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you-cant-spell-subtext-without · 4 years

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Hola Mishamigos! It’s Friday and I am here with more nonsense from my SPN rewatch - dudes, we are all SLEEPING on Season 11, in both good and bad ways. There is so much in just the first trifecta of “Out of the Darkness, Into the Fire;” “Form and Void;” and “Bad Seed” (since “Baby” deserves her own analysis) - so come relive my rewatch with me. This is a summary of some things that stood out for me (few are analysis, most are clowning; basically this is a pared down live tweet - you’re welcome/I'm sorry); copy/paste from the script is included with my own emphasis:

OUT OF THE DARKNESS INTO THE FIRE [11x01]

-There’s lots more to this episode, but really this is the most important and relevant part (also it’s too soon and I am offended, damaged, attacked and hurt) -

DEAN: Yeah, whoa. All right, take -- take it easy, okay? (gesturing to the deputy’s wound) Bad guys?

JENNA: Rebar. I sought cover. I fell.

***LIKE EXCUSE ME, but what in the actual fuck. Did they just decide to pull that from the episode four years later to emotionally traumatize us in the subsequent rewatches? I know it’s probably coincidence but my sad soul has not recovered *enough* for rebar’s first SPN appearance to be right now in this moment when I am blissfully 5 entire seasons away from the dead end in the road.

- The only other important part of this episode - when Dean takes the call from Cas privately first before putting it on speaker for Sam, and something about this exchange is so endearing-

(Dean’s phone rings)

DEAN: Where the hell are you, Cas?

(The scene flips between Sam and Dean at the hospital, and Castiel in the woods.)

CASTIEL: I'm...I'm okay.

DEAN: You don't sound okay.

CASTIEL: Dean, I am fine. Besides, what I have, you can't help me.

DEAN: What do you mean, what you have?

CASTIEL: Just please tell Sam -- Rowena escaped with the Book of the Damned and the codex.

DEAN: Okay, forget Rowena. Where are you?

CASTIEL: Now, you tell me -- the Mark . . .

DEAN: Oh, really? You're worried about me after everything that I’ve --

CASTIEL: Dean, is it gone?

DEAN: Yes. I'm good. I mean, I'm not great.

CASTIEL: Makes two of us. (Dean puts Cas on speakerphone) This is good news.

SAM: Hey, Cas.

CASTIEL: Sam.

***It’s just so poignant that Dean wanted privacy for the first minutes of that call, probably because he is still haunted about the beating he gave Cas in 10 and *other things,* and Cas is literally being torn apart by Rowena’s curse but he only cares about Dean getting rid of the Mark, and the world is ending but Dean only cares about Cas and where he is - honestly this scene - I’m -

***Further thoughts on the Animal Curse/Cas/Dean below under 11x03

FORM AND VOID [11x02]

(love the Genesis call back to this verse in the title - “And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.”)

-speaking of emotional trauma, this fucking shit again -

JENNA: Yeah. I pretty much grew up here. Learned to ride my bike down the road. Had my first kiss at that blue house over there. Lost my virginity up there (pointing to different house).

DEAN: I'll bet blue house was pissed.

JENNA: She was. (handing Amara to Dean) Do you mind?

***This frustrated/disappointed/angered/saddened me to NO END despite already knowing that it happens constantly on the show, because what was the reason?! Did they have to point out that she had a female love interest for this brief moment just to turn her evil and kill her off? There was no need to include this detail. It’s either blatant homophobia or willful ignorance (so also blatant homophobia) that this is what representation means. I won’t go on because obviously we are aware of this and much has already been said/written about it, but still, fuck this.

-we meet Billie and there is more “FORESHADOWING”-

QUEEN IS SINGING “OH DEATH” aka Death’s entrance song from Season 5 and I am BLOWN AWAY by this almost as much as her amazing voice - like did they know at this point she would become the new Death season later? DID THEY KNOW? I need answers.

Seriously, go listen to it immediately; bask in its glory:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LFOm5i6b56o

We also get our first mention of the Empty, so that’s cute that they referenced both Dean’s and Cas’s Season 15 ‘demises’ in the same episode (it’s not cute really and I am crying again now) ->

BILLIE: You and Dean . . . Dying and coming back again and again. The old death thought it was funny. But now there's one hard, fast rule in this universe. What lives . . . dies. So the next time you or your brother bite it, well, you're not going to Heaven . . . Or Hell. One of us -- and, Lord, I hope it's me -- we're gonna make a mistake and toss you out into the Empty. And nothing comes back from that. I know you're dying. I can feel it. You're unclean in the biblical sense. So I'll be seeing you again, Sam . . . Seeing you real soon. Name's Billie, by the way.

-another reason for me to continue denying the flaming trash heap that they tried to call the series finale-

Sam is dying here because he has been infected by the Darkness-vein-animal-exploding-people-plague so he goes to pray about it

SAM: So . . . I know it's been a long time, but . . . Dean and I, we've -- we've been through a lot of bad. But this is different. This is my fault, and I don't know how to fix it. And if I have to die, I've made my peace with that, but . . . Please. Dean deserves better. Dean deserves a life. There are people out there, good people, who are going to suffer because of me, and I am not asking you to clean up my mess. Hell, I don't even know if you're out there, but . . . If you are . . . And if you can hear me, I, um . . . We need your help, God. We need to know there's hope. We need a sign.

**DABB WROTE THIS F-ING EPISODE. How are you going to write Dean deserves a life here to just do what you did Dabb. Don’t get me started on my feelings about this scene in the dark depths of my finale-denying soul. DEAN DESERVES BETTER INDEED, SEASON 11 SAM.

To rub salt in this particular wound, they show us THE cutest scenes of Dean with this damn baby so we can have feelings about how great of a parent he could be (also I ADORE that whenever Jared, Jensen, or Misha have scenes in later seasons with young children/babies it is SO clear they slip into their own natural dad mode without even noticing it; these guys just all seem like excellent fathers and it makes me mushy) and even Crowley picks up on that shit and makes his little ex-boyfriend joke (after Demon Dean and most of season 10 there is no way I will ever NOT believe that Crowley and Dean did not take a tumble; I will take no criticism):

CROWLEY: The child likes you. No surprise, really. You're very maternal.

LIKE WHAT IS THIS:

Speaking of King Jackles, next comes the episode he directed ->

BAD SEED [11x03]

-Cas/Dean parallels with the Attack Dog Spell/Mark of Cain-

This arc appears in the 10 finale and then runs through the first three episodes, culminating in this one. Despite it hurting my heart to see our angel so bloody eyed and feral, I LOVED this parallel; it’s truly brilliant - Cas’s reaction to the attack dog spell is such a mirror to the way Dean dealt with the Mark most of 10. It’s also beautiful that Dean is the only one that can pull Cas from the spell’s control at the end of this episode; that alley scene between the two of them in 11x02 is so tender and sweet. I like to think this brought an entire new layer of depth to their connection, because no one truly understood how Dean felt under the influence of the Mark until now (someone write a fan fic about this exchange!!!!!!) I *love* this journey for them (please say that sentence in Alexis Rose in your head). Bonus that the episode containing my most favorite of *domestic* phone calls with Dean and Cas follows this one, and also Dean’s SHORT SHORTS follow because now he is just walking around the bunker in short shorts while Cas is there and I maintain this is because of this new level of closeness. As previously stated I ACCEPT NO criticism.

ALSO OF COURSE THE FACE CUP THAT JENSEN HIMSEF DIRECTED HIMSELF TO DO. I STAN A KING. I HEREBY DEMAND AT LEAST ONE FACE CUP PER EPISODE OF THE MINI SERIES JENSEN.

***I just saw something posted by @watchthebeesandfish back in 2015 when digging around the internet re: this episode - that this was the first time both Dean/Cas had seen each other as “themselves” since that heart wrenching bridge scene in 9x10, when Dean walks away from Sam/Cas after the Gadreel possession reveal (he goes on to take the Mark of Cain in the following episode, and has it the rest of the season through season 10 finale). That is brilliant and accurate and I BOW DOWN in humility to that parallel. I now love this scene a billion times more. *single [wo]man tear* Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed this little trip down memory lane, thanks as always for getting through my rambling, and HAPPY FACE CUPPING FOREVER.

#destiel #deancas #spn #spn family #spn fandom #sen season 11 #spn recap #spn analysis #spn clowning #heller #jackles #king jackles #but why not write an entire live tweet dissertation of my spn rewatch #spn subtext

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lady-divine-writes · 4 years

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Good Omens - “Death Takes a Holiday” (Rated PG13)

Summary: Azrael and Raphael are stuck trying to give relationship advice to a woman stuck in a literal Hallmark Christmas Movie, but she's just not getting the message. Raphael is having the time of his existence, but Azrael isn't too sure how much more Christmas cheer he can take. (2257 words)

Notes: Written for @theantichristmaszine 2020, and inspired by @dianacrimsonia's Ineffable Opposites au where Aziraphale is Azrael, the Angel of Death, and Crowley is the Archangel Raphael. Diana's art for this fic can be seen on their Insta: dianacrimsonia. Please go give them all the love :)

Read on AO3.

“So let me get this straight …” Azrael plants both hands on the table, staring down in frustration at the starry-eyed red-head in front of him “… you’re prepared to leave it all, your entire life, everything you’ve built from the ground up on this miserable cesspool of a planet … for love?”

A smile, serene in its decision, content with a shiny vision of the future, answers him before a single word slips past perky, coral-tinted lips. “Yes. I am.”

Azrael slaps the wood as he pushes himself upright. “That’s rubbish, that is.”

An amused tilt of the head sends crimson curls spilling over a narrow shoulder. “How can you possibly believe that? How can you go through life not realizing that love is the greatest God-given force in the universe?”

“How did he get you to do it? Hmm?” Azrael asks, purposefully dodging the question. “You’ve been here, what? Three days? A week tops? What magical spell did he cast that would lead you to make such an asinine decision?”

“Well … we went on a hayride,” manicured fingers count off, “we went Christmas tree shopping, watched the candy puller make candy canes, listened to carolers ... Oh! We had hot chocolate and then ...” A pause, followed by a dreamy sigh “… he kissed me. At this cafe. Right here at this picnic table, as a matter of fact.”

Azrael jerks his hands off the table top as if burned, scowling at the bench beneath his bent right knee as if it were diseased. “We had hot chocolate and then he kissed me,” he mimics, dreamy sigh and all. “You are, without a doubt, the most insufferable creature I have ever met! And if you had a clue who I play Pinochle with on Thursday nights, you’d know that that’s saying something.”

“In her defense, the hot chocolate here is very good,” Raphael offers, taking a careful sip of the steaming liquid in his own Frosty the Snowman mug.

Azrael’s eyes shift away from the infuriating woman sitting in front of him to the equally infuriating angel seated down the bench from him. “Please enlighten me, sunshine, on how you keep getting us into these unsavory situations.”

Raphael raises his eyes, countering Azrael’s glare with a mischievous grin as a rousing rendition of Jingle Bells - Azrael’s least favorite Christmas tune of all time - begins from out of nowhere. “I read. A lot.”

“I may have to confine your literary resources to picture books from now on.”

“We’re here because we’re needed,” Raphael explains to his unamused companion. “Obviously there’s something we need to accomplish. A message we need to send. It’s kind of what angels do during the holidays.”

“Seeing as we’re stuck in a movie on what’s apparently called The Hallmark Channel,” Azrael divines, squinting at a golden emblem that follows them around like a puppy no matter where they go, “I would say that part is accurate.” He turns back to the woman who has done nothing since the moment his attentions went elsewhere, as if she only exists when he’s interacting with her. And even though he’s an Angel of Death, regarded as one of the spookiest, most sinister omens in all of recorded history, it creeps him out.

“Does he have any investments?” Azrael implores, returning to their lost cause. “A retirement plan? A 401K?”

Sara shakes her head.

“Does he at least collect commemorative plates!?”

“Those things aren’t important to him,” she announces superiorly. “Besides, I have enough money socked away to take care of the both of us. We’ll want for nothing, as long as we have …”

“Love. Yeah. I get it. Probably what he’s counting on, the leech. Man almighty,” Azrael grumbles, running a hand down his face in frustration. “Unbelievable! This dillhole should be working downstairs with us!”

“Simon doesn’t want to raise his son around a den of corporate greed!” Sara argues passionately.

“Really?” Azrael scoffs. “What about a den of good schools and culture? Does he believe in those things?”

“All we need is love.”

“What you need, lady, I can’t seem to say out loud.”

“That’s because this movie is rated PG,” Raphael interjects. “You can’t curse here.”

“Pity. Give me exactly five seconds and I’ll make their ratings go through the roof.”

“More like in the toilet. Guidelines for these movies are extremely strict.” Raphael stirs his cocoa, staring wistfully into his cup. “Darling? You do believe in the power of love, don’t you?” he asks, a deep, abiding concern coloring his voice.

“Of course I believe in the power of love!” Azrael stares up at the too bright, too blue sky, mentally venting using every four-letter word he can think up. “But sometimes the power of stupidity is stronger!” He sighs, so long and hard it deserves its own backstory. “Look, lady, love is grand and all, but so is carving a name for yourself and being able to make your condo payments!”

“Love will provide,” is the only reply she gives him.

“This is a nightmare!” Azrael groans, taking a seat opposite his angel and burying his face in his hands.

“I don’t know,” Raphael says, gaining a chipper lilt and a gleeful little wiggle. “I’m having a grand time!”

“Yes, well, you’ve eaten seven Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer cookies, drunk three mugs of cocoa, and you bought a quilt!”

“It’s Amish! Hand stitched! Did you see the craftsmanship?”

“You won’t be able to take it with you,” Azrael points out in a taunting, sing-song way.

“The Hell I won’t,” Raphael murmurs, diving into the mound of marshmallows swimming at the top of his mug.

“This Holy Holiday Messenger gig is all well and good, but did you really have to go and get us stuck in an American movie?”

“I had no control over that, love. But look on the bright side (for you) - we’re not going to be here forever.”

“No?” Azrael blows out an incredulous breath through tightly pursed lips, producing a rude sound that turns a few heads. “It’s only going to feel like it.”

“The spell will wear off in twenty-four hours, I assure you. Which should give us plenty of time to …”

Azrael cuts Raphael off with a look that could melt lead. Raphael puts his hands up in surrender.

“Fine. Here - let me give it a go. Maybe all this needs is a touch of Grace.” Raphael scoots closer to Sara, who’s gazing blankly at a tall, overly decorated tree, with moony eyes. “Look, dear, as much as I hate to admit it, my gloomy but pragmatic friend is right.”

Sara turns on him, glaring like he just spit in her cocoa. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” Azrael says. “Excuse me?”

“It seems as though you have just as much wrapped up in your life in New York as your young man does in his daydream of fixing up a run down horse ranch that he doesn’t even have the capital to purchase yet. If I were you, I would go home, back to your life and your job. And either the two of you work things out apart and see how it goes, or find someone whose ideals better line up with yours. Someone who is worthy of you, who wouldn’t ask you to give up everything to live here with him. Because love - true love, the kind of love that lasts - doesn’t come from the sacrifices others ask you to make. It’s about the sacrifices you’re willing to make for others, freely and unsolicited.”

Sara stares open-mouthed at the traitor sitting beside her. But as aghast as she appears, there’s a moment when both Raphael and Azrael think a light bulb has gone off. She’ll agree with them, thank them for their time and their sage advice, then be off, winging her way back to NYC. But after a few blinks, she slowly shakes her head, tsking with every turn of her neck. “You guys just don’t understand the meaning of Christmas.”

Raphael shrugs and slides back to his original seat. “Guess not.”

“Don’t fret, my pet,” Azrael teases. “You tried your best. Guess it wasn’t a matter of Grace after all. There’s no getting through to her, is there?”

“We don’t need to,” Raphael says, reconvening with his cocoa.

Azrael frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I mean the person who needed that message has heard it, and has changed their mind about giving up everything for someone who isn’t willing to meet them half way.”

“Who was it?” Azrael asks, sweeping his gaze around, trying to spot the love lost soul in question.

“Someone out there.” Raphael gestures off to his right. “A real life person out in television land.”

Azrael grins at this turn of events, giddy with relief. “That’s … that’s wonderful! Now we can get the Heaven out of here!”

“Uh … n-no.” Raphael fidgets sheepishly with his mug. “I-I’m afraid we’re stuck here for the full twenty-four hours.”

“Wha---? How!? How can that be!? We fulfilled the requirements of the spell, didn’t we!?”

“Y-yes, but …”

“I know the rules behind these ultimatum locked spells! Once you fulfill your duty, then …” Struck by a sudden realization, Azrael turns wide, scolding eyes on his angel. “Raphael! What did you …?”

“I’m sorry, dear! But when I felt the spell start to pull us out, I just … shrugged it off!”

“But I didn’t shrug it off! How come I didn’t leave?”

“Funny thing that.” Raphael giggles nervously, peeking up at Azrael through glittering lashes. “I sort of … overrode it.”

“Raphael!”

“Azrael! It’s Christmas! I have been trying and trying to get you to take time off and go away with me! This twenty-four hours outside of time could be a holiday for us! Look at all the neat stuff they have planned!” Raphael snaps up a festively decorated flier. “Apple cider tasting, cookie decorating, a peppermint eating contest … and look! A Mistletoe Forest! Do you know what that means?”

Azrael crosses his arms over his chest. “It means this entire town has a huge fungus problem?”

“It’s a forest covered in mistletoe! Mist-le-toe!” Raphael repeats as if talking to a stubborn toddler. “You know … if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“Parasites?”

“No.” Raphael wraps a glimmering curl coyly around one slender finger. “I was thinking more along the lines of dozens of hidden corners to get caught under and kiss.”

“My star …” Azrael inches closer, lowering his voice in the hopes that only his love will hear him “… if you want me to kiss you, all you have to do is ask. In fact, you don’t have to say a word. Just look my way and bat those golden eyelashes of yours. I’ll kiss you anywhere you want, wherever you want,” he emphasizes with a cheeky bounce of his eyebrows. “We don’t need mistletoe for that.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Raphael breathes in deep, exhales long. “If you want to leave, I’ll understand. I’m sure that I can summon a portal and send you back to your mortuary. Your grim, dreary, lonely mortuary, with that single, sad wreath on the door …”

Raphael sniffs theatrically.

Azrael rolls his eyes.

“Would spending the day here make you happy?” Azrael asks with the enthusiasm of someone about to have teeth pulled sans anesthetic in preparation for a lengthy root canal. “Really happy?”

“Yes,” Raphael answers hopefully, sparkling a vibrant gold like the nebula he is. “Effervescently.”

“I can see that,” Azrael mutters. “All right.” He drops down onto the hard bench, level with Raphael’s beaming gaze, and despite this whole headache, he smiles. What can he say? He loves to see his starshine happy. “Finish your cocoa and come along. We have a PG rating to tank.”

“Ooo! Is that one of your fantasies? Whisking me off to the woods like a cad and having your way with me?” Raphael asks, blithely misreading Azrael’s mood. Too eager to be on their way, he snaps his fingers, transforming his snowman mug into an argyle-printed Thermos to transport his cocoa in. He wouldn’t want to waste good cocoa. Real or not, it’s way too tasty to leave behind. “Oh! Shall I change into a dress? I know! Something Victorian! With a red-trimmed corset and …!”

Azrael catches Raphael’s hand before he can snap his fingers again.

“Raphael! You are a strong, fiercely independent archangel! I would not think to insult you by acting out a fantasy that employs such a flawed and sexist stereotype!”

“Oh,” Raphael squeaks, equal parts stunned by Azrael’s response as disappointed, causing his shimmer to dim. “Oh, I apologize. Yes. Yes, I see your point. I …”

Azrael brings Raphael’s hand to his mouth, a wicked grin spreading his lips as he kisses Raphael’s knuckles one at a time, stopping to swirl the tip of his tongue on the soft web of skin in between, making Raphael’s glow go from brilliant to blinding. “That said - yes. Yes, it is. So please, if you don’t mind … wear the dress.”

***

The Hallmark Channel movie ‘Death Takes a Holiday’, which network execs couldn’t recall green lighting, not a single director remembered directing, nor likewise any of the writers recalled writing, was so insanely popular that, by virtue of a voracious, fan-led letter writing campaign, it ran for three weeks into the New Year, and prompted a sequel for Valentine’s - ‘Death Takes a Spouse’.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #ineffable opposites #aziraphale x crowley #azrael x raphael

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thyra279 · 4 years

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High Hopes

For Day 4 of the Good Omens Celebration 2020.

Prompts: “Force” and “fruit” (this one got away with me but I’m gonna post it here for consistency as well as on Ao3.

On a warm autumn's day in 2005, Aziraphale's mobile phone rang out the same jarring electronic jingle 72 times before he managed to locate it behind an old bookcase full of A Breefe History of Northern Shropshire, vol. 1-281. Pushing the bookcase aside, he dusted off the little black-and-white screen and fixed it with a hard stare. The mobile, which had been firing off its jingles increasingly furiously, grew soft and mellow on the 73th ring, and Aziraphale turned his attention to the Nokia's caller.

"Hullo, Crowley. You know, I never should have let you talk to into getting me this portable telephone, it keeps moving about and hiding itself in the-"

"Aziraphale." Oh. Crowley's voice sounded harsh, which wasn't unusual, but also very noticeably strained, which was.

"Are you alright, dear?"

"Uhhrm…"

"Crowley? Whatever's the matter?"

"I've… I've been arrested."

"Have you, now?" Aziraphale let out a relieved little chuckle and sat down in his favourite chair. It was nothing the demon hadn't tried before. Keep at shadowy, nefarious business long enough, and it was bound to happen. He'd lost count of how often Crowley had found himself jumbled up with the police.[1]

Aziraphale himself had found himself come into too close contact with London's various police forces a few times since their invention. He usually encountered the Mets, though he had a soft spot for The City of London Police and carried out his substitute demonic temptations within their Square Mile if he could help it. Politicians and bankers were soft targets. Besides, the City Police always served up bourbon biscuits during their questioning. The angel idly wondered if Crowley had been served up any biscuity treats during his questioning and before being hit with an embarrassing pinch of jealousy.

"When'll you be done, do you reckon? You could come over for wine and commiserations later, perhaps? I think a Chateau Cheval should do quite nicely." He lifted a hand to play with the phone cable, then remembered it wasn't there. "…Bring some biscuits."

"It'saaah. It's a little more complicated than that, I'm afraid."

"What's the problem?"

"Nfffhhh well, I've been in here for coming up two weeks for starters." Aziraphale sat up.

"Crowley, are you- are you in jail?"

"I, uh. Yeah."

"Well, get out of there!"

"Told you it was complicated."

"Do you need me to, ah, to come and get you?"

There was an interesting kind of silence at the other end. "Angel, are you offering to come and break me out of jail?"

"I'm an angel, I do not break anyone out of jails," Aziraphale deadpanned with the practice of several centuries. "It would be a rescue."

"Well, it won't work. I mean, it would work. I could easily get out of here, that's not the issue. Wouldn't solve the actual problem."

"What is the problem then?"

"It's erhhh…"

Aziraphale shifted in his seat, growing a little impatient. "Where are you? What happened?"

The demon sighed. "I'm at Dartmoor Prison. Got arrested near Torquay."

"What were you doing in Cornwall of all places?"

"I… well. I've got a piece of land near Torquay, in a nice deserted place. Thought it'd be out of the way enough. It's quite a big piece of land, really. Massive, actually."

The angel couldn't suppress another tut. "What would you need a massive piece of land for, Crowley?"

"I, ah, I built a farm." Aziraphale could sense the demon's embarrassment pulsing down the line. He himself was caught entirely off guard at the aggressively urbanite yuppie's confession, but tried to sound accepting.

"Oh. Right. What do you do with it, as it were?"

"I grow… things."

"Yes, well-"

"Mainly weed."

"…What?"

"Marijuana, Angel."

"Yes, I know what weed is, thank you." For the second time, Aziraphale felt a rush of relief. "That's alright, then, isn't it? I'm sure growing illegal cannabis is a perfectly acceptable demonic activity. I assume that's why you were arrested?"

"Yup." For a moment, a hint of pride entered the demon's voice. "I've grown lots of it. Don't know if you saw the newspapers last Monday? Apparently, there was quite a big buzz about it being the second largest marijuana plant ever discovered in the UK?"

"Oh, yes," Aziraphale crooned. He hadn't so much as looked at an earthly newspaper for several months, but he didn't like to dampen the demon's (evil) spirits when he was already down. "It all sounded terribly impressive."

"Hnghyeah, well. The coppers said so themselves, actually. They only got a preliminary sweep of the place done, though, before I set my lawyers on them. We've been fighting their warrant. It's been good fun, actually, lots of frustrations all around. Easy job for my side, you know. And we always get bonus points on our job performance for getting lawyers involved. You know I can really use the, erh, goodwill this'll generate downstairs, it'll sort me out for the next few years."

Aziraphale nodded absentmindedly, which Crowley seemed to understand.

"Unfortunately, even my bastard lawyers and enough money to bribe a small state haven't been able to get the judge to drop the warrant. So according to the lawyers, Cornwall's righteous police force, narcotics division, will be able to do a full sweep of the farm some time the day after tomorrow."

"And why exactly is that a problem?" The angel offered when Crowley fell quiet. He was met with a great, heaving sigh loud enough to hear through the telephone line.

"The thing is." The demon drew a breath, then let it out again through hissing teeth. "The thing is. The weed farm's a front."

"…What?"

Crowley sounded flustered now, voice straining again with every word. "It's a front. The cannabis. 'S a cover."

"Why would you… what were you… what in Heaven's name are you doing that's so terrible that you thought a cannabis plantation would serve as an appropriate cover-up, Crowley?"

"Well, well hnghfff. Look, I can't tell you over the phone, I've got a reputation to maintain, alright? Anthony J. Crowley's been going strong since the war, and, and- don’t really want to let him go. Just. Just go out there tomorrow – I know you've got nothing on, don't even start – and get rid of the evidence for me. No, nah, leave the weed crops. But there's a barn. A green barn in the middle of it all. Burn it, please. Maybe don't look inside it, but – eurgh – s'fine if you have to. I don't care how you do it, but get rid of everything in there."

Aziraphale hesitated, more shaken by Crowley than he'd been for a good fifty years.

"I'm, erh, I don't really know, Crowley, I think you should tell me-"

"Aziraphale, please. Please, Angel." Crowley never begged.

"Oh. Oh, alright then." There was a rush of demonic relief down the phone.

"Tha-"

"Don't."

"Look, I'll make it up to you, alright. Whatever you want. Tell you what, I'll buy you sushi at that stuck-up little Japanese place you like so much, every bloody month for the next decade. If you want."

"Alright," Aziraphale huffed.

The demon started to sound slightly more like himself. "I'll throw in a good sake and dessert too if you promise never to bring this up ever again."

"I'll have to see for myself how bad this is, Crowley, before I make good on that promise."

"Fair, that's fair. Just please, Angel, 's no big deal, okay? It was just a little lapse of judgement. Here's how to get to the barn…"

And so, the very next day, the Principality found himself wandering down a dirt track in Cornwall, sore and irritable after hours on overnight public transport and more nervous than he'd care to admit at what he might have agreed to. The stench of the marijuana greeted him long before the greenhouses even became visible. A single police car was parked further down the track at the main entrance to the farm, so on reaching the edge of it, he looked casually left and right before dipping below the police tape. No one noticed him, and he quickly disappeared between row after endless row of huts and greenhouses.

The place was like a labyrinth – literally – and he had to rely on Crowley's instructions to find its centre. The air hummed with the insistent song of thousands of heat lamps. Aziraphale was beginning to suspect that he wasn't entirely immune to the charming waft of cannabis in the hot air around him when suddenly, there it was, a singular old green barn. It was singing at him. Aziraphale wasn't entirely certain he wasn't hallucinating it, but it felt sturdy enough beneath his grasp when he tore the heavy padlock away from the door. The door rattled irately at him, but at least the barn stopped singing.

He hesitated, one hand on the door. Crowley had always taken care, he suspected, to hide the darker sides of his demonic activities from him. He wasn't at all sure he wanted to be privy to them. Unbidden scenes of blood and chains and fires and screams sidled into his mind, finally breaking through the defences he'd constructed as soon as he'd put down the phone last night. He didn't want to know. And yet, he'd promised. He was an angel, and Crowley needed his help, and he'd promised.

Here goes, he thought, allowing himself a deep, steadying gulp of air (and wasn't that lovely, the sweet heady rush that came with it) before pushing the door aside.

Aziraphale blinked. Then blinked again. He blinked a total of 15 times before he entered.

Aziraphale had tried very hard not to imagine all the sinister things he might find in the middle of Crowley's marijuana plot. Even if he'd given himself over to pondering every possibility, he wouldn't have expected this.

The barn was lit up by the same warm, red glow as the rest of the farm. A few dusty skylights gave the room a sense of space that it didn't quite deserve. The air smelt sweet in here too, but it wasn't the pungent suffocation of the cannabis. No, in here, the air hummed with unexpected freshness, with the heady, delicious scent of fruit. There they were, lined up along the walls, a few peach trees, lemons, pears and berries – roses and apple trees too. All ripe, ready for the picking.

The fruit trees couldn't keep his attention, however. In the middle of the room was a little meadow full of wildflowers, bursting with colour. Bees whipped around from stem to stem, and towering over them all, stretching towards the skylights, were the tallest sunflowers Aziraphale had ever seen.

It was beautiful. An age went by while Aziraphale explored the flowers, overcome with surprise at their maker as he smelt, touched and tasted his way through the barn. He senses Crowley in every petal, in every lush green leaf, and couldn't stop himself from lying down in the middle of the meadow, giant sunflowers watching over him. He imagined Crowley here, sneaking in to do the same. It seemed absurd, the smooth, black hardness of Crowley in the middle of this colourful, buzzing force of life. Aziraphale ached to see him here, almost imagined that he could.

The skylights had gone dark above him by the time he got up. Only once on the other end of the barn, he faced what he'd come here to do. It seemed a terrible tragedy, and yet he'd made a commitment to Crowley.

With a great sigh, he lowered his trusty satchel from his shoulder, taking out a stack of little brown bags that hadn't been in there a moment before. He went around the meadow again, caressed every flower, letting it know how beautiful it was. He persuaded even the looming sunflowers to bend down and let go of a few of their seeds. Then he rounded on the fruit trees, trusty tartan tin in hand, and picked a single piece of fruit from each and every one and a little prickly cutting from every rose.

Satchel in hand, the angel took one final look at Crowley's dirty secret, this micro-paradise he'd hidden away. Then he snapped his fingers and sent it all to somewhere he hoped was good, somewhere with fresh air and a warming sun, and just enough rainfall. He didn't notice the extra weight of his bag, and he kept it close, held it in his lap on the sleepy train back to London. Only once he made it safely back to the bookshop did he let go, taking care to count each and every brown bag, folding out their creases and speaking to them gently, as if the plants could still hear him.

He spent the next two weeks drying out the fruit until they let go of their precious cores, and when it all was ready, he put it all in the best firesafe and airtight container he could find.

The container found a new home behind a bookcase full of A Breefe History of Northern Shropshire, and it survived a fire, the apocalypse and the layers of dust that settled over it in the years after that.

Aziraphale never mentioned a word to Crowley, enjoying plenty of sushi, sake and dessert for his efforts.

He carefully guarded the little seedlings until a day, very far into the future indeed, after yet another war, when the angel casually floated the idea of the two of them acquiring a little cottage together somewhere outside of London and the demon scoffed in his face at such a ridiculous suggestion. Somewhere, perhaps, with a nice little garden that Crowley might take care of. He had just the thing to get it started.

[1] Some time during a dull few years in the 1970s, Aziraphale had gifted him a scratch map of the UK counties, instructing the demon to scratch off every county he'd been arrested in. Last time the angel had seen it, sometime during 2003, two thirds of the map had been revealed.

Link for the other (shorter) stories on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24037873/chapters/57837565

#goc2020 #good omens celebration #goodomenscelebration #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #crowley being a soft bastard #crowley #aziraphale #crowley and aziraphale #south downs #good omens fanfiction #anthony j crowley

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flamingbluepanda · 5 years

Text

Things I love about the good omens TV series

Crowley’s hair

Aziraphale’s hair

The editing on this show seriously its fantastic

The sound design

The fact that they took the time to show us Aziraphale and Crowley’s evolving relationship over SIX THOUSAND YEARS

Michael Sheen

David Tennant

ALL THE DOCTOR WHO REFERENCES SERIOUSLY THERES A TON BC TENNANT

The fact that Michael and David didn’t skimp on the romantic gazes, like, they knew what we wanted and they delivered

All the little nods to Terry Pratchett. RIP.

The racially appropriate history! No whitewashing Adam and Eve were black, Rome was diverse, Jesus wasn’t white

“Oi Shem, that unicorn’s making a run for it!”

The very appropriate and thought out use of each and every queen song

THE BENTLEY AND EVERYTHING ABOUT IT

The fact that the demons were appropriately gross. Seriously I’m not a squeamish person but they freaked me out

The trailers made us thing Dog was gonna be a Great Dane the whole time AND THEN HE WASNT

Pepper being a lil baby lesbian

They REALLY stuck true to the book and that makes me happy

Hell made me claustrophobic and heaven gave me a headache

The three major uses of the word fuck

Adam going all antichrist on his friends and then apologizing

Anthema isn’t white

The ENTIRE BODY SWITCH SCENE INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO:

The subtle ways Michael and David changed their intonation on certain words and word choice

They way they both asked after their favorite things (the Bentley and bookstore)

The way they sat on the bench when they switched back

Aziraphale as Crowley telling hell to go screw themselves

“I got the archangel Michael to miracle me a bath towel!”

Crowley as aziraphale breathing fire at Gabriel

Aziraphale getting asked about the sword constantly

Crowley screaming at his plants

And then at the Bentley

“Crowley was imagining that he was fine, and that two runs of flaming metal rubber and leather was, in fact, a working car”

Crowley being wrapped around Aziraphale’s little finger hED LITERALLY DO ANYTHING FOR HIM GUYS!

The romantic music when Crowley saves the books

The BOOK STORE SCENE AND EVERYTHING ABOUT IT

The fact that when Crowley is talking to ghost aziraphale and tells him the bookstore burnt down he’s so... mournful. He knows how important that store was to aziraphale and he feels dreadful to tell him it’s gone

The fact that the romances between Shadwell and Madame Tracy, Newt And Anthenma, And yes, Crowley And Aziraphale all feel SO VERY REAL

Adam’s parents being portrayed as hopelessly normal people

Nanny Crowley and gardener aziraphale

David Tennant singing to young master warlock

The fact that Crowley just wears sunglasses 24/7

The final song. The fact that they referenced the Angels dining at the ritz with a goddamn love song. C’mon guys, their in love.

Seriously, Neil Gaiman and all the rest didn’t have to go that hard to give us a powerful gay love story, but they did

And I know everyone’s freaking out because they didn’t kiss but look me in the eye and tell me that after six thousand years you and your signifigant other wouldn’t have settled into a quiet, peaceful sort of love that didn’t need massive amounts of physical affection

Also the book took place in the 90s and while the show doesn’t there’s still good reasons why they wouldn’t be making out in public y’know? I mean they make it pretty clear that they aren’t even supposed to be talking and could get found out by heaven and hell at any time and you think they’re just gonna act like boyfriends in public knowing their sides are watching?

Anyway I love this show, thank you @neil-gaiman for doing this for us and for terry.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley

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applepiewinchesters · 5 years

Text

Dancing with Myself (Crowley x Reader x Aziraphale)

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

Requested by: @astrangefairy

Warnings: None, minimal editing

Aziraphale and Crowley were going to be out most of the day, so you were put in charge of the bookshop, which means Aziraphale literally trusted you with his life.

You were instructed to touch nothing, but make sure that absolutely no one bought anything whatsoever. Seemed easy enough, to make sure no one bought anything, you ended up just closing the store for the day but stayed there just in case anything happened.

With nothing else to do you mainly just strolled around the shop, you had a game you liked to play. Find the oldest book in the shop. You’ve yet to find the actual oldest book, and Aziraphale refused to give you any hints to its whereabouts.

So far, the oldest book you’d found was from the Roman Empire, and it wasn’t really a book exactly, more like a stack of paper in writing you definitely couldn’t read.

While you studied the books, you’d put on a record, Queen’s Greatest Hits, obviously, it was the only record in the store that wasn’t classical music after all. Aziraphale’s taste in music wasn’t awful, but you definitely preferred Crowley’s.

You danced around the shelves, singing softly to yourself, the only thing you could hear was the music as you’d turned the volume all the way up.

It was rather fun, dancing in a store all by yourself, no one around to judge you. You screamed the lyrics, danced on the couch, and even did a little air guitar.

You didn’t even notice when the shop door had opened, or two voices calling your name, and you definitely didn’t hear footsteps coming towards you.

It wasn’t until you turned around in the midst of screaming the lyrics to “Somebody to Love”, that you finally noticed the demon and angel standing behind you.

Aziraphale’s face was bright red and you could tell he was definitely trying to hold back some laughter, Crowley on the other hand was nearly crying from laughing so hard.

With a snap of the angel’s fingers the music quieted, the only sound left was Crowley laughing. You could feel your face heating up as you crossed you arms, “H-How long have you been standing there?” you asked.

“Not long,” Aziraphale answered, while at the same time Crowley said through his laughter, “About ten minutes.”

Oh great, so that means they probably saw your dramatic rendition of “Save Me”.

“You could’ve let me know you were here,” you said, looking down sheepishly.

“You looked as if you were having too much fun to stop you, my dear,” Aziraphale told you, making you smile a bit.

Crowley finally composed himself, wiping at the tears under his eyes, “You’re definitely a better dancer than me,” he said.

You rolled your eyes, “I’m horrendous,” you said, laughing.

“Maybe,” Crowley told you, “but it was rather cute.”

You blushed once again, looking away. “No one came in Aziraphale, and I’ve yet to find the oldest book in the shop,” you said after a moment.

Aziraphale smiled, “Oh, I’m sure you’ll find it someday,” he said, “you’ve got forever to look.”

It was silent again, you were still embarrassed, even if they both found it “cute”.

“Well, I think we should start up the party again,” Crowley said, snapping his fingers, the music once again playing at full volume.

You laughed as Crowley held out his hand, when you grabbed it, he pulled you close, beginning to dance with you, it may not have been good dancing, but it was still fun.

Aziraphale got the wine and sat on the couch watching you two, that was, until you pulled him up to dance as well.

It was the most fun you’d had in a while, and you spent the rest of the night dancing to the same songs over and over again and all together you drank about six bottles of wine. That night was blurry, but it was still fun.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading, I hope you liked it. As it says up top REQUESTS ARE OPEN AGAIN YAY!!! So feel free to send something in. I love you all! ~ Sara :)

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ollieofthebeholder · 4 years

Text

If I Knew From the Start

Also on AO3.

It's been a couple weeks since Armageddoff, and things are almost back to normal. Almost.

Certainly Crowley is spending more time at the bookstore than he used to, and Aziraphale's been over to the flat more often than he had before, i.e. ever. They're a bit more comfortable, a bit freer to communicate, now that they don't have the specter of their respective departments hanging over their heads. Some nights Crowley doesn't go back to his place at all. It's a new normal, but a normal that's barely to the side of the normal they had before.

Crowley is still pining, by the way. He thought for a brief moment, during what they thought was the end of the world...but it turns out that was probably just him projecting and it's back to what it was before. Except now it's a bit worse, because now he's got to face up to the fact that this really is one-sided, that it's not just fear of what Heaven will do that's keeping Aziraphale from saying that he feels the same way. Aziraphale really doesn't feel that way and it's not fair, but honestly, the way the last six thousand years or so have gone Crowley can't be surprised. The universe is stacked against him and it doesn't matter what cards he's holding, the universe has all trumps.

Still, he's a glutton for punishment. Or maybe he's just willing to take whatever he can get. He'd rather have Aziraphale in his life as nothing more than a friend than not have him at all, so here he is in the bookstore, sprawled across a chair and watching the rain lash at the windows.

Crowley hates storms. At least rainstorms. He's never said anything to Aziraphale, but they always remind him of the storm, the one that led to the Great Flood, and that's something that still haunts him. He shifts restlessly in his seat, fidgets with the stem of his wine glass, debates nudging Aziraphale with his toes to get some kind of reaction out of the angel, and finally gets up to go poke through something he shouldn't touch.

Aziraphale looks at him briefly over the tops of his glasses as he ambles over to a table in the back, well away from the windows, although that's absolutely not why he's heading that way. “What are you up to, dear?”

Crowley gestures vaguely at the old-fashioned Victrola and the box next to it, both pristine and virtually untouched. “I'd like to listen to something other than Queen for a change.”

“I thought you liked Queen.”

“I do, but—you wouldn't want to only read one book all the time, would you?” Crowley points to the book in Aziraphale's hand. “Imagine if any book you left in your office for more than two weeks turned into—into—into something by that Christie woman.”

Aziraphale purses his lips thoughtfully. “I do like her works,” he says slowly. “But a constant diet of them—” He shakes his head and gestures vaguely at the box. “Please yourself.”

Crowley smirks. Usually, getting permission to do something he's planning to do out of mischief takes some of the fun out of it, but somehow, he likes knowing that Aziraphale isn't possessive about his things, or at least doesn't mind him touching them. He begins flicking through the neatly-stacked cardboard sleeves.

It's more or less what Crowley would have expected. Bach, Handel, Mozart, a little Debussy, something with a red cover that shows a silhouette of what looks like two people dancing on the beach that Crowley skips over hurriedly because he can only take so much torture in a single day, three or four Christmas albums, and—wait, this is odd.

He stops at an album that looks very different than the others. It's black, mostly, with what looks like a checkerboard falling to pieces—no, he realizes, glancing at the album title, not a checkerboard. A chessboard. Same thing, technically, but it's got a different feel to it.

“What's this, then?” he asks, pulling it out.

There's a pause just long enough to be noticeable. Crowley looks over his shoulder to see Aziraphale staring at the album. He can't read the look on his face, and that's a bit disconcerting, because usually his angel wears his heart on his sleeve.

“A rock opera,” he says at last.

Crowley remembers now. He saw the posters hanging up in the West End, actually considered asking Aziraphale if he wanted to go see it (It's opera, which you like, and it's rock, which I like, which means there's a fifty-fifty chance of us both liking it. Or both hating it. Want to take bets? Loser buys dinner), but the week it opened Aziraphale was awfully quiet and distant and he let the idea go. He never ended up seeing it. Going to the movies by himself is fine, especially since Aziraphale's never quite got the hang of them, but the theater? He can't do that alone.

“Just bought it because it says opera, eh?” Crowley turns the album over to squint at the track list.

Aziraphale clears his throat. “No...well, I went to see it. On opening night, actually. I thought...well, I do like opera, and you're a fan of—of rock music, so I thought I would see if it might be something we could both enjoy.”

Crowley stills. The fact that they'd both had the same thought almost makes him hope...but no, he tells himself firmly, he won't go down that road again. Not today. His heart can't take it. “Reckon it wasn't, then, since you never mentioned it to me.”

“No,” Aziraphale says, almost as if to himself. Crowley's about to say something else when Aziraphale continues, “I'm sure you'd have loved it, dear, but I—I didn't think I could watch it with you and not...I wasn't ready for a second viewing, and then it wasn't playing anymore and...” He waves his hands vaguely, conveying everything and nothing in that maddening way of his.

Crowley hesitates for a moment, then decides, to hell with it. (Possibly, although hopefully not, literally.) Aziraphale obviously enjoyed seeing it enough to buy the soundtrack. And if he thinks Crowley will like it, he's probably not wrong; he hasn't been wrong often in their acquaintance. He slips the first disc from its sleeve and pops it into the Victrola.

“What's it about, anyway?” he asks idly as the overture begins and he settles onto a chair—one closer to the music (and further from the window) than the one he was in before.

Again, there's that short pause, and Crowley looks up to see that indescribable look on Aziraphale's face.

“Chess,” he says shortly.

Which...it is. It's in English (obviously) and since it's an opera, the whole story is in the singing, they don't have to piece together bits left out in dialogue like they would with the soundtrack to a musical, so Crowley can follow the plot well enough. A chess prodigy from America, facing off against a champion from the USSR during the Cold War. It's upbeat and catchy, at least at first.

He finds himself identifying more than he'd like with the Russian character. He seems to be trapped in a situation he'd rather not be part of, like he enjoys playing chess but wishes he didn't have to do it for his government. Crowley can empathize with that.

“How long was this running, anyway?” he asks idly as they hit the end of the first side and he gets up to flip it over.

“Three years, I believe,” Aziraphale replies. He doesn't look up from his book. Must be pretty good, for him to be that intent on it. “It had a run on Broadway as well, but I hear they changed it substantially for that.”

“This is the original, though.”

“Well, it's the concept album. The actual musical had the songs in a different order. But yes, it's the original cast.”

Crowley settles back down for the rest of the first half—he's pretty sure Act One is on this disc and Act Two is on the other, that's how these things usually go—but then the woman who's been trying to ride herd on the American begins her solo and the lyrics grab Crowley's attention.

Maybe I'm on nobody's side...

He sits up straighter and listens intently. She might be singing about herself, her situation, but Crowley hears himself arguing with Aziraphale, trying to convince him to run away, to avoid the entire Apocalypse situation. To acknowledge that they don't have to decide between Heaven and Hell, that both sides are horrifying and it's the two of them that matter. Or maybe not. Maybe it's more that the woman is trying to convince herself to choose.

Like Aziraphale might have done after their argument.

He forces himself to sound casual as the music shifts to another song, mostly instrumental. “Whose idea was that anyway?”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale looks up from his book. He schools his emotions as he does so, but not quickly enough, and Crowley catches the glimpse of pain. He wants to ask about it, but backs down, a coward as usual. At least when it comes to this.

“The USSR,” he says instead. “Communism. All that nonsense. Was it m—you think it was Hell who came up with the idea, or did humanity do that on its own?”

Aziraphale doesn't answer for a moment, but that look of pain comes back and stays this time, and Crowley wonders if he actually changed the subject all that well. “It—actually, I think Michael got a commendation for that. At first. I mean, it sounds wonderful, doesn't it? Everyone equal, everyone cared for, no one better than anyone else? It's exactly the sort of thing She wanted. Until, of course, they denounced all religion and...well.” He sighs heavily. “Humans have always got to take everything just that bit too far, haven't they.” It's not really a question.

“Yeah,” Crowley says softly. He wants to smooth out the frown wrinkling Aziraphale's forehead, to kiss away the pain in his eyes, to hold and comfort him. But he also knows Aziraphale will fuss at him about it, so he doesn't.

The next song is a duet between the Russian and the woman—Florence, if the album is to be believed—and Crowley finds himself falling into it. He doesn't say anything else, too wrapped up in the music as Florence fights with the American and quits. There's a funny interlude as people who apparently work at an embassy of some kind fuss over the Russian's paperwork, and then a surprisingly heartfelt song where the Russian insists he's not leaving his country behind because my land's only borders lie around my heart, and then the needle clicks as the disc ends.

Partly out of morbid curiosity and partly because he can't just leave it there, Crowley gets up and lifts the record off the Victrola, then pulls out the second disc. To his surprise, it shows more signs of wear than the other. It's still in nearly pristine condition, of course—Aziraphale's always been careful with his things, even more so than Crowley who mostly keeps things together by force of will—but still, there are a few scratches, the normal sort of thing you find on vinyl records that have been listened to more often than not.

“You're supposed to listen to the whole musical, angel, not just one act,” Crowley chides as he checks the sides and puts the correct one face up.

Aziraphale mumbles something, but he doesn't look up from his book. Crowley decides not to ask and instead simply starts the record.

The first song is...nothing like the sort of thing Aziraphale usually listens to. It's almost more hip-hop than rock, and Crowley's not sure he likes it, although he does note that the last line of the chorus alternates between I can feel an angel sliding up to me and I can feel the devil walking next to me. Interesting.

The next song is slower, with more piano, sounding almost like something Bette Midler might've sung. Crowley stills as the lyrics begin, and he almost stops breathing altogether when he hears something soft and barely audible underneath the music.

Aziraphale. Aziraphale is singing along to Florence's solo.

Heaven help my heart...

Desperately, Crowley tries to focus on the song. It sounds like Florence and the Russian are having an affair, and Florence is already fearing that he won't love her once she no longer has any mysteries for him to solve. It's almost like pre-heartbreak. And Aziraphale seems to identify with it.

He swallows hard when it ends, but doesn't dare look over at Aziraphale. He guesses the angel has listened to this album more than a few times, and has most of the songs memorized. Still, Crowley can't help but notice that he's not singing along to the argument Florence has with the Russian afterwards. Maybe it's just too hard for him to follow.

Then the next song starts up, and oh, hell, Crowley knows this one. He knows it. It made the Top Ten lists on the radio in the mid-eighties. The first time he heard it, he almost wrecked the Bentley, and he cried for almost twelve minutes straight after it finished and never admitted it to anyone. For about the next two weeks, it was the only song that ever played on any radio station he tried to listen to, thus reaffirming Crowley's long-held theory that the universe is out to get him specifically.

He sits up, holding his breath so he won't say anything stupid, as the words start. Then his brain catches up to the fact that it's not just the record playing and he turns his head sharply. Aziraphale isn't reading his book anymore. He's on his feet, head bowed as he fixes himself another cup of cocoa, and he's singing along softly to the music.

Crowley has to look away.

The music is horribly unfair. It's a duet, between two women, and now that he's been listening to the whole soundtrack he can identify the singer of the first verse as Florence, and he can also guess that she's talking about the Russian. Crowley finds himself whispering along with the second part when the song hits the first chorus and the actual duet starts.

And then the second verse starts, and Crowley can't help himself. He's always identified with that part, and he memorized it even though he didn't mean to, so he sings along, huddled in his chair with his knees pressed to his chest, eyes closed as he thinks back, or more like overthinks, on the last six thousand years. On Eden and Mesopotamia and Golgotha, on Rome and Turkey and Paris. On all those years of knowing, or at least suspecting, that he was the only one feeling this way. The line towards the end of the verse, where the woman says she'd have learned about the man before I fell, has always been darkly ironic to him.

Looking back, sure, he could have played it differently. But would he have?

He loses track of the rest of the world, wrapped up as he is in the song and the way it makes him feel. It is madness, utter madness, that he can't be mine...

He suddenly becomes aware of the music getting closer, and he looks up and makes eye contact with Aziraphale, who's right there all of a sudden, and both of them forget to sing the last line.

I know him so well...

Aziraphale's eyes are wide and soft with all kinds of emotion Crowley can't quite figure out, and they're extremely wet. He's staring at Crowley like he's seeing him for the first time, his hand hovering inches from Crowley's arm. Crowley desperately wants to close that gap, but he can't bring himself to do it, especially as he doesn't feel like he deserves it.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, his voice small and filled with pain, and Crowley responds to that pain because nothing in him says to do anything else. He untangles his arms from around his knees and reaches up to take Aziraphale's hand like he wanted to do before, and they clutch each other's hands in a way they haven't since the moment they realized they were about to face one of the few beings in the universe with the ability to destroy them both and everything they hold dear. The moment Crowley knew, with utter certainty, that Aziraphale is at the top of that list and let himself hope he was at the top of Aziraphale's.

“Angel,” he whispers, and he's not sure what he's trying to say with it, but he knows it doesn't come out right and he's not sure how to fix it.

Aziraphale licks his lips and shakes his head slowly, not really in denial of what Crowley's saying or trying to say, he thinks, just clearing it a little. “I...that's why I didn't ask you to go,” he says softly. “I couldn't...I didn't think I could sit next to you during that song and not...” He bites his lip and doesn't finish.

“You remember—” Crowley begins, and then he stops, because he's pretty sure Aziraphale doesn't remember. Why would he, after all? But Aziraphale is looking at him again, and Crowley decides to just go with it. He plunges ahead. “Do you remember—there was a while where I refused to listen to the radio, where I'd turn it off as soon as we got in the Bentley?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replies, surprising Crowley. “You got very...grumpy when I asked about it. I thought I'd done something wrong, but...well, that wasn't long after I saw the play, and I'm afraid I wasn't entirely myself.”

Crowley tightens his grip on Aziraphale's hand before he can stop himself, then eases back so he doesn't hurt him. “No, you didn't. It's just—that song was on the radio constantly, every bloody time I turned the thing on, and I couldn't—I had a hard enough time dealing with it on my own and I definitely couldn't have handled it if you'd been sitting there.” He pauses. “Didn't realize it was from a musical, though.”

Aziraphale nods slowly. There's a vacant look in his eyes. “It's...I know in the context of the show, they're both singing about Anatoly. The Russian. Florence is his mistress and Svetlana is his wife. But I—the first time I heard it, all I could think about was—” He breaks off and looks away, and his hand slides out of Crowley's.

Crowley lets him go, although he doesn't want to. Something about this moment feels important, like he's just missing something. But he's following Aziraphale's lead, like he always has, letting him set the pace of things. Any time he tries to rush things, he ends up inevitably disappointed.

He ends up disappointed when he doesn't rush things, too, but at least then it's not his fault.

The music is still playing, and it sounds like there's an argument going on. Crowley forces himself to tune back into it, partly to distract himself from saying something stupid to Aziraphale and partly because now he needs to know how this thing ends, and it sounds like someone's trying to make a deal of some kind. In a voice that suddenly feels rusty, he asks, “What are they trying to do now?”

“They want Anatoly to throw the chess match,” Aziraphale says quietly. “He's defected—he's playing for the United States now—and they're trying to convince him to lose on purpose.”

“Why would he agree to that?” Crowley demands.

Aziraphale pauses. Crowley looks back at him and suddenly realizes that he hasn't gone anywhere—he's still crouching in front of Crowley's chair, one hand resting lightly on the arm, looking down at the floor.

“They're baiting him,” he says at last. “Florence's father was...he was captured by the Russians when she was a child. They tell him—and her, come to think of it—that if Anatoly loses the match and goes back to Russia, they'll set her father free. They think he might lose for her sake.”

Crowley swallows hard. “He will, of course.”

But Aziraphale shakes his head, firmly. “Never. Florence won't let him, for one thing. The game is more important to either of them than either of their...'sides'. And quite apart from that, he doesn't trust the Russians enough to accept a deal with them.” He looks up at Crowley with a sad smile. “After all, a deal with the devil only benefits the devil.”

Crowley knows that only too well. He wants to reach for Aziraphale's hand again, especially as the American starts singing about his terrible childhood. Instead, he swallows and tries for nonchalant. “So he stands up to the Russians, wins the match, gets the girl...”

“He wins, certainly,” Aziraphale agrees. His eyes slide away from Crowley's.

Suddenly, Crowley remembers a cartoon rabbit dramatically draped in the arms of a metal-clad hunter, raising his head to look briefly at the screen. What did you expect in an opera, a happy ending?

They sit silently through the next bit. It's obviously the final chess game, and there's a lot of arguing going on and some names being mentioned, and then the light, tinkling music that Crowley assumes is the actual game being played. After a few minutes, the Russian starts singing again, and Crowley finds himself empathizing with him once more. He glances at Aziraphale and finds that he really hopes he's wrong about how it ends, because if Aziraphale is Florence and he's the Russian...

And then the Russian and Florence begin singing a duet, and Crowley chokes back a sob, because the heartbreak is unmistakable even before they get to the chorus. But we go on pretending stories like ours have happy endings...

“Is he—he's going back to Russia, isn't he,” he says softly. It's not a question.

“Florence convinces him that it's where he belongs,” Aziraphale says, and his voice isn't any louder. “With his wife and children. But...”

He breaks off as the next line sings out: both the Russian and Florence claiming they're still devoted to this affair. It's the worst kind of heartbreak—both of them still loving each other, but forcing themselves to give one another up for the other's good. Aziraphale closes his eyes.

“S'ppose I can understand that,” Crowley says. He hates it, but he can understand it.

“You can,” Aziraphale says flatly.

Crowley nods slowly, his mind only half on the present and half on the past—the fairly recent past, but still the past. “If we hadn't known both sides were coming for us—if it'd just been Hell coming for me—I'd have gone back to them and let them do what they wanted, so long as they promised to let you alone. So I reckon I'd have given it up, if it meant you'd be happy.”

Aziraphale looks up sharply, and the combination of fear and anguish in his eyes would knock Crowley back a step or two if he was standing. As it is, he flinches back against the chair in surprise. There's a hitch in Aziraphale's voice as he asks, “And what makes you think I'd—my dear boy, they'd have destroyed you utterly. And you think I could have been happy if—?” He breaks off and looks away, but not before Crowley sees the glint of tears in his eyes.

“Angel,” Crowley begins, reaching for his hand, and then he suddenly realizes why it's not working and says, “Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale looks back up, his face open and vulnerable, and he meets Crowley's hand halfway and holds it tightly. “Crowley,” he whispers.

In his name, Crowley hears everything he's wanted to hear for years, everything he thought he'd never hear, and he sees it in Aziraphale's eyes and feels it in his touch, and he grips his hand like a lifeline. He really doesn't think he's imagining it this time, but there's still the whisper of doubt in the back of his mind—the part of him that thinks he doesn't deserve it to be true.

“What if they'd given you a concession, too?” he asks. “Like Florence. If they told you they wouldn't hurt me, that I just wouldn't be allowed back—would you have let me go then? If it meant we were both safe?”

“No,” Aziraphale says, promptly and decidedly, startling Crowley. “Absolutely not. After what happened that day? I wouldn't have agreed to let you walk away from me if it was the only way to save the rest of the world.”

Crowley blinks at Aziraphale, because that's absolutely not something he'd ever expect to hear from the angel. “I thought you angels were supposed to be for the good of humanity or whatever.”

Aziraphale's lips tighten briefly. “First of all, most of the angels are no more for the good of humanity than most demons are. They're for the good of Heaven, and if that just so happens to be good for humans, fine, but if not, I doubt Michael or Gabriel would lose much sleep over that, so to speak. And second, while I am for the good of humanity...” His expression softens, and he tightens his grip on Crowley's hand. “I'm also very, unabashedly selfish. And up to that point, I had always convinced myself that I had time, that there was no need to upset the Arrangement, that everything was going along fine. And then, suddenly, it wasn't, and the end was coming, and I almost lost you. I told myself that if we survived that, I wasn't going to waste another minute.” He sighs. “And then I've rather wasted a lot of them, I'm afraid.”

The record clicks off and the shop goes silent, except for the rain, which Crowley's still trying to ignore. He tries to think what Aziraphale might consider wasting time. “Why, what do you think you ought to have been doing with them then?”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. He gets up off of his knees and lets go of Crowley's hand, but in the split second between losing the contact and Crowley's panic starting, he leans over and braces himself against the armchair, one hand on each arm, and bends down so that his face is level with Crowley's. Very deliberately, he reaches up and pulls Crowley's dark glasses off of his face and sets them on the table next to him without taking his eyes away, so there's nothing between blue eyes and yellow. Crowley ought to be anxious about losing that filter, about being so open and vulnerable, but it's Aziraphale, the one being he's always wanted to let himself be vulnerable around but never thought he could.

“I ought to have told you the moment the world didn't end that I love you,” he says.

“Ngk,” Crowley replies, which isn't really an answer, but his brain has just short-circuited. He's been dreaming of a moment like this for centuries—millennia, really—but he's always expected it to be more dramatic, more like in the movies. And more to the point, he's always assumed he would be the one to say it. He's never really expected Aziraphale to say it back, except in his wildest fantasies.

“I don't know if you ever knew,” Aziraphale continues. “Certainly I went out of my way not to let you know, but...honestly, Crowley, you're so intelligent, I rather thought you'd figure it out sooner or later. Still, I ought to have told you sooner, and I hope you can forgive me for not.”

“You—wait!” Crowley flails a little, more mentally than physically, but he also doesn't break eye contact with Aziraphale. “I—I honestly had no idea, angel, I thought you—you don't mean that, do you?”

“I do,” Aziraphale says. “With everything I have in me. I love you, Anthony J. Crowley. I've loved you since I saw you on the ark, surrounded by children and trying to pretend you were just thwarting the Plan. I loved you at Golgotha and I loved you in Rome and I loved you in Paris. I loved you when we first came to London and I loved you during the Blitz and I loved you in the Dowlings' garden. I loved you two weeks ago and I love you now, Crowley, and I will love you long after the world stops turning and the final battle does come about.”

Crowley tries to come up with an excuse for all of this, another explanation besides reciprocation of the feelings he's always believed were one-sided. The thing is, he can't. For as smart as Aziraphale seems to think he is, he cannot for the life of him come up with a single reason why Aziraphale might not mean exactly what he's saying, except for the sheer, inescapable fact that nothing good ever happens to Crowley. He stares at Aziraphale, mouth hanging open slightly, at a total loss for words.

Aziraphale stares back. There are a few emotions on his face and Crowley can't quite read any of them, at first. After a moment, though, he recognizes one of them.

Fear.

Oh. Oh. No, that isn't happening. Not on Crowley's watch. Not now, not when he has this chance. He won't blow it like he's blown everything else.

“I love you, too,” he blurts out. “I think I've loved you from the beginning, really, from that moment at the Garden wall when you said you'd given up your sword, but I didn't really realize it until later, I thought—I don't know what I thought, but it's been there, all these centuries, and I—I thought it was just me or I'd've said something sooner and—”

“—And I'd have hurt you dreadfully by pretending I didn't love you, so perhaps it's best that you didn't, sweetheart,” Aziraphale breaks in gently.

Crowley gets hung up on the sweetheart for a minute, so it takes him a bit to catch up with what Aziraphale actually said before that word. “You were pretending that anyway,” he accuses.

“Yes, but so long as I didn't say it...” Aziraphale sighs. “It took me longer than I'd like to admit to realize you felt this way, too. Once I did, I rather hoped you knew how I felt but were sensible enough to keep things quiet.”

“So you wouldn't be seen to be consorting with a demon,” Crowley guesses. Heaven's always been so sanctimonious, and so bloody smug about it. Aziraphale's just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing, but he still bought into all that nonsense a lot longer than someone as intelligent as he is ought to have.

Aziraphale takes Crowley's hands in his and straightens, pulling him to his feet as he does so, and they stand toe-to-toe, facing one another, holding hands in a way Crowley's always wanted. He so rarely gets to touch Aziraphale and he's wanted it for centuries, and now here they are. He relaxes into it, even though he's dreading what's coming next. Aziraphale's eyes are so serious as they bore into Crowley's.

“Crowley,” he says quietly, “do you know what Heaven would have done if they had known?”

“They'd have kept us apart,” Crowley says. He's thought of very little else. “Called you back Upstairs. Like they tried that one time, back in the 1800s. You remember?”

Aziraphale shakes his head, and Crowley's going to describe the incident in more detail when Aziraphale says, “No, nothing like that. I was never worried about what they would do to me. Much, anyway. But you...Crowley, they'd have accused you of seducing me. Tempting me away from righteousness or some nonsense like that. That's not something they would have ever forgiven. So I kept it to myself, and I thought...well, the Arrangement worked well, neither of us got bothered very much, so they certainly wouldn't think we were friends and I could at least keep you in my life. And then I realized you felt the same, and I...I got frightened. Because I know well enough that if you ever said it out loud...”

“Heaven would know,” Crowley completes.

“And so would Hell.”

Crowley hisses. “I'd never have let them touch you.” The very idea of it makes his blood boil. Crowley would fight a lot worse than the forces of Hell for Aziraphale.

“It wasn't me they'd have come for,” Aziraphale says softly, and Crowley remembers again just how intelligent the angel really is—and how intuitive. “Heaven would have seen you doing what demons do—tempting and leading astray—and punished you for targeting an angel. Hell would have seen you getting distracted, going soft. They'd have gone after you, dearest, not me. And the very thought terrified me beyond reason. Hell would have destroyed you utterly, but Heaven would have made you suffer first.”

Crowley shudders, remembering the look on Michael's face, the punishment he'd had in store for Aziraphale. He was able to stand up to it because he was doing it for Aziraphale—and because he knew that it wouldn't hurt him really—but the look of contempt and sadistic glee still haunts him. That expression didn't belong to someone big on mercy.

“Either way, wouldn't have been good,” he manages. “For me, at any rate.”

“Or for me. I never would have forgiven myself if I'd been the reason something happened to you. And I wouldn't have been able to survive without you.” Aziraphale tightens his grip on Crowley's hands. “After six thousand years...I cannot lose you, Crowley.”

Crowley's chest constricts, and it's hard for him to catch his breath. He never expected to hear such a heartfelt declaration from his angel—can he actually say that now, his angel? Yes, he supposes he can. That's what all this is boiling down to, isn't it? Aziraphale loves him. He loves Aziraphale. That makes Aziraphale his. And—he'd swallow if he had the air to do it—it makes him Aziraphale's in return.

Aziraphale looks at him for a moment, his expression as serious as Crowley's ever seen it. Finally, he says, “I would very much like to kiss you now, dearest, if you'll let me.”

What Crowley wants to say is I would very much like to kiss you back. What he wants to say is I've been wanting that for at least five millennia. What he wants to say is What are you waiting for?

What he actually says is, “Wg.”

His eyes must convey what he wants to say, though, because Aziraphale lets go of his hands and cups his face gently and tilts it towards him, and Crowley closes his eyes and oh...

The touch of Aziraphale's lips against his is everything he's imagined and more. They're soft and warm and pliant, like the rest of him, and so gentle and tender. Crowley finds himself grabbing desperately at the lapels of Aziraphale's jacket, frantic for something to hold onto lest he find himself floating away into space. Aziraphale slides one hand to the back of Crowley's head, threading it through his hair, and shifts the angle.

Crowley whimpers slightly, and Aziraphale evidently takes it as an invitation to deepen the kiss, which it absolutely would have been if Crowley had known before this moment that was possible. He gasps and tightens his grip on Aziraphale, then melts under the combination of heat and tenderness the angel is pouring into their kiss.

When at last Aziraphale breaks away—slowly, ever so slowly—Crowley finds himself gasping for air and reluctant to open his eyes. He's also vaguely aware that he's trembling all over.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale sounds worried. “Are you all right, dearest?”

“Fine,” Crowley manages, and it's only partly a lie. He's better than fine, actually, he feels fantastic, but at the same time he feels open and vulnerable and known for the first time since he became a demon, and it's a bit much to handle. He forces his eyes open and tries to smile, but he's still a little shaky. “Is it always like that?”

“Is it—have you never kissed anyone before?” Aziraphale asks, obviously startled.

Crowley wonders, for a brief moment, if he wants to be able to say yes, of course I have, or if he should want that. Instead, he decides to be honest. “No. Never wanted to, really.” He hesitates. “Well, except you.”

He sees Aziraphale's expression, interprets it as shock or disbelief or skepticism or some combination of all three, and he does what he often does in these situations: babble. “I know, I know, it's proper demonic activity and all that rot, seducing and luring with sexual wiles and whatnot, but that's not me, angel, that's never been how I work. And I never met anyone that seemed worth wanting to kiss. Never met anyone who was a patch on you, and that's the big thing, I think, is that I compared every person who ever even flirted with me to you—”

“Been that many, then?” Aziraphale interrupts, and Crowley misses the flash in his eyes.

“Yeah, a few,” he says distractedly. “Mostly before we came to England for good, but one or two since then. Parts of the city get a bit—”

He's cut off abruptly by Aziraphale tugging him sharply forward and kissing him again. It's not like the first time at all. Crowley can feel all the emotions in it: passion and a bit of lust and a hefty dose of what feels like possessiveness, and all he can really do is hold on and ride the tide of heat. In a distant part of his mind, he registers that he's being claimed, that Aziraphale is staking his territory and damn anyone who says otherwise. It occurs to him, with a rush of surprise, that Aziraphale might be jealous, even though he's got no reason to be.

He's panting for air when Aziraphale finally lets him up, and he's definitely shaking again. “Yeah, okay, that answers that question then,” he says, a bit dizzy.

Aziraphale, damn him, smirks, rubbing his thumb against Crowley's cheekbone. “I've admittedly had a bit of practice. I'll be happy to show you.”

Crowley definitely feels jealous himself at the thought of the angel kissing anyone else like that. It must show in his face, because Aziraphale's expression softens, and he plants a brief, gentle kiss on the corner of Crowley's mouth. “Only once or twice, while you were taking that long nap of yours. I...I think I was trying to banish the memory of the way I treated you.”

“'S not your fault,” Crowley protests. Now that he knows how Aziraphale's always felt about him—and that Aziraphale knew how he felt in return—a lot of things make more sense. “You know I've never looked at anyone but you, yeah?”

Aziraphale blushes. It's unfairly adorable. “Crowley,” he murmurs. “Will you stay?”

Crowley's heart flutters, and he clutches Aziraphale a little tighter. He's never wanted anything more. “As long as you like, angel.”

“Forever,” Aziraphale whispers.

At that single word, something inside of Crowley rights itself and snaps into place. For the first time in six thousand years, he's right where he belongs. He's home.

“Yes, Aziraphale,” he whispers back, wrapping his arms around the angel's neck and pressing his face into his shoulder. “And even longer.”

#good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable idiots #azicrow #ollie writes fanfic

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prosopopeya · 4 years

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i’m bad at music and only listen to like 5 bands but here’s a collection of songs i would put onto a general spn mixtape bc either they 1) aren’t about dean/cas or 2) don’t map exactly perfectly onto the pov of one character/are an au or 3) are fun

the “i’ve been listening to taylor swift for two months straight” collection:

here’s a song crowley would listen to and drink and think about dean and cry:

‘tis the damn season + We could call it even / You could call me "babe" for the weekend / 'Tis the damn season, write this down / I'm stayin' at my parents' house / And the road not taken looks real good now

here’s a song for literally everyone on spn:

marjorie + And if I didn't know better / I'd think you were listening to me now / If I didn't know better / I'd think you were still around / What died didn't stay dead / What died didn't stay dead / You're alive, you're alive in my head

here’s a song for claire when cas showed up again before she forgave him:

closure + It's been a long time / And seeing the shape of your name / Still spells out pain / It wasn't right / The way it all went down / Looks like you know that now

here’s a song for the entire purgatory experience. is it about dean/benny? bc dean was so focused on cas, and sam, and dean eventually had to kill benny and send him back to purgatory to save his brother? is it about how dean thought he left cas behind in purgatory, how he spent a year searching endlessly for him? is it about how cas keeps leaving dean: first, rejecting his hand in purgatory, then running off with the angel tablet? anyway i have 1000 feelings and should write a purgatory fic one day

coney island + And I'm sitting on a bench in Coney Island / Wondering where did my baby go? / The fast times, the bright lights, the merry go / Sorry for not making you my centerfold / Over and over

here’s a song that doesn’t map exactly bc it talks about childhood and dean and cas were not friends then however it is about dean and cas (or maybe benny too bc of the pirates who knows):

seven + And I've been meaning to tell you / I think your house is haunted / Your dad is always mad and that must be why / And I think you should come live with me / And we can be pirates / Then you won't have to cry / Or hide in the closet / And just like a folk song / Our love will be passed on

speaking of benny here’s that high school au where he’s pining for dean endlessly but he also knows that dean was never his either:

august + Your back beneath the sun / Wishin' I could write my name on it / Will you call when you're back at school? / I remember thinkin' I had you

the “5 songs for how 5 years ago all i listened to was death cab on repeat” collection:

a classic song i shouldn’t have to explain:

some boys + Some boys are singing, some boys are singing the blues / Joylessly flinging with the girls that they're bringing / To their rooms, and then leave when they're through / Some boys are sleeping, some boys are sleeping alone / Cause there's no one that's keeping them warm through evening / And they know that they're on their own / 'Cause some boys don’t know how to love

is this one about dean? is it about sam? is it about cas? we just don’t know

you are a tourist + And if you feel just like a tourist in the city you were born / Then it's time to go / And define your destination / There's so many different places to call home / Because when you find yourself the villain in the story you have written / It's plain to see / That sometimes the best intentions are in need of redemptions / Would you agree? / If so please show me

this song is about peter and jason from bare which means it is also about dean and cas high school au:

we looked like giants + God damn the black night, with all its foul temptations / I've become what I always hated when I was with you then / We looked like giants in the back of my grey subcompact / Fumbling to make contact as the others slept inside

this song isn’t about dean bc he’s an asshole to cas on a regular basis but i think of him every time i hear it:

you can do better than me + I have to face the truth / That no one could ever look at me like you do / Like I'm something worth holding onto / There's times I think of leaving / But it's something I'll never do / 'Cause you can do better than me / But I can't do better than you

this song is too clingy for crowley and dean however it is about crowley and dean:

i will possess your heart + How I wish you could see the potential / The potential of you and me / It's like a book elegantly bound, but / In a language that you can't read just yet / You gotta spend some time, love / You gotta spend some time with me / And I know that you'll find, love / I will possess your heart

the “sometimes spotify shows me new things” collection:

this song is about both winchester boys bc of all the car imagery (dean) and also bc the singer is planning on escaping (sam):

this year - the mountain goats + I am going to make it through this year / If it kills me / I am going to make it through this year / If it kills me / I drove home in the California dusk / I could feel the alcohol inside of me hum / Pictured the look on my stepfather's face / Ready for the bad things to come

this song is 100% what charlie would put on a playlist for dean to celebrate him coming out to her:

bad liar - selena gomez + I was walking down the street the other day / Tryna distract myself / But then I see your face / Oh wait, that's someone else / Tryna play it coy / Tryna make it disappear / But just like the battle of Troy / There's nothing subtle here

does cas keep his hands to himself? mostly yes but he still listens to this and thinks about dean

hands to myself - selena gomez + The doctors say you're no good / But people say what they wanna say / And you should know if I could / I'd breathe you in every single day / All of the downs and the uppers / Keep making love to each other / And I'm trying, trying, I'm trying, trying

i wish i could quote this entire song. this entire song is about dean except for the specific bit in the beginning about the mom calling insane and high and the pov rejecting her:

a better son/daughter - rilo kiley + But you'll fight and you'll make it through / You'll fake it if you have to / And you'll show up for work with a smile / And you'll be better, and you'll be smarter / And more grown up, and a better daughter / Or son, and a real good friend

#anyway i should be lesson planning #supernatural

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dream-wreck · 5 years

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A Song to Suit Yourself

It feels so good to write fanfiction again. Heck, it feels good to write again. This little thing started last summer, inspired by this post, and I’m finally sending it afloat upon the internet’s temperamental waters. Good Omens fandom, I hope you receive it well. Enjoy!

AO3

Title: A Song to Suit Yourself Rating: G Word Count: 2,186 Description: Crowley fixates on a new type of music, though Aziraphale can’t quite figure why. What would a demon want with lullabies?

Neither knew exactly how they ended up in the same Scottish field at exactly the same time beneath the same lonely apple tree, but it probably had something to do with their impending assessments.

Hastur and Ligur would be around soon to check in and report on Crowley’s Deeds of the Day, which were quickly becoming Brief Surveys of the Deeds of the Decade, as they hardly ever popped around anymore. Crowley didn’t dare complain. But he’d been putting off his Evil Deed -- you know, the Big One, which made up for a long dry period of demonic activity -- and it was time to get on that. So. Scotland.

Aziraphale still received regular unscheduled visits from Gabriel, “just checking in” to see that all was going smoothly. Aziraphale had begun to question his own understanding of omnipotence. Or, at least the Head Office’s ability to communicate sporadic schedule changes to literally the only active angel they had on Earth. In biding his time -- and seeking some overdue meditation -- Scotland.

So much for that.

“They’re calling them ‘lullabies’,” Crowley said. “They sing them at children. To make them fall asleep.”

Aziraphale considered this news while he cut off another slice of red apple. He offered some to Crowley. The demon curled his upper lip at the clean white disk.

“Humans have always sang songs to their children,” Aziraphale said once he realized that the news was not news at all. “Remember Babylon?”

They both smiled self-pleased smiles. You’d almost think they were sharing the same memory, but for Crowley baring considerably sharper teeth. “Oh yes,” he said.

“That poor woman you tormented for a spell,” Aziraphale recalled. “I was the one who recommended that she write her composition down. It was a beautiful tune...in spite of its inspiration.”

Crowley shrugged. “I did not ‘torment her.’ She adopted me as the house god, what was I supposed to do? I was on assignment. Besides, she had a lovely home. It was nice to settle down for a bit. The point is, now they have a new word for it.”

“For tormenting?”

“No. The music. Keep up.” He let the pieces of the word roll off his tongue. “Lull-ah-bye…”

Aziraphale was occupied with his apple, plucked from the branches above. In his humble and learnéd opinion, few tastes in the world yet rivaled that of a fresh-picked apple. Being an angel, he also had an extensive understanding of the art of Music. Angels invented it, after all, but its purposes were rather limited in Heaven. If Crowley had come to him with news of a new kind of Music, or a new purpose for it, he would have been ecstatic and fully enthralled. But he hadn’t, so he wasn’t, and was therefore only mildly interested, though he tried his best to humor his associate. “Singing to babies helps them grow, you know. It teaches them new sounds, new words. And I personally don’t believe you’re ever too young to discover the joy of Music.”

Crowley chose not to tell him that he was missing the point, but he wasn’t entirely sure of his point to begin with. Something about the word struck a strange chord with him (all puns unintended and unrecognized). It had a sound like a plucked lute string and the curve of a lifting chin.

For a while, in silence, the two continued their survey of the Scottish countryside and a hundred miles beyond. Serious business. The evening began to settle in a comfortable calm, the sun yawning out a stretch of gold before its final disappearance beneath the hills. The angel and the demon each wondered what the other was thinking. Aziraphale wondered why Crowley had become so caught up in a single word. Crowley wondered why Aziraphale hadn’t.

The angel bit into another slice of apple. The satisfying crunch in the silence finally whet Crowley’s own appetite. He flicked his wrist and a bright red replica of the angel’s supper fell into his hand.

Aziraphale looked hurt. “I hadn’t realized this tree’s fruit dissatisfied you.”

“What, did I hurt its feelings?”

“No,” Aziraphale said, taking a moment to examine himself, not wanting to lie. “But I’m quite proud of this tree.” He sat a little taller. “I planted and raised it from seed myself, you know.”

Crowley -- who had been leaning against the apple tree’s trunk since the early morning -- sat up and scrutinized the bark as though he’d just noticed it were there.

“Well what’d you go and do something like that for? When you could just --”

He snapped his long fingers. A few paces off, a plum tree that had not been there before shivered in a gentle breeze that had not been caused by anything but a general notion.

Aziraphale flushed. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. They’ve been cracking down on miracles that are not meant for a heavenly purpose. Besides, I found that I rather enjoyed the process of raising a living thing. You might try it, learn a thing or two. Watering, trimming, revisiting the little sapling now and again to encourage it out of the ground. And it clearly paid off. It took time and it took patience. And it was beautiful. The way God intended.”

Crowley gagged. Time and patience. The plum tree disappeared, but a pile of fresh, dark plums remained at his arm’s length, the skin so deeply purple they were almost black. “Suit yourself,” he said. “Just seems a waste of time.”

“Of course you’d think that,” Aziraphale said. “You know, it’s your constant need for excitement that gets you into trouble. You never sit still.”

“I do!” Crowley defended through a mouthful of bleeding plum. “I am now! And I do when I...you know, when I...you know.”

Aziraphale did not know, but he waited patiently for Crowley to realize that. Crowley did not elaborate.

He tossed his half-eaten fruit into the field, grumbling, “Who came up with the name ‘lullaby’ anyway? They’ve been rubbish at naming things from the Beginning. I’ll never forgive them for the turtle dove...Lullaby. Luhll. Ahhh. Bye. Stupid from the start. Lull....”

“For a dissenter, it sure sticks to your tongue easily.”

“So does mud. Doesn’t make it worth the taste. They think they’re so clever. If they’re so clever, switch things up a bit, do. All those songs, all lullabies ever talk about are dreams and trees and all the pain coming your way if you don’t fall asleep right this instant. All these languages since Babel and not a single one has whipped together hardly anything to move me to tears. Frankly, I’m just not impressed.”

He stopped. Not because he was finished. He felt eyes on him. Angel eyes, confused and concerned, and certainly out of their element.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Perhaps if you let them know that you have been their target audience all along, they’d show improvement. Better yet, put all that wealth of yours to use and commission one to your liking. Lord knows why you care in the first place.”

Aziraphale’s apple had finally been reduced to its core. The knife he was using ceased to exist.

“They’re too much like you lot,” Crowley continued. “Or at least you. Moving so slow. Doing slow things and inventing things that make them move even slower. Want to put the goblins to sleep? They’ve got spells for that. Spoon o’ brandy will do the trick. Or a knock upside the head. Practically instantaneous.”

Aziraphale bristled. “I thank God no one has put a child in your care.”

“On that, angel, we assent.”

The angel stood up, brushed out his jacket and tights. “I best get a move on. Several evening miracles to perform in the next town over.”

Crowley didn’t move, but he was suddenly standing. “Likewise. Which way are you headed?”

Aziraphale pointed to the north.

Crowley jabbed a thumb over his shoulder toward the south.

“Will you be in Scotland long?”

Crowley looked out to the empty fields. “Depends on what I can find here. I suppose if you’ll be around, I’ll be around. You know. Cancel --”

“Cancel each other out. Yes,” Aziraphale said, low and bristling, turning to the north. “Well, good evening to you.”

He paused. “I hope you find a song to suit your heart.” And he started north across the field, leaving Crowley, who did not turn to the south, alone beneath the apple tree.

Crowley slumped down against the trunk with his legs stretched toward the setting sun.

Sunsets start to look the same the more you see and the longer you live. There had been only a handful of truly extraordinary sunsets that stuck in Crowley’s busy memory since the Beginning, and few of them were memorable without their contexts. Context is everything. He’d given up long ago on watching sunsets for the hope of an explosion of color to beat the rest. But he still appreciated the thrill of witnessing night stretch over the world like a lumbering dragon splaying out for a nap.

He missed dragons. Not many of them left, nowadays.

As darkness settled in, Crowley began a meditation of his own.

All around him, he felt history’s fine threads weave through the air. Ghosts and imprints left on the surface of the earth and the face of Time itself that had disappeared from visual perception, but lingered as golden strands only few could ever see. Battles and laughter, deaths and creation, all tangled together and tumbling, just above the ground and through the rich soil. Threads thick as vines wrapping around the trunk of the apple tree. The eternal, distant echoes of screams and songs looping round and round the earth like Saturn’s rings, and if Crowley squinted hard enough, he could see their harmonies gleaming.

“I do sit still,” he said to no one in the dark. Or maybe, not to no one.

“Why do they get songs?” he wondered aloud. “What do they have to be comforted about? Everything is given to them, handed to them. All they do is sleep. Bet no one sings their parents songs. They’ve got the hardest of the lot. They’ve got all the troubles. No one writes lullabies for the ones who need them most.”

And he knew in his heart -- or the swirling matter he’d begun to think of as the place where part of his not-soul lived -- exactly why children got all the songs. Because children need distractions from all the Unknown they float in, until they can lift their heads and start finding answers for themselves. The Unknown is a terrible thing to dwell on, even for the youngest minds, whose curiosity more often than not sustains them.

And for the ones who know? Are there no songs for them? The Unknown scrambles the mind, yes, but the Certain, the Absolute, whittles the mind to a rounded end. Fixation on the Certain can be as maddening as floating in obscurity.

Crowley was falling back into fixation. Such was often the case whenever he sat still, so he tried to avoid it whenever possible. But true to pattern, his mind eventually numbed to the humming of the world, to the whispers of Time wrapping like gossamer around this green earth, invisible to all but the eyes of those who have seen more, who know more, and carry the burden of the Certain. And the boiling lake sloshing deep within the earth grew hot against his calves and the heels of his feet.

He tilted his head up to the sky and squinted into the cobalt. The harmonies of history came into focus, golden ribbons rippling in tired dance.

He hadn’t slept in nearly a century. When he last awoke, he’d missed a lot, and wasn’t anxious to miss any more. But now, unnamed weight rested on his head, a heavy fog that stings the eyes and confuses the senses. The kind with its own eyes lurking just beyond the haze. Not a comfortable Saturday morning fog, by any means.

He wanted to lie down forever. He wished this field were safe enough to do just that, but sensed beyond the hills the warm bodies of beasts waking up to hunt by dim starlight, and he fancied this body too much to risk its demise.

Suddenly, there was a snake, long, dark, and terrifying, and if someone were to notice this creature as it slithered around and up the wide tree trunk, they’d see its scales shimmering impossibly through the pitch black eve, reflecting an invisible light. It curled up on a scooping bough like an endless coil of shadowy rope, and it was thankful for the tree being there tonight.

Snakes cannot hum. That’s impossible. But many impossible things had already happened that day, and the snake, feeling safe enough to do so within the dense shelter of leaves, tried his hand at melody, content for the words he deeply felt to remain unformed, unspoken, as the song was for him alone, and he was -- as he knew and feared -- quite alone for now.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #Aziraphale #crowley #anthony j crowley #scotland #lullaby #lullabies #a song to suit yourself #neil gaiman #Terry Pratchett #infp-dreamwreck #fanfiction #fanfic #anybody catch the hadestown easter egg?#improperly proper nouns are so much fun #no wonder those two went crazy with em

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eturni · 5 years

Text

Day 22 - Warmth

Happy Hanukkah everyone! Day 22 of @drawlight‘s advent calender prompt list https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/188869931294/aziraphale-crowley-for-half-an-hour-youve-been is warmth and of course I had to do the first night of Hanukkah.

@khiroptera I may not be able to draw this in my style but I sure as heck will write it!

Thanks to @fairyglass-tells-stories for being my Beta for this and helping with finding the perfect kippah.

There is a bookshop in the centre of Soho, almost new. The residents of London are still learning that this is not so much a shop that sells books as a place that stores them. It had only been open a year and there were precedents to be set.

As such the shop had closed at 2:17pm promptly for no other reason than the fact that it would confuse and aggravate potential patrons. The shop’s owner was inside moving through small stacks of books (that would swell into a labyrinth in time) preparing for the evening ahead. Fussing, angel a certain demon would say if he were here.

The demon in question lives and works in London just the same as Aziraphale but has made himself scarce over the last year. The scare over the shop’s opening had rattled the both of them and they haven’t seen each other for over a full year, despite now being in close proximity to one another.

The bell above the door chimes and a dark figure slinks his way in, all long limbs and confidence. The door doesn’t startle at being opened; it always would be open for him given that Crowley had no reason to believe that he would be unwelcome in this place.

Aziraphale had brightened on seeing Crowley and the smile only grows when he sees a brown paper bag clutched in the demon’s hand, the edges dark with oil. It’s practically steaming, coming in from the cold outside into the warm light of the shop.

The other hand holds a sprig of mistletoe, held up in supplication and Aziraphale’s smile pulls a little to the wry side as Crowley shuffles in. It’s the end of November and far too early for midwinter traditions and talismans but the meaning is as clear as anything else.

“Of course.” He pauses in his preparations when Crowley moves off to the front of the shop. “Not in the window, Crowley.” He admonishes with a tut.

The demon shrugs but acquiesces, wandering over to one of the shelves and flicking through quickly before settling on placing the sprig in front of a copy of La Princesse de Clèves. He drops (places) the paper bag down on a table and goes to throw himself onto a couch that had no right being in the middle of a shop.

Read the rest on AO3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/21638803/chapters/52294600 or:

He looks up to Aziraphale from his sprawl and has to fight a smile at the other’s kippah; an ancient thing in a soft light blue that was likely held together by miracles alone at this point. The edges were wrapped with the embroidery of two branches: one ending in an apple and the other in a pomegranate. It was ridiculous that the other had kept it all these years and not found another.

Here you go angel, bit of owt and nowt. Got given it by this family I saw at Pesach, thought you may as well use it. Not going near me. He had, of course, omitted that the lady of the household was a seamstress and that he had been ‘given’ exactly what he’d requested after helping their daughter out of a very sticky situation.

Aziraphale lights the shamash and looks over to Crowley, expectant and warm but not pushing. Crowley scowls for a moment, more for show, but rises regardless and joins the angel at his left, at the table with the menorah. Hebrew is musical; the prayers are psalms and there’s always the fear of singing. The worry it will come out as demon song, broken and screaming to Her like his heart.

After the first two blessings it’s a little easier. Aziraphale is praying and there is no song, only the gentle lilting and an honest call up to Her. A blessing over the candles, a prayer of thanks and the first candle is placed in the right hand side of the old old menorah on the table.

Every year that he turns up on first night it almost gets stuck. Every time Aziraphale catches his eye, smiles, and it’s okay. Crowley’s voice joins the angel’s.

“Baruch Atah, Adonai Elohenu, Melech Haolam, shehecheyanu v’kiy’manu v’higiyanu laz’man hazeh.”

It’s easier with Aziraphale’s voice beside him as the angel’s steady hand lights the first candle and settles the helper candle back into it’s place. The candles give off more of a warm glow than any of the others that light the shop; filling the small space with the same love and hope for change that Aziraphale had provided the Maccabees in their fight hundreds of years before.

Aziraphale looks to Crowley with all of the tenderness that he had to hide outside of his home. There is warmth here, and safety too. Despite their positions as enemies he wants there to always be warmth for Crowley here, too, as long as this place is Aziraphale’s. As long as it holds the mark of his faith and protection.

Crowley looks away first, just slightly overwhelmed by what he sees with his own eyes unshielded. He picks up the menorah with a gentle reverence and goes to place it in the shop window as Aziraphale’s voice pitches low into song. This time it is angel song; the words Hebrew and the force behind them, the will, enochian. Be strong. Hazak. Let the house of prayer be restored. Bring us safety in our worship.

“You know.” Aziraphale is closer to Crowley than he expected and he shifts the menorah one last time as though he’d been fussing this whole time and not lost in the angel’s voice. It wasn’t entirely untrue. It was important to find the right place. To be seen from the whole street for all passing to be invited into the warmth. To know that they aren’t alone.

“Mmm?”

“I do believe I saw you come in with some treats? What do you say we open a bottle and try those out?” He suggests.

He doesn’t miss the smile that slithers onto Crowley’s face, just this side of mischievous, but he doesn’t comment on it as he fetches the wine, already chosen and out, and pours them both a glass.

“L’chaim.” He toasts fondly, their glasses clinking as Crowley returns the toast and tears open the little paper bag.

There are no latkes, which is a disappointment that Aziraphale fixes with a quick miracle. What there are are perfectly formed sufganiyot sprinkled with just the perfect amount of sugar.

Crowley brings up his wine glass and takes a slow sip designed to hide the smile dancing at his lips.

Aziraphale lets out a deep sigh and decides to bite. Literally. He reaches out and takes one of the wonderfully warm little doughnuts and tastes sugar and fried dough and a perfectly balanced but unmistakeably apple-flavoured jam in the centre.

He rolls his eyes heavenward though he refuses to tamp down on the soft hum of appreciation at the taste, which is not at all dampened by Crowley’s little joke. There’s apple sauce with the latkes, for heaven’s sake. “Quite wonderful. You should try one.” He smiles and is warmed through with the food and the wine and, most importantly, the faint huff of annoyance that Crowley gives him.

“I know they’re good angel. Wouldn’t dare bring them here otherwise.” He rolls his eyes but picks one up and bites into it, still watching the angel the entire time.

“Yes, I suppose you would know the difference wouldn’t you.” He sniffs and it’s enough to bring a self-satisfied grin to Crowley’s face as the demon lounges back, warm and satisfied. “I should take you down to Bevis Marks on shabbat. It’s their centenary and we can see how you do in a synagogue this time.” The angel adds mildly, a single raised eyebrow as he sips on his own drink.

“Alright, alright, point made.” Crowley scowls but he’s barely able to hold it as he takes another drink; filled with warmth and love and the nearby glow from the window. It broadcasts the same to all the denizens of London from a small bookshop that isn’t so much a shop as a place to store books. And protect anyone in need of the warmth and love of the angel living within its walls.

#31 days of ineffables #good omens #khiropteradtiys #ineffable husbands #mini fic

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dragon-kazansky · 5 years

Note

Could you do a Crowley x angel! Reader?

Crowley was already friends with an angel. If Heaven and Hell didn’t like that, then sure would hate the idea of him being in love with you. It was just one more thing on their list to hate him for.

He had met you during the whole thing with the Antichrist and war that was brewing. You had come to warn Aziraphale about Gabriel, not wanting to see anything bad happen to your dear friend.

The moment Crowley saw you, he was in awe. There was no better way to describe you other than the most beautiful being he had ever laid eyes on.

Aziraphale introduced you to each other and from that day onward your name had been stuck in his head.

Unfortunately the day you came to warn Aziraphale, you didn’t stay long. You gave Crowley a smile and greeted him before rushing off. You were afraid Gabriel would find out you had gone to see Aziraphale.

However, several days later yo had returned and Crowley was happy that you stayed and got to know him. He got to know you by asking Aziraphale questions about you. At first the angel wanted Crowley to focus more on the issue at hand, but soon gave in to the demon’s pleas.

The more time he spent with you, the more he enjoyed each day that came. Eventually you were spending almost every day together and the concern for what each side thought just drifted away.

Heaven became quite concerned that you were spending time with the demon. Hiding it was impossible as they liked to keep eyes on below. They had done so with Aziraphale, so there was no reason they would look and see where you disappeared too.

You weren’t sure if it had anything to do with spending so much time with Crowley, but you became quite a good liar and Heaven appeared to be picking up what you were laying down.

Michael was still convinced you were up to no good, but Gabriel seemed to believe you and brushed away any suspicions.

Hell hadn’t made much of a fuss recently. Crowley had no concerns over their thoughts about it. He had no plans of letting you go.

On one particular afternoon, Crowley and yourself were driving the streets of London together, music playing and smiles on your faces. It was just a not so typical couple making the most of a typical day. Normally Crowley would be racing through the streets, going too fast for anyone to keep up, but because you were here with him, he was taking his time.

He was making the most of your company.

With one hand on the steering wheel, his other found its home within yours. You were singing along with song he was blasting and he would look your way every so often to grin at you.

Everything was going just fine before an unwanted guest showed up. Neither one of you noticed until he spoke.

“Crowley.”

Both of you jumped in your seats and turned to look in the back.

“Hastur… what are you doing here?” Crowley glanced to you beside him. Now Hell would know for sure he was running around with a beautiful angel.

“There have been rumours…” Hastur’s eyes trailed to where you were sitting. His eyes narrowed to slits as his head tilted left ever so slightly.

Crowley’s hand tightened in your grasp.

“Have there? Haven’t you got better things to do then listen to rumours?”

Hastur gritted his teeth as he stared plainly at the demon next to you.

“Not if angels are involved. Have you lost your mind Crowley?”

“I lost it a long time ago, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He joked, trying to play off the situation.

You were concerned, being an angel allowed you to identify demons right away and judging by Crowley’s reaction, this might end up being a problem.

“What are you doing with this angel?”

“Hastur, I’m not doing any harm here.”

“Exactly.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and looked back at the other demon. Out of everyone who had to come and check up on him, it had to be Hastur.

“Why not go back to being a nuisance elsewhere and leave me to my own devices.”

“What a bad idea.” Hastur huffed.

“Exactly. Bad. Bad idea, go do it.” Crowley just wanted him out of his car.

You looked at the demon in the backseat nervously as he eyed you again. His eyes narrowed again.

“I’m reporting this.”

Hastur was gone in the flash of an eye. You turned to Crowley with concern all over your face.

“Is that going to be a problem?”

“Nah. Don’t worry about him. Hastur and tell Hell all he wants, no one is getting in the way of my angel.”

“Angels. You corrected with a chuckle.

“Alright, angels.” He glanced at you. “Aziraphale too.”

Crowley would fight both Heaven and Hell to keep you safe, and though you may think that metaphorically, he would do it literally.

With Hastur gone now, Crowley decided to speed up this car ride and treat you to dinner. Aziraphale knew some great restaurants, so he would take you to one.

This demon just wanted to spend the evening with his angel.

#crowley good omens #crowley x reader #crowley #good omens #request

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apocryphalia · 5 years

Text

Auld Lang Syne

My very last entry for @drawlight‘s 31 days of ineffables prompts! I couldn’t quite get it done on time, but it felt like this series needed a proper ending.

(It also now has a proper title: these are all on AO3 as Through Time, Time is Conquered, and you can read the complete series over there or continue this one under the cut.)

Happy belated New Year, everyone! :)

Edinburgh, 1831

The first time Aziraphale heard the ballad, he was in Scotland to perform a quick blessing, and his trip happened to coincide with the New Year. Rather than travel back to London, the angel decided to book a room at the local inn for the night.

He stayed in his room for a little while, going through the motions of settling in—although he didn’t need it, traveling without luggage tended to make humans a bit wary—until the clamor of the dining room below his feet broke through his concentration, and he decided to put aside his book. He made his way downstairs and leaned on the bar, one foot up on the rail, just like the humans around him. The gentleman on the other side raised an eyebrow at his dress, but didn’t comment as he sidled over to take Aziraphale’s order, and his coin.

“What’ll it be, sir?”

“Whisky, please,” the angel replied, knowing better than to order his habitual wine in a place like this. “And have I missed dinner?”

“Nay, sir, we’ll be serving it soon.”

“Excellent.” Aziraphale beamed at the barkeep as he produced the required coin from his pocket, and then retreated to a table in the corner of the barroom. He was aware of the sidelong glances he received from the regular clientele, but studiously ignored them as he sipped what turned out to be a rather good Scotch whisky.

A number of glasses and a fairly unimpressive meal later, Aziraphale was surprised to hear the battered old clock in the corner strike twelve. A cheer rose up from the assembled patrons, and Aziraphale watched as they all rose from their seats and their positions leaning on the bar, formed a circle around the room, and began to sing.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? asked their song. Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne?

Although the passing of the years should be nearly meaningless to him as an immortal being, Aziraphale had always enjoyed the humans’ midwinter traditions, and with the aid of quite a bit of Scotch, he found himself swept up in the reflective mood of the occasion. He thought about the bookshop waiting for him in London, and the day that he had opened it, three decades ago now. He thought about the demon he had last seen on that day, the oldest acquaintance he had, the only other being he had known since the Beginning.

We twa hae run about the braes, and pou'd the gowans fine, sang the humans around him. But we've wander'd mony a weary fit, sin' auld lang syne.

He wondered where Crowley was at that moment, and whether he, too, was celebrating another revolution of the earth around the sun. He glanced to his left without thinking, and something clenched uncomfortably in his chest at the sight of the empty chair across the table. It was silly, of course, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Crowley ought to be here with him.

As the inn’s patrons finished their song and began to depart, trickling upstairs to their rooms or out the front door, Aziraphale drained his final glass of whisky in one long sip. The burn of it on his tongue reminded him uncomfortably of a sweet, smoky taste he had experienced on a demon’s lips once, in another tavern centuries before, and 1,200 miles to the south and east.

Aziraphale retreated to his own room, and in the safe solitude of its darkness, he tasted the echo of the liquor on his own lips, and he imagined that it belonged to someone else’s.

New York City, 1929

The first time Crowley heard it, he was sitting alone at the kitchen table in his Manhattan flat, staring into a bottle of Canadian whisky. He had been in New York for most of the decade that was now coming to an end, drifting aimlessly through the city’s streets and speakeasies, feeding off its sleeplessness and sin. He was growing bored, and he missed London. New York was full of life and youthful vitality, teeming with the very best and worst humanity had to offer. It was new and brash, and so American. London overflowed with history: the remnants of empires come and gone, the relentless march of human progress, and—perhaps most salient—his own personal history with a certain angel, one-time Guardian of the Eastern Gate.

The sounds of the city’s revelers drifted up from the streets below his flat, and the bells of a distant church rang out, once, twice, and again until they finally hit twelve. Crowley raised his bottle toward the only other presence in his flat, the wooden radio chattering away in a corner of the kitchen. As he did so, a song began to play through its speakers.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? it asked him, and he glowered in response. That was precisely the reason he had come here, to this city that had risen from nothing in a rare blink of his serpentine eyes, and it had already proven impossible.

We two have paddled in the stream, from morning sun till dine

But seas between us broad have roared since auld lang syne, sang the voice on the radio, and Crowley swallowed down the remainder of his whisky in one long gulp. There was a very literal sea currently separating him from Aziraphale, the turn of the year already long past on the other side of it, and Crowley wondered what the angel was doing at that moment. The rest of London would be sleeping, but he knew Aziraphale saw no need to let the small hours go to waste. He could picture the solitary light in the bookshop window, a beacon calling him home through the darkness. He could picture Aziraphale’s steady hands turning the yellowing pages of some ancient book in the flickering light of his outdated gas lamps, his soft fingers cradling a glass of red wine or a cup of tea.

As the song on the radio drew to a close, Crowley stood and twisted the dial until it faded off. He determined as he stumbled down the hall and collapsed into bed that he would soon cross the sea that separated them and return to London, to Aziraphale. American prohibition would soon be stretched to the breaking point anyway, and Crowley had no desire to see it to the end.

A Bungalow Called Shangri-La, 2019

When the clock struck midnight on the last day of the year in which the world didn’t end, the strange company assembled in Madame Tracy’s living room collectively let out a quiet cheer. Adam and the rest of the Them—whose parents hadn’t thought to question their invitation to this unfamiliar bungalow with their childrens’ long-lost aunts, uncles, and godfathers—had been asleep in a pile on the sofa for the last two hours. Shadwell was snoring softly in his armchair, and Newt had been stuck in a cycle of nearly dropping his wine glass and then catching it and startling himself awake for the past twenty minutes.

Crowley and Aziraphale, who had brought their own considerable supply of wine, were bickering in low voices over whether or not penguins could fly, while Anathema and Madame Tracy giggled helplessly on the sidelines.

“Ooh, ooh,” Anathema cried out excitedly after their midnight toast, rushing toward the sofa and pulling Newt up by one arm. “We have to do the… Auld Lang Syne.” The Scottish title sounded too thick on her inebriated American tongue, and she stumbled through it a tad too quickly.

“Oh, yes!” Madame Tracy agreed. Newt mumbled something unintelligible, swaying in Anathema’s grip. Crowley groaned, and Aziraphale looked slightly sick behind his carefully neutral expression. Shadwell let out a loud snore.

Anathema had already grabbed Crowley’s hand with the one that wasn’t holding onto Newt, and was herding them into a misshapen circle. Madame Tracy took hold of Newt’s other hand and one of Aziraphale’s, and both women stared pointedly at the empty space between the angel and the demon.

Finally, Aziraphale made an uncomfortable motion that resembled a shrug, and took Crowley’s other hand in his own. Anathema and Madame Tracy started singing, slurred and off-key: “Should auld acquaintance be forgot…?” Newt grunted out something that might have been an attempt at the song, while Crowley and Aziraphale simply looked at one another, both faintly pink.

Aziraphale remembered seeing this circle formed for the first time, at the inn in Edinburgh, and what he had done after, with thoughts of Crowley swirling in his mind. He felt the warm weight of the demon’s hand under his own palm, and he wondered if Crowley would still taste as he remembered from so many centuries ago. His face burned with the memory, and his fingers felt cold and empty once the song ended and Crowley let him go.

Soon, Aziraphale decided as they walked up the drive together toward the Bentley. In a world made new by the sleeping child inside, a thousand years on from the start of their original Arrangement, he and Crowley would form a new one—a more honest one—and one day soon, Aziraphale would once again learn the demon’s taste.

#31 days of ineffables #good omens #fanfic #ineffable husbands #aziraphale/crowley #material culture series

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