 1601, they have an arrangement. By 1601, they have a rapport. By 1601, they can overhear Shakespeare say, “it would take a miracle,” and Aziraphale turns immediately to Crowley. His expression is beseeching, pleading, and Crowley answers that with an exasperated, “Oh, alright. My treat.”

By 1601, Aziraphale protests activating the arrangement again, because, “If Hell finds out, they won’t just be angry. They’ll destroy you.”

By 1601, Crowley has taken to circling behind Aziraphale as they talk; something that, up until this point in their history, we haven’t seen him do. It’s a protective tick.

He is, quite literally, watching Aziraphale’s back. He is monitoring, so that he knows the very second that things go south for them, and he is monitoring in such a way that Aziraphale won’t be harmed first, without Crowley having a chance to stop it.

By 1601, they are more than just colleagues.

In 1793, Crowley calls Aziraphale “angel” for the first time. He could mean it as a title. He could mean it as an insult. It is neither of those things.

In 1862, they have their first real, true fight. It’s because Crowley wants a weapon that will kill him–not discorporate, but kill–and Aziraphale won’t do it. His feelings have only grown and deepened. He can’t do anything, can’t provide anything, that will potentially bring harm to Crowley.

In 1862, Crowley hisses, “Fraternize?” because such a word has implications. It implies they are still enemies. It implies they are merely friends.

It’s impossible to know which one he is protesting. It couldn’t possibly be both. (It is both.)

In 1941, an angel trusts far too easily and gets himself into trouble. A demon walks on consecrated ground–something that blatantly hurts him–to save that angel.

In 1941, a bomb falls on a church and that same demon saves a small briefcase of books.

So much of what they’ve experienced together could be explained away. But to save his books is an act of selflessness that has no other meaning. Crowley knew that Aziraphale would be upset. Crowley knew him well enough to know that he would’ve forgotten the books in the mayhem. He made sure they survived.

In 1941, the music swells, and we slowly pan in to see realization dawning on the angel’s face. He is in love.

In 1967, Crowley plans a heist. We know what he wants from the church. Aziraphale swallows his pride and goes back on his own word–”No,” he said, in 1862, “absolutely not.”–to deliver that very thing. It’s safer this way.

None of the humans will understand how terribly vital it is that Crowley not touch the holy water. They won’t understand what it would do to him, should they accidentally spill it on him. But Aziraphale knows, and he brings the holy water to Crowley already in a closed container, because he needs Crowley to be safe.

“After everything you said,” Crowley says, because he understands how significant this moment is.

But 1967 is more than just an angel backing down so that no harm will come to his demon.

1967 is the year, the moment, that Aziraphale says, “Perhaps one day we could..oh, I don’t know. Go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.”

1967 is the year that Aziraphale openly suggests a date.

“I’ll give you a lift,” Crowley says in response. “Anywhere you want to go.”

Stay with me, is what he doesn’t say. We could have that date tonight.

And 1967 is the year that Aziraphale says, “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

I can’t, he doesn’t say back. It’s too much, too quickly. I have to get used to this still. But if you wait for me…if you wait for me, then yes.

In 2008, the year that the Antichrist is born, they dine at the Ritz. It is clearly not the first time.

Aziraphale, who won’t entertain a conversation about stopping the end of the world, says, “This is purely social.”

He does not remember whose fault the Reign of Terror was, but he remembers that when they ate together, they had crepes.

In 2008, Crowley–a demon that we never see without his sunglasses, unless he is alone and safe in his home–sits on the couch in Aziraphale’s bookshop, and removes those sunglasses, the barrier between himself and the world. The world, but not Aziraphale.

In 2019, Aziraphale says, “I could entertain,” and Crowley instantly knows what he means. He groans the groan of someone who has had to sit through that “entertainment” too many times. He suffers through it again, because Aziraphale always gets his way.

In 2019, their bickering has become a familiar dance to them both.

In 2019, Crowley dismissively says, “No, I know what you smell like,” with an annoyance that implies that should be obvious.

In 2019, a blue paintball ruins a white coat that had been kept in tip-top condition for 180 years. Despite the fact that its wearer is, in fact, an angel and can miracle it away, this is not what happens.

Instead, the angel pouts at his demonic companion, his eyes wide and beseeching as he explains why it wouldn’t be the same as it would be if Crowley were the one to do it.

Crowley pouts back at him in sympathy, and then indulges Aziraphale, like always. Aziraphale’s answering smile is brighter than the sun.

Inside the ex-convent, Crowley pushes Aziraphale against a wall, ostensibly to intimidate him, but Aziraphale is not intimidated. He is not afraid. He is distracted by where the tips of their noses touch, because they are so close.

When they’re interrupted, it’s by a woman that says, “Excuse me, gentlemen, sorry to break up an intimate moment.”

They do not jump apart. They do not correct her.

When Crowley realizes he knows the woman and stops her from escaping, Aziraphale says nothing about Crowley’s previous annoyance or what he was trying to convey with his little display. Instead, he fusses about Crowley controlling a scared woman into stillness as he casually straightens his wrinkled clothing.

Crowley fusses back, and then they approach the woman together, as a singular unit.

In 2019, Crowley says, “Run away with me.” In 2019, Aziraphale says, “It’s over.”

Afterward, Crowley will go home and search for a place to go. He’ll decide on Alpha Centauri, but he won’t go there. He’ll dally. He’ll procrastinate. He’ll sit in a movie theater and brood, where he’s found by demons. Where he’s told that they finally know he’s messed up.

Will he go to Alpha Centauri then? No.

He’ll go back to Aziraphale. He’ll beg Aziraphale to go with him. He’ll apologize for an argument that wasn’t even his fault.

Aziraphale, visibly torn, will still refuse him.

Will Crowley leave for Alpha Centauri then? No.

He’ll go back to his apartment and he’ll plan. He’ll kill a demon and he’ll trap another and then, he’ll go back to Aziraphale again. He’s been rejected twice, but he’ll try again, because to Crowley, there’s no point in fleeing to survive if Aziraphale isn’t with him.

In 2019, Aziraphale will be cornered by three angels who do succeed in intimidating him, the way Crowley did not.

One of them will say, “Don’t think your boyfriend in the dark glasses will get you special treatment in Hell.”

Aziraphale knows better than any of them what that word means–boyfriend–having lived on Earth this whole time, but he does not correct them.

He should. He’s clearly in trouble with his faction. If he wanted to save face with them, he would deny that that’s what his relationship with Crowley is. He’d deny having a relationship at all.

He does not.

In 2019, Crowley will find the bookshop burning and Aziraphale gone and he’ll mourn. He’ll scream into the fire and he’ll pick up one of the few unburnt books left and he’ll carry it with him, despite the fact that he’s professed that he doesn’t read.

He will, when he’s reunited with Aziraphale, call it, “a souvenir.”

As he steps out of the bookshop, the music says, “Find me somebody to love.”

It isn’t a coincidence.

Nor is it a coincidence that the next time we see him, he’ll be in a bar. He won’t care about the apocalypse anymore. He won’t care until he sees the spirit of an angel in the seat across from him. Until he learns that Aziraphale is still alive and here.

Because there’s no reason to save the world if he can’t be in it with Aziraphale.

At the end of the world, Aziraphale says, “Do something or I’ll never speak to you again.”

The very thought of it hurts Crowley. He can’t abide it, cannot sit there and do nothing and allow it to come to pass. He stops time, so that it cannot come to pass.

After the end of the world, they sit on a park bench together. Crowley says, “Your bookshop isn’t there anymore, remember? It burned down.” And he says it with more gentle compassion than a demon should be capable of.

Because the bookshop was important to Aziraphale and only Crowley can know just how important; his reminder is said in the tones of someone who is grieving with their loved one, for their loved one and what they have lost.

They change faces, but even with Aziraphale’s face, Crowley cannot stop himself from circling his angel. It’s instinctual now, the need to protect.

They act like each other and in many ways, they’ve gotten it right, but in many ways, they’ve gotten it wrong, too.

In Aziraphale’s eyes, Crowley is suave and cool and a little bit dangerous. He’s untouchable, unmatched.

In Crowley’s eyes, Aziraphale is calm and cool and collected. Aziraphale is strong and steady and brave.

After Heaven and Hell have been dealt with, they sit on a park bench together. They laugh. They discuss, in a more serious tone, what the future might bring. It’s left unsaid that they will face it together; that’s obvious at this point.

When they leave, they don’t part ways. They dine at the Ritz.

And in 2019, at a table for two that miraculously came available at the Ritz, Aziraphale says, “You’re a good person,” and for the first time, Crowley accepts it with a little smile.

“And you,” he says, “are [enough of a bastard to be] worth knowing.”

Aziraphale blushes, his smile self-conscious, but he is ultimately pleased.

“To the world,” Crowley says, and he means, to us.

“To the world,” Aziraphale echoes, and those three words are said with so much affection, so much love, that you don’t need to be told that he means something else entirely–that he’s saying something else entirely–to know it.

“I need them to be canon,” you say. “Just this once.”

They already are.

You’ve just been shown their love instead of told it.

#marveldaydreamer #greenberg replies #good omens #the nice and accurate ramblings of desdemona greenberg #ineffable husbands #long post #really fucking long post #i mean neil gaiman says it's written as a love story #but that's the LEAST validating part about the whole damn thing #look at them #look at every damn moment between them #THAT IS A RELATIONSHIP #their journey narratively speaking is enemies to acquaintances to colleagues (of a sort) to friends to something that is more than friends #It is quite literally 6000 years of a slow-burn romance

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whispy-witch · 5 years ago

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hey good omens fandom

i see our struggle for a ship name, and i raise you:

HOLY FUCKING HELL

#good omens #i mean. it's even in the right order!#the top/bottom is included in the name!#i dare you to look me in the eye #and tell me i'm wrong #and that this is not the perfect name #aziraphale/crowley #otp: 6000 year slow burn #i'm so fucking proud #mine #personal

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lady-divine-writes · 4 years ago

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Good Omens one-shot “At the End” (Rated PG)

Summary: When the angels and demons finally succeed in having their war, there's only one thing that Aziraphale and Crowley can do with the time Earth has left...

Say goodbye to their home. (1408 words)

Notes: I wrote this hoping I would be accepted into a zine that ended up being canceled. The theme was basically what happens after Armageddon.

Read on AO3.

"Wot do you think you'll miss most about Earth?"

"Really, my dear?" Aziraphale clicks his tongue in disgust, but he can't bring himself to look away from the chaos ensuing below them to berate his companion properly. "What a question to ask at a time like this!"

"I think this is the perfect time to ask that question," Crowley says, but without his teasing edge. He offers it sympathetically. They both have a similar connection to this planet, had an investment in it thriving, but Crowley feels Aziraphale's heart breaking more than his. "When you lose something, you mourn it."

"It's not entirely lost! N-not yet." Aziraphale chokes around the words. Even though they leave his mouth passionately, he knows he has sinned by saying them.

Not lost yet may be the biggest lie he's ever told.

The first few hours had been soul-crushing.

The moment Holy rays broke through the clouds and shone down from above, ethereal voices announcing the arrival of God's angelic army, a flock of the faithful came out in droves to greet them. They prayed, sang joyously, raised their voices to the Heavens, invoked every one of God's Holy monickers. It should have been a huge stroke to Her ego... if She had been paying attention.

From Aziraphale and Crowley's perch atop St. Paul's Cathedral, that doesn't appear to be the case.

Those God-fearing mortals were the first to get trodden underfoot as angels barreled over them to confront their enemy - an extremely vulgar and unnecessary display when one considers that angelic footsoldiers can fly.

Hordes of evil-doers emerged from hiding as well, in lesser, but equally exuberant, numbers. They seemed suspiciously more eager for the fight, proving that those who call themselves 'Christian' might outnumber worshippers of Lucifer, but demons had their zealots better prepared for what the end of times would actually entail.

Either way, it didn't matter.

Those humans willing to spill blood at the drop of a hat, even their own, were used as cannon fodder against a foe they couldn't possibly hope to defeat. Within seconds, thousands lay dead on the streets of London and, Aziraphale suspected, all over the world.

For their part, Aziraphale and Crowley refused to join the battle, but no one paid them a lick of attention. An angel cavorting with a demon was no longer an issue. They could finally do as they pleased without fear of retribution, albeit on a planet whose hours were numbered.

"I would have to say I'm going to miss my car," Crowley continues, provoking conversation in an effort to allay his angel's anxiety. "And my flat. And alcohol. Hell's bells am I going to miss alcohol."

"Pity we don't have some now. I think a hull full would find itself useful," Aziraphale adds in a weak attempt at humor.

"Wot about you? Will you miss the food? Your bookshop?"

Aziraphale sighs. "Humanity."

Crowley raises a brow. "Humanity?"

"Yes. Without humanity, the rest of it wouldn't have been possible." Aziraphale scans the carnage below, trying not to focus for too long on any one thing... or any one person. He's already seen too many faces he recognizes, twisted from agony. "Without humanity, it wouldn't have meant anything."

"I suppose."

A tortured voice rings out, but it's snuffed out quickly. Aziraphale doesn't know which side does it, but he shakes his head in shame all the same. “I thought She’d show them mercy. I thought that, in the end, She’d come through. Spare them. That She wouldn't allow them to suffer as bystanders in all of this.”

“I hate to be the one to say I told you so, but… ”

“Then don’t, my dear.” Aziraphale reaches out and takes Crowley's hand, pleading wordlessly for him to stop, but also needing him for comfort. “Where is She? Where has She gone? Why has She abandoned them?”

"You've been asking that question for generations. I would think, by now, you'd know the answer."

"But I don't. Perhaps I should... " Aziraphale swallows heavily, his attention pulled to the skies by a streak of gold, then one of violet, passing overhead. "They know," he spits bitterly. Crowley follows his angel's gaze to the trails above them, one which he assumes must be Gabriel's. "She's obviously told them."

"Perhaps not," Crowley says, not in an attempt to defend Her, but to soothe his angel. "Just like last time, they're doing wot they think is right. Following wot they believe."

"And what do they believe? I don't know! They've never told me!"

"You'd think you'd all be on the same page. I mean, there's a book about it and all."

Aziraphale scoffs at that. "I think you and I both know that the archangels, Gabriel in particular, have never held any stock in books. Books are primitive, human things. They have nothing to do with angels. Not even the Bible... " A host more gold streaks zip by, and Aziraphale's words trail off into nothingness. Of all the books in Aziraphale's collection, his Bibles have always been his favorites. And not just the misprinted ones. The words inside gave him comfort, especially during those long stretches when he didn't hear from God at all. Though written by man, they were imparted by Her (if he overlooked the dodgy editing).

But they're gone. Not a single one remains, not even in the church where they stand, its insides crackling, burning beneath their feet.

Earth had become Aziraphale's Eden. Now, so many things he held dear are disappearing before his eyes.

Crowley squeezes the hand holding his. "Come, my love. It’s time to leave the garden.”

Aziraphale's eyes snap his way. They linger on his face for a moment, then drop to their clasped hands. “6000 years on this planet and you choose today of all days to call me your love?”

“I'm sorry." Crowley inches closer, lifts Aziraphale's hand to his mouth and kisses it. "I really am. I should have said it sooner. But I’m going to take you to a place where I’ll say it every day. I promise.” He wraps an arm around his angel's shoulders, gently urging Aziraphale to leave before the battle brewing, showing no sign of slowing down until it has consumed every last brick, every last breath of air, swallows them, too.

But Aziraphale hesitates. "C-can't we take them with us?" He gestures down to a tattered group of frightened survivors - a shivering young woman, no older than twenty-five if she's a day, and three children, all under the age of ten - huddled in a narrow crevice created by a metal door off its hinges, sheltering them among the rubble of the church's ruined stairs.

They've found themselves a decent hideaway, Aziraphale thinks. But he knows they're simply delaying the inevitable. They'll be found out before too long, become collateral damage.

Like everyone else.

"We can't just leave them to die, Crowley."

"We have no other choice." Crowley's need to escape intensifies as he watches the poor humans, tastes their fear rise with the heat of the flames. "Besides, perhaps they'll pull through. You never know. Humans have always been resourceful. They might find a way."

"Do you honestly think so?"

"Yes," Crowley lies. He would give his angel anything in the universe, anything within his power. He's trying to give him faith.

Because he can't give him this.

They can't save anyone but themselves.

Crowley turns Aziraphale away, blocks his view by unfurling his dark wings, ready to lift his angel into the air on his own if Aziraphale refuses. "I'm sorry, my love. We must leave them behind."

Aziraphale relents, unfurling his own white wings and heading for the upper atmosphere, watery eyes focused on the where in front of him and not the destruction behind him, with Crowley's shard of hope keeping his heart pinned in place.

Crowley should do the same. Ignorance is bliss, after all. But like Lot's wife, Crowley peeks behind him one last time to say goodbye to this place that has been his home for most of his existence.

It was a wonderful existence, but mostly because he had Aziraphale there to muddle through with him.

At least Crowley will still have him when all is said and done.

The last thing Crowley sees before they breach the clouds is St. Paul's Cathedral crumble in on itself, leaving behind a mound of ash.

And nothing more.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #aziraphale #Crowley

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