#my own personal beef with Aziraphale

[catsconflictscopicsandchamomile]

yes

Hey Neil,

You think Michael Sheen could have a turn being set on fire instead of David? I'm pretty sure David had enough turns.

Are you seriously suggesting that we set the greatest Welsh actor of his generation on fire?

[panic-at-your-hetalian]

GOOD OMENS S2 THEORY

i mean, not really a theory, but an analysis aka statement lol.

Many people say that the combination of Crowley and Aziraphale was too powerful and that's what caused the heaven alarm, but i belive it has nothing to do with Azi, but it was all Crowleys work, CROWLEY IS A FALLEN ARCHANGEL, all that power came from him, i feel its obvious at this point, and my bets are that Crowley is no other than Lucifer.

Because yes, there´s is a Satan, but he's never refered to as Lucifer. But many signs indicate that Crowley could be him. From the first episode, Crowley as the serpent, the serpent is who tempted Eve, and the serpent personality is usually assigned to Lucifer, then there's also the fact that he is probably one of the first few demons to roam the land taking in account that he was fallen from the begining.

Second sign, the fact that he had the power to stop Armageddon for just a few minutes. I don´t think even Gabriel or Belzebub could've done that, and nor i belive it was just the power of love for Azi (it's probably both tho)

Third, The Metatron stated that sending Gabriel down would be a second failure, making it OBVIOUS that there was a fallen archangel before him. And the fact that Crowley was able to open the book to check the files of gabriel, like WHO ELSE COULD HAVE THE POWER TO CHECK THE FILES OF AN ARCHANGEL? ANOTHER ARCHANGEL

And Lastly, it would make sense he has such a beef with heaven, because in many stories is always shown that Lucifer's fall is due to his many questions to heaven, which at the very begining of the season 2 it's stated that crowley was very against the plans of heaven and just wanted to have his own opinion.

So yeah, my boy is an archangel and ill die in this hill ( ◡̀_◡́)ᕤ thank you for your attention and sorry for my bad english <3

(PD: my second guess is he could be Raphael, but idk it wouldn't have the same impact, and my man Neil loves some drama)

[sevdrag]

(SLIGHTLY NSFW WARNING) from her main blog she's a self proclaimed lesbian cis woman named Mia and what's even funnier about that is she hates lesbians too. She considers penetration a hetero act including two cis women using a strap and she's gone on many a rant about it. So she hates lesbians and the trans community. It's so entertaining bc she thinks it's homophobic to call what she does a fetish but she is literally a cis lesbian that worships and dictates what gay men do. No self awareness

Wow, I just don’t --- I’m trying to comprehend how a fellow queer could hate their own community so much? There’s some damage there that needs to be unpacked.

The ... fucking gall ... to think that two lesbians with a strap are having hetero sex ... like, I’m a writer, and I don’t even have words for it? That’s a real big red flag right there. Like, someone’s personal sex preferences are theirs, and that’s fine and none of my business, but ... on a grander scale that’s just so, so, horrifying and almost embarrassing. Sex preferences also aren’t a gender! They’re just! What you like in bed! And people of any gender can like anything! If I put my finger in a dude’s butthole to get at his prostate while we’re fooling around, are we suddenly having the ~*~gay sex~*~? Christ.

(Although since I am a queer woman I posit that all the sex I have is gay due to my own experience! Guess what! That’s kind of how it works!)

I find it really problematic that a cis gay woman is spending so much time ... bandstanding? (is it too soon?) for cis, penis-wielding-only gay men. I guess people find different things hot and if she was just consuming fanworks on her own and appreciating them that’s nothing to be ashamed of. But the fact that she’s turned up like three times in the past month in my own (queer and proud!) fandom circle as someone who is supposedly “anti-homophobia” and when I look at her blog, I see her reaching into other fandom spaces just to be rude in the “name” of “defending” cis penis-wielding gays... the amount of mental gymnastics that takes, well, wow. Maybe go outside?

And especially in Good Omens fandom, which is decades old, and has TEXTUAL support that says angels come genderless and choose to make an effort (which I think she said she ... didn’t like ... so she ... ignores it? The balls it takes to think you’re RIGHT in a fandom when you’re ignoring the text? but maybe i’m remembering wrong?). It doesn’t say choose to make an Effort that aligns with a narrow view of what they’re presenting that day. It flat up says: none gender left beef, unless you order an Effort on the side. 

Yes, those of us who are queer see a lot of ourselves in Crowley and Aziraphale both. The read of their story as a parallel to being queer in this goddamn shithole of a world is valid. But it was not written as a cis gay story. It was written as a love story.

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Christmas without Miracles

I’ve fallen a bit behind on my contributions to @drawlight’s Advent Calendar, but behold!

One fic using two prompts so I feel less guilty!

This one takes place in the early 1800s. No specific location - just isolated, outside of England, and cold.

This is supposed to be a few years before the 1862 argument, but if you want to headcanon a universe where this happens instead of the 1862 argument, that’s cool, too.

06 - Sleigh Bells/07 - Silent Night (2,630)

Snow had started to fall.

Just lightly, each white flake twisting down from a sky dark with clouds.

All the usual nighttime noises – insects, animals rustling in the undergrowth, even the wind in the trees – were silenced. Just the gentle hush of snow accumulating, molecule by molecule.

Aziraphale knew he should be inside. There was a fire blazing in the hearth, the cabin bright and warm and empty. Two of the three would be an improvement on what he had out here, standing on the porch, looking across the rolling, tree-dotted hills.

Cold. Empty. Silent.

He hated the silence most of all.

--

Crowley didn’t hate snow, so long as he didn’t have to travel in it.

Walk, and your boots filled up with snow.

Ski, and you looked ridiculous anywhere outside the Alps. And in them, too.

Riding a horse was out – if he went the rest of eternity without ever sitting on one of those again, he’d be happy.

But anything with wheels was also out – carriages and wagons and carts could barely handle clean city streets.

Trains were good, if the tracks were cleared, but so far Hell had not been interested in his proposal to build a train line that stopped at every human residence in the world. Which was fine, that had only been semi-serious, anyway.

The only remaining option was to use some form of sled.

He glared at the…sled? Sleigh? Whichever. It was small, just enough room for one person, or a small pile of supplies, to sit in it the seat, but whoever drove it had to stand behind on the runners. It was pulled by some kind of long-maned pony or very small horse that looked like it had its own ideas about who was in charge.

The bridle and reins were covered in bells.

“Do you have one without the bells?” he asked, not even really hoping.

“Nope,” the man said with the cheerful joy of one who knows he has the transportation market cornered for the next few months. “Those bells let people know you’re coming even when they can’t see you. And anyway, they keep off the evil spirits.”

“So I’ve heard.” Crowley reached over and flicked a finger at one of the large silvery bells.

Chk-chk-chk

The whole line jingled, sending shivers up and down his arms, settling at the back of his neck.

He hated that noise most of all.

--

Too many frivolous miracles.

First, a letter full of such threatening language that only a trek through a revolution-torn city to find his favorite pastries – as well as a not-quite-chance encounter with a certain demon – had been able to calm him down again.

Then, a commendation. Congratulations on performing your job perfectly as always.

And now, a “meditative retreat” – five months alone to think about what he should and shouldn’t be using his powers to achieve. No miracles allowed.

A month and a half in, he’d decided – he hadn’t the faintest idea.

Take the most simple of duties: sometimes, he was assigned to keep a person safe.

Did that mean use a miracle to stop them from being injured? Or to heal them afterwards? Or was he supposed to guide them, miracle-free, as if he were another human? Do what seems best, he’d be told, but what seemed best to him never seemed best to anyone else.

Or protecting himself – his corporation, rather, since Aziraphale’s true self was rarely in danger. Could he use a miracle to avoid a dangerous situation? Heal himself from an injury? Was his body the same as a human body, or less valuable? Was all this a waste of Heaven’s resources when he could simply get a new body? How many miracles were equal to one body, anyway?

Questions he shouldn’t ask. Shouldn’t have to ask. He should just know. Angels received their orders, obeyed them, and chose the best course of action, because that’s what angels did.

Angels weren’t supposed to get confused.

But Aziraphale did. All the time. What did that make him?

--

Crowley preferred to do everything by miracle.

Need new clothes? Manifest them.

Need money? There it is.

Food? Never bothered to learn to cook. When he was hungry, he pulled fully prepared meals out of the nearest cupboard.

Hell rarely tracked exactly what he did, as long as he could demonstrate evil had been accomplished.

But they did track where he was, using miracles. It didn’t do to be more than a few miles from where you were supposed to be.

This wasn’t anywhere near Venice, which was a pity, because he’d rather like to be in Venice right now.

He stared around the bakery. “I don’t know. Just get me several things that are hot and edible.” He had a list, but it wasn’t helping. “Do you have a…stuffing? Or butter?”

“You can get butter from the general store,” the baker’s wife offered, putting together his packages.

“No. The shop person said they didn’t have any dairy.”

“He just meant milk and cream. They’ll have butter, and cheese if you want it.”

Crowley dragged the heel of his hand across his forehead. He’d lived in agricultural societies. He knew perfectly well that butter and cheese were both dairy. “Fine. I’ll go back. How about the stuffing?”

“You’ll want to make your own.”

“Really don’t.”

“I can give you a family recipe!” She started writing in pencil on the brown wrapping of one of the packages. “You’ll need ground beef, sausage…”

A few minutes later, Crowley opened the door to the bitter cold wind outside, making all the bells in the wreath jangle up and down his already-raw nerves.

Chk-chk-chk

He paused, cracked his neck, and kept walking.

--

Aziraphale finally had to return to the cabin, as the snow had piled up higher than his feet.

Only a single room – wood stove, table and benches, rug; there was a bed even though he didn’t sleep, a few pots and pans even though there was no food. 

No chair. No books. Well, one book.

Gabriel had left him a journal, and pen and ink. Encouraged him to write down his thoughts.

Aziraphale thought best when he was reading, talking, engaging with someone or something. For the first few weeks, he’d talked to himself a lot, arguing with the empty room, having mock conversations, even reciting poetry he had memorized.

But slowly the oppressive quiet had settled across his soul. And he found himself picking up the pen to write –

What? What could he write about? His doubts? His confusion? What would he even say?

When it got to be too much, he tried drawing, sketching out what he could see. That helped a little, but once he’d scribbled down images of the room, the hills outside, the one tree he liked to walk to…well, he was back to the same dilemma, what to write?

Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to list a few questions. Just so he could think about the answers.

--

Chk-chk-chk

The door of the last shop slammed behind Crowley, bells clattering. Shaking his head to clear it, he checked his list one more time. It looked like he had everything, though the ink was already smudging where snowflakes fell on it.

He settled the packages into the sled, tucking a blanket all around them, and pulled up the collar of his coat against the biting wind.

“Better leave room for yourself,” said the kid.

Crowley looked him up and down. Seventeen or so, son of the man who had rented him the sled and horse. He was supposed to drive it out and return with it.

“Nope. I’m driving, you’re staying.”

“That’s not how this works. We only have a few, and we need to be able to get supplies out in an emergency –”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Crowley handed over a pile of money. “This should cover the sled and the horse, in case I don’t come back. Plus a bit. Give it to your dad.” He considered the kid another moment. “You have, I don’t know, a girl you like? Boy? Anything?” The kid tried to give him a stubborn, blank look, but some of that pink wasn’t just from the cold. “Whatever, not my business.” Crowley handed over the rest of his money, saving only what he would need to get back to London. “Give him, her, or them something nice. Cheers.”

While the kid was still staring at the pile of money, Crowley climbed onto the runners of the sled and took the reins in both hands.

Chk-chk-chk

He felt that one in his stomach.

With another jingling of sleigh bells, he shook the reins –

And nothing happened.

“Go.”

Nothing.

“Move, horse!”

Now it was just embarrassing.

The kid leaned against the sled. “Are you sure? I don’t think you know what you’re doing.”

“Of course I don’t!” He jerked the reins back, trying to ignore the way the sound of bells hammered into his spine. “But no one can know where I’m going.”

With a shrug, the kid shoved the money into his pocket. “Pull on one side, gently, to turn. Not too sudden, it’ll tip over. Whoa to slow down, walk to go, and remember, you’re in charge.” He winked, and walked away with a swagger that wasn’t quite as good as the demon’s, but better suited to over six inches of snowfall.

Clutching the reins again, Crowley called: “Walk.  WALK!” He shook them hard. “COME ON YOU BLESSED HORSE, WALK!”

Nothing moved.

--

Once Aziraphale had started writing, it was hard to stop.

Page after page. Whatever entered his mind.

It was nice just seeing the ink flow.

Hearing the scratch of the pen fill the silence.

--

Crowley got off the back of the sled and walked up to the horse, grabbing it by the bridle. “Listen, here, you, I am in charge!”

The horse snorted and stomped directly onto his foot.

“Nghaa that was not – ugh!”

The horse shook its head, jingling the bells again and again until Crowley was ready to tear his own ears off, until Crowley let go and stepped back.

The horse lashed its tail.

“Look, fine.” Crowley grumbled trying to stand where the horse could see him clearly, despite the snow that was now falling thick. “You’re in charge if that’s what you want. But I need to get somewhere. I should have been there hours ago. Days ago. You are my only way of getting there. I have nothing to bribe you with. I promise, you get fed either way, you get brushed either way, and you will absolutely get enough apples and sugar to make you sick because I’m not doing anything else with those.”

He reached out a hand to touch the horse. He had lived in agricultural societies, but he was much more comfortable around the crops and plants than the animals. Still, rather to his surprise, the horse let him stroke its nose. “Please. This is more important than you can imagine. Just get me there.”

He stepped back onto the runners, picked up the reins. “Walk.”

The horse didn’t walk. It moved much quicker than that.

--

Aziraphale lay down his pen, wiggling his fingers after all that writing. There were a lot of words on the page. Perhaps he should read over them.

He found himself walking back to the door, stepping into the silent night outside again.

The snow was falling so fast it was almost a physical thing, blocking his view even where the light from the door should have been enough to see the edge of the woods. It spilled across the porch, piled at the corners of the cottage.

And still, everything was so quiet. Even the wind, which had picked up, seemed to carry only the flakes and not any sound –

Were those sleigh bells?

A moment later a horse came into view – one of the small, sturdy northern breeds – pushing on through the unbroken snow, pressing through the storm with determined strides, pulling behind it a small sled and clinging to the back of that –

“Crowley?”

“Whoa,” called the dark figure. “Whoa – I said whoa! We’re here!”

With a final jingle of bells, the horse stopped in front of the porch, and Crowley fell backwards, off the sled runners and into the snow.

“Crowley! What the Hell are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too, Angel.”

“You’re supposed to be in Italy!”

“Yeah, I am. No, don’t worry, I can pick myself up.” He started to rise, then stumbled again.

Aziraphale rushed forward. “I’m – I didn’t realize – what’s wrong? What happened?”

“Bloody sleigh bells. Chase off evil spirits.” He clasped Aziraphale’s hand, pulling himself up. “I’ll be fine, just need to get a drink and warm up.”

“Of course, but – I don’t have any food or drink.”

With a very tired grin, Crowley tossed aside the blanket in the sled. “Happy Christmas, Angel.”

--

Crowley had needed to compromise on a few things.

He had the goose, and what he was assured were all the ingredients needed for stuffing and gravy.

Potatoes, brussels sprouts, and parsnips had been easy to find; and something he was almost certain was redcurrant sauce.

There had been no plum pudding this far from England, or mince pies, or fruitcake – though he wasn’t certain fruitcake was something you bought, it was possible all fruitcakes already existed and were simply eternally exchanged. He had managed to get a variety of sweet pastries.

Lots of wine.

And two bundles of books – the ones he had picked out at stops on the way, and the ones he had taken from the shop. Aziraphale shouldn’t have been surprised Crowley knew his favorites, but the demon was pleased at his smile either way.

There were two things to take care of first.

Crowley spied the notebook as soon as he stepped in. He only glanced at it long enough to see that Aziraphale had written a lot.

Then he picked it up and dropped it into the flames of the stove.

“Crowley! That was a private journal!”

“No it wasn’t.” He pulled off his glasses and glared at Aziraphale. “What did you think, they were going to let you keep that? Ask you to tell them the important parts? They left you here alone to write your own confession.”

Aziraphale clenched his teeth, didn’t say anything.

“I don’t like it.” Crowley grumbled. “They’ve never done anything like this before. I don’t know what’s changed.”

The other issue was the horse.

“No, I can’t have a horse in the cabin!”

“You can’t leave it outside, Angel, it’s a storm!”

“I thought you didn’t even like horses.”

“I don’t! But this one got me here and…” Crowley shrugged. “And it’s as much of a bloody-minded stubborn bastard as you are, so you’ll probably get along.”

Aziraphale sighed, and Crowley could see him start to give in. “How am I supposed to hide the fact that there’s been a horse in here when Gabriel gets back? We can’t miracle it clean.”

“Eh, just tell him some traveler lost in the storm stayed here a while. It’ll be true enough.”

--

And so, with the horse in the corner working through its feed bag and having the night of its life, Crowley and Aziraphale set about figuring out how to make a Christmas dinner.

It wouldn’t be perfect.

Neither of them had ever cooked without miracles before. There was immediately an argument over how one peeled a potato, and what exactly stuffing was for, really.

It wouldn’t be perfect.

But the jangle of the bells had ended, the silence had been driven from the cabin, and once again they were together.

And that, in a way, was perfect.

[mostfacinorous]

Whumptober 21st

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

Today’s story will be continued tomorrow.

Whumptober 21st: Laced Drink

Crowley was fantastically, tragically committed to aesthetic. 

None of this would have happened, had he not been. 

It all came down to absinthe. 

Crowley’d managed not to have any, during the height of its popularity, primarily because he’d been nursing a wounded ego from a run in with Aziraphale’s morality-slash-temper, and he knew that where the brightest poets and artists and writers were, he’d find the angel. 

Unfortunately, at the time, that was also where you’d find the drink. 

And sure, he could have gotten his hands on some, but why bother, when there were other alcohols in abundance, and ones that hadn’t been medicinal to start? 

To be honest, he didn’t trust anything a human doctor claimed could cure ills, even if it did end up being sold in bars. 

That said, the moment it was banned, his interest became a good deal more piqued. Nothing was quite so tempting as what authorities said you couldn’t have. He knew that better than anyone. 

And so he’d tracked it down. Oooh, illegal absinthe, only drunk by the poshest, the wickedest, the most adventurous. Poison green, and rumored to make you see things-- Crowley couldn’t argue with the marketing campaign. It was right up his alley.

And as he and Aziraphale were currently fairly close, he thought this was the perfect time to indulge. 

So he gathered what he needed: edgy, suggestive, outright tempting outfit; invitation to the most difficult to find club; one angel, reservations for the evening, and his flair for the dramatic, which, fortunately for him, he never went without. 

He knew he liked the place the moment he walked in. It felt like where sex parties might happen, very dungeon-y, stone wall treatment and yellow lights that cast each table in just enough illumination to see by. Dark. Mysterious. 

It also had seating that managed what very little of his own furniture could, and straddled the line between imposing and incredibly comfortable. He’d be suspicious about Aziraphale’s hand in the latter, if he hadn’t been the first one into the club, and the first to sit down. 

Once they were seated, the order he’d placed ahead of their arrival came out. Wine and a charcuterie board for the angel, absinthe for him. He’d made sure they thought him enormously wealthy, important, and influential. 

“Goodness, I thought that was illegal now.” Aziraphale commented, already placing aged beef on a tiny round of sourdough. 

“Human laws.” Crowley scoffed, adjusting his slouch for maximum visual indolence. 

He was actually very excited for this, and glad that his favorite audience was here to watch him being dreadfully fashionable and impressive.

The drink itself was pretty enough, the green a lovely shade and the sugar cube delightfully alight, which, when he held it up, lit him infernally from below. It was all very theatrical, and he knew Aziraphale was impressed, even if he wouldn’t say as much. 

“I haven’t had any myself in a long time,” Aziraphale mentioned, off hand, and Crowley wrinkled his nose, temporarily annoyed at the reminder. 

“Yes, but that was when it was allowed. I’ve never tried it.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up and he looked so incongruently delighted that it gave Crowley pause. 

“Oh, in that case, I’m so glad you invited me! Give it a go, it’s something quite unique.” 

The earnest urging somewhat ruined the performative mood, but of course he should have realized that Aziraphale would be entirely too indulgent in Crowley’s experiments with flavor-- goodness knew it was the angel’s favorite vice. 

Crowley blew out the fire and dropped what was left of the sugar cube into the drink below. He swirled it slightly, raised the glass towards Aziraphale in a small salute, and knocked it back. 

The flavor was awful. Noxious, almost, and worse, it stung, burning its way down his throat. 

He completely ruined the aesthetic by coughing, gasping, and dry retching. 

“Really, it’s not all that ba--” Aziraphale began, but Crowley had already realized what was happening. 

“Anise.” He gasped, hands coming up to grab his throat, as if that would help. 

“Yes, it’s a rather distinct flavor, I--”

“Anise for exorcisms.” Crowley choked out, and Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide and round. 

“Sober up.” He instructed sharply, and Crowley did his best, refilling the drained glass, but it was too late-- the effects lingered, even once the anise itself was out of him. 

Crowley’s eyes swung wildly around the bar, and lit on the bartender-- a woman, stylish and chic, who was mixing the drinks that the waiter asked for. She had an ankh around her neck and a protection sigil tattooed on her shoulder, and bore all the hallmarks of a modern pagan.

His eyes narrowed. 

“Witch.” He nodded in her direction. 

Aziraphale groaned.

“Of course, it wouldn’t work if the person using it didn’t believe-- what can I do for you? Shall we leave?”

Crowley had broken out into a very un-aesthetic sweat, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice he seemed a bit… blurry round the edges. 

“Oh dear-- hang on.” Aziraphale said, mouth firming into a determined line as he stood from the table. 

He approached the bar, breaking some unspoken taboo of service, he was sure, and flagged down the witchy bartender. 

“Excuse me,” He began politely, “But I’m an angel, you’re a witch, and I believe your drink is in the process of exorcising my demon friend. I don’t suppose you have something to counteract it?” 

“I-- what?” She looked around the bar, eyes lighting on Crowley and widening. “Is that-- what.” 

Aziraphale sighed.

“You believe in anise as a demon banishing agent, and it is doing its best as a result. But I must ask you to reverse the effects, please.”

“I don’t-- I didn’t actually think demons were real! And that shouldn’t have worked-- it’s alcohol!” The woman protested. 

Aziraphale gestured back at Crowley.

“Perhaps you should have considered that before memorizing ways to be rid of them. Now, is there a means of-- I don’t know, binding a demon to a body, or allowing a spirit in or something? I can promise you the body is his own, he isn’t simply having a ride along.” 

Aziraphale was somewhat sympathetic, naturally, but he didn’t precisely have time to waste on this. 

“Now, please.” He demanded, and the tone of his voice spurred her into action. 

“Uh-- Cinnamon for evocation of a spirit and quick success--” She pulled Fireball from the shelf and poured some quickly into a glass. 

“Dandelion for grounding and healing and Burdock for counter magick--” A slosh of No Name gin followed. She ran her hands along the bottles, thinking quickly. “Oh! Björk is birch bark, perfect!” 

She poured while she talked. “That’s new beginnings, psychic protection, and binding.” She looked at what she’d made and wrinkled her nose. 

“That’s going to be gross.” She told Aziraphale, but handed him the drink just the same. 

“I hardly think he’ll mind, so long as he’s around to complain about it.” He called back, already bearing the drink towards where crowley was visibly shaking apart at the seams. 

Aziraphale paused, unwilling to just pour it down his throat when there was nothing to specify that Crowley was the spirit to be bound. 

Thinking fast, he dipped his finger in the liquid and traced it over Crowley’s tattoo-- he couldn’t remember the proper summoning sigil at the moment, but that ought to devote the drink to Crowley well enough, according to the bartender’s beliefs. He just hoped that she truly believed that this would do the trick. 

“One way to find out,” he murmured. “Down the hatch, old friend.” He plugged Crowley’s corporation’s nose, tilted his head back, and let the liquid drizzle into his mouth. 

He swallowed, thank goodness, and Aziraphale hovered there, waiting for a response. 

Slowly, Crowley stopped vibrating quite literally out of his skin, and leaned back, panting, against his chair. 

“That--” he groused, “Was disgusting.”

Aziraphale let out a relieved huff and turned to look back at the bartender, waving at her gratefully. 

She gave him a shaky smile and flashed him a double thumbs up. 

“Wine?” He asked, turning back to Crowley, only to find that he had already finished half the glass. He looked on, amused, and made himself a sourdough round with meat and cheese. 

Crowley surfaced for air and the glass refilled miraculously as he passed it back to Aziraphale. 

“I’m not sure whether to tip the witch or curse her.”

Aziraphale frowned.

“Now, none of that.” 

Crowley made a face. 

“I hate to say it, but maybe we should go. I’m not feeling… quite right.” Crowley spoke slowly, and though he seemed solid enough, he sounded a touch distant, too. 

Aziraphale sat a little more upright in his seat.

“Shall I go ask for more help from our friend at the bar?” 

“Nah. Think I’m coming down with the exorcism flu. Happens sometimes.”

Aziraphale frowned, wondering when the last time it’d happened was, but stood just the same and offered his hand to help Crowley to his feet. 

He waved, settling the bill with several large notes tucked neatly beneath the meat board, and managed not to look longingly at it as he helped his friend out of the bar.

[they-handed-me-the-moon]

I won’t deny Good Omens is a mass of missed opportunities when it comes to Aziraphale and Crowley interacting with children. Their one fleshed-out scene  with Warlock is a disaster, every moment they are with The Them is wasted, and the fact that within the narration they don’t think of Warlock once after they realize he is not the anticrhist is one of my top five beefs with the book.

But disappointing as all that is, it cannot erase the fact that, faced with the probable end of the world, they decide that their best hope is to use their last years to raise a child together—and they are delighted to do it.

What really gets to me about the moment they decide to raise Warlock is that they don’t even dither over it. Aziraphale hesitates over the plan and questions whether it is possible to positively influence the spawn of Satan, but there are no objections to the idea of raising a child in itself. Neither of them lament ‘sacrificing’ what may be their final years on the earth they love to childrearing, there is no sighing over how they would have preferred spending that time visiting old haunts and eating at favorite restaurants.

In fact, they are discussing the idea in the abstract as a means to save the world rather than a concrete thing they will be doing for eleven years until the final few lines of the conversation, in which the following occurs:

Crowley says, “it'll be for the child's own good, in the long run." Supposedly this is still part of his bid to convince Aziraphale to help save the world, but the mere fact of his saying it means he’s thought beyond the cosmic implications to what this will mean for the child. He cares about this boy not being collateral damage.

Crowley then adds, “"We'll be godfathers, sort of,” in response to which “Aziraphale beamed.” He beamed. Aziraphale thinking about interfering with what he perceives as the divine plan is dithering and uncertain, Aziraphale thinking about playing a positive and meaningful role in a child’s life beams with delight.

Crowley finishes the exchange with, "It's not too bad, when you get used to it." And I don’t know how to argue for this exactly, but wishful thinking aside, coming from a character like Crowley who has a vested interest in pretending not to be excited about being a child’s godfather, even before I had a developed reading of his character this half-concession immediately translated to me as “oh, he’s excited for this too.”

So basically what I’m saying here is ... Aziraphale and Crowley, two immortal beings, conclude that the world is probably going to end and that their only chance of saving it is to spend eleven years raising the son of Satan. And instead of being dismayed at being constrained to spend their probably-finally years in this manner, they seem pleased as punch about it. They actually seem to think raising a kid together before the world ends is a Good and Fun idea.

And to cap it off, they then go and have a Good and Fun time doing it.

I realize that the magician scene is against me here, and the best I can say is that Crowley is distracted and my take on Aziraphale is that he can be good with children one-on-one once he has had time to learn them on an individual level, once he stops seeing them as ‘a child’ and starts seeing them as a particular person. But trying to entertain a crowd of children, most of whom he doesn’t know, is going to be far out of his element.

However the defining image of their time with Warlock isn’t one disastrous party, but Aziraphale and Crowley meeting periodically to discuss their progress and smiling. Granted they are pleased with their progress, but there is no hint that they are displeased with the experience. Their reaction to discussing their time with Warlock is, again and again, to smile.

And then, when they leave behind their old personas of nanny of gardener, the narration informs us that “Neither of them left with quite the same spring in their step with which they'd arrived.” (And for the record I’m going to assume this is actually Aziraphale and Crowley and not people they hired). Which besides the very important fact that they began this process with a spring in their step, at this point we’ve been given no cause to believe things are going badly in terms of the plan. Maybe this line was intended to imply that they were already aware things weren’t going according to plan, but the narration suggests nothing of the sort. This moment comes immediately after the line about them smiling over the whole process, implying that to their minds  all was well, and while we don’t know when Crowley began to suspect Warlock is ‘too normal,’ Aziraphale doesn’t seem to suspect anything until Crowley communicates his fears immediately before the party. Which is to say,  I contest that the most logical reading of the actual text that they are sorry to leave behind the connection they have built up with Warlock in their first forms, even though they are about to return with new ones. They aren’t leaving for good, and yet they are mourning the end of one means of connection with Warlock.

In conclusion, am I seeing what I want to see and reading what I want to see into ambiguities? Absolutely. But I don’t think I’m twisting the text—this reading is there and I’m taking it. Aziraphale and Crowley are almost certainly disaster dads, but they are dads and they Like It and they love their son. The End.

[terriblelizbians]

is this stupid to post? probably

i really do NOT want to get into discourse about this so don’t @ me and to be clear im super in favor of any FAN interpretation of crowley/aziraphale’s identities and relationship, even if it’s different from how i see it. and like. i know. n*ilman is allowed to say what he wants about his characters

but still i am very very uncomfortable with how he has responded to the idea of them being gay. like the whole “they can be anything but they’re NOT gay gay”. first of all it seems kinda weird about nonbinary identities (gender and sexuality) like as if he’s saying they’re not gay men because that’s a human identity? but yknow being nonbinary is also a human identity. being ace is a human identity. being ineffably queer is STILL a human identity!

and mostly i just feel uncomfortable as a nonbinary lesbian. because he’s saying “well, they’re in love, sure but they’re not GAY because they’re just like men mostly they’re not actually men” like bitch you just described literally my identity except for the ‘opposite’ gender and guess what im a big gay!!!

like mr. straightman im not telling you how you have to perceive your own characters and you know my perception is obviously unchanged by what you say but please. it’s not cool to explicitly rule out one understanding of your characters when they so closely fit the experiences of people who themselves have that identity

anyway to reiterate i personally am an active supporter of other fans reading them as anything even if it contradicts with my personal reading. my beef is with the big bastard boy himself for basically doing the opposite. and i guess also with whoever wrote that post i once saw that was like “they can be anything JUST NOT GAY” because that’s the same thing just without the authorial power

[snapbookreviews]

Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett

A delightfully funny and entertaining read. An angel and demon who are kind of friends, a misplaces anti-christ, the four horse persons of the apocalypse, and the one single prophetess who was actually right with her predictions. 

It’s got a pretty large cast of characters, which are helpfully listed in a “Dramatis Personae” section at the beginning of the book. Despite the cast sized it’s pretty easy to keep track of all the story lines in the book. Except for one small section that involves playing the cup and ball game with three babies. I found it a bit confusing to read, but much easier to understand when listened to once I got my hands on the audiobook.

There isn’t a moment that you’re bored as Aziraphale and Crowley (the aforementioned angel and demon), and the rest of the cast work, their way through the days leading up to the apocalypse that they’re trying to stop. Though Aziraphale and Crowley aren’t actually supposed to be trying to stop it, ineffability and all that.

A few notes about the audiobook specifically. I really enjoyed the way the narrator, Martin Jarvis, did the voices for everyone. Each character had their own specific voice and they were really good and fit the characters really well. My only complaint would be that I didn’t think Pollution’s voice was quite slimy enough, however, that’s on me, because I’m very picky about anything regarding Pollution since he’s my favorite character. 

Martin Jarvis was also very clear with his speaking and was very easy to understand. I found his voice very pleasant to listen to. For readers who enjoy and/or prefer audiobooks, I would really recommend this one. It’s very good.

Warnings: 

There are some sexist, racist, and one homophobic comment(s). These however reflect the opinions of specific characters and not the book in general. 

The homophobic remark really caught me off guard when I was listening, because I’d forgotten about it. It’s a miscommunication about the word “faggot.” One character is using it in the very archaic sense to mean, a bundle of wood the person he’s talking to assumes it’s meant as the slur. I found it tasteless, but all in all it’s really the only even semi-large beef I have with the book. 

You can find the book here.

Related Reviews: The Graveyard Book

No snaps, because audiobook. I will however, leave you with a quote, because I love it so much. 

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions. (This is not actually true. The road to Hell is paved with frozen door-to-door salesmen. On weekends, many of the younger demons go ice skating down it.)”