#the southern pansy has spoken

[ingravinoveritas]

Michael ‘liked’ the first tweet today, and last year he posted a selfie in front of that very bandstand right after filming GO 2 ended and I’m going to go cry now...

[sachas]

TASK: CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT.

BASIC INFORMATION.

Full name: Aleksandr “Sacha” Ruslanovich Tarasov

Nickname: Sacha, Cha Cha ( taking applications for others xoxo )

Birthdate: 17th of December, 1989

Age: 32

Zodiac: Sagittarius Sun, Leo Moon, Scorpio Rising

Gender: Nonbinary

Pronouns: He/him & They/Them ( used interchangeably )

Romantic orientation: Biromantic

Sexual orientation: Bisexual

Nationality: Russian

Ethnicity: Russian

Rank: Dominion

Affiliation: Death

BACKGROUND.

Birthplace: Moscow, Russia

Hometown: Moscow, Russia

Social class: Upper class

Educational achievements: Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees in Psychology from The Sorbonne ( mostly paid for with daddy’s money x )

Father: Ruslan “Lana” Yevgenovich Tarasov

Mother: Alexandra “Sanya” Pashovna Tarasova

Siblings: None

Pets: None

Previous relationships: 

Though Sacha prefers to keep his relationships loose, often leaving things without labels, there are a few notable entanglements.

- Saint Warden: The two experience a brief and heady whirlwind relationship ten years ago, one Summer in Paris bringing them close together, high off the drugs and each other. While a young Saint was fast to fall in love, Sacha cuts things off quickly, rathering to keep things casual than let someone become his weakness. Over the years, they reconnect occasionally, their affairs stretching a few days or weeks before the illusion is shattered again, sending Saint off again back home to London.

- Laura Vardhamana: Who’s chasing who here? Maybe that’s half the excitement, Laura plays hard to get with ease and Sacha knows they’ve met their match. Late night hook ups meld into something more, an uncanny amount of time spent together, their relationship developing a seriousness that Sacha’s never experienced. He gets suspicious, uses connections in Death to check out Laura’s tech from a far. There it is — bank statements, withdrawals and transactions made, Sacha’s been conned and is made quite the fool. So they blackmail her, turning the same receipts into threats of prison or Death.

Arrests: Breach of the Peace ( during a Death-staged protest )

Prison time: None

OCCUPATION & INCOME.

Current occupation: Executive Producer, Pale Horse Media / Dominion, Death

Dream occupation: He doesn’t dream about working, only having power

Past jobs: Never truly worked a day in their life x 

Spending habits: As Death’s benefactor, Sacha allocates a certain amount of money from his family funds to the cause. On top of that, their personal spending could be described as excessive, spending mostly on clothes and other impulse buys.

In debt?: Hahaha

SKILLS & ABILITIES.

Physical strength: Average

Speed: Average

Intelligence: Above average

Accuracy: Above average

Agility: Above Average

Stamina: Average

Teamwork: Because he’s so good at manipulating others to bend to his will, Sacha doesn’t mind teamwork, though he would much rather work alone if possible

Talents: Persuasion, Manipulation, making playlists and mean cocktails

Shortcomings: Detached, vain, selfish, jealous 

Languages spoken: Russian, English, French

Drive?: Yes

Jumpstart a car?: No, they have people for that 

Change a flat tire?: No, they have people for that 

Ride a bicycle?: Yes

Swim?: Yes

Play an instrument?: Piano ( strict lessons from his childhood burning scales into his brain )

Play chess?: Yes

Braid hair?: No

Tie a tie?: Yes

Pick a lock?: No, they have people for that 

Cook?: hahaha 

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE & CHARACTERISTICS.

Face claim: Robert Pattinson my beloved

Eye color: Blue

Hair color: Dirty blonde

Hair type: Mostly straight with waves / 2a curl pattern

Glasses/contacts?: No

Dominant hand: Right

Height: 6’1″ / 185 cm

Build: Lean

Exercise habits: Combat training and the occasional run once or twice a week, Sacha’s definitely not passionate about exercise

Tattoos: General Tattoo Inspo ( x, x, x ) 

Highlights 

- Death Skull on his left shoulder close to collarbone, able to be seen from straight on

- “Тарасов” or Tarasov in Russian under left collarbone 

- a shitty stick n poke pansy on his thigh, given by Saint around ten years ago

- “Ignorant Style” tattooing, really vibe with @/bad.badtattoos on ig’s style ( here, here, here, here, here, here, here, )

Piercings: Earlobes 

Marks/scars: Freckles across skin, though none too pronounced. A few scars from drunken shenanigans gone wrong — Sacha really becomes reckless when he drinks.

Clothing style: Varied. Some days, they’re very casual, slouching on stupid graphic tee with jeans, other days are more like sleek designer boots and trendy, high waisted pants.

Jewelry: On dressed-up days, Sacha might swap his basic silver hoop earrings for something with shine, or might throw on a sleek watch to impress. His family has passed down two items of significance: a signet ring meant for each patriarch of the Tarasov family, and his grandfather’s pocket watch. Neither are worn or used on regular occasion, though might be broken out when Sacha is sent on official Tarasov Media Conglomerate business.

Allergies: None

PSYCHOLOGY.

MBTI type: INTJ - The Architect

Enneagram type:  Type eight - The Challenger  ( independent, stubborn, determined )

Moral alignment: Neutral Evil

Element: Fire

Emotional stability: Sacha keeps emotions hidden well beneath surface, often disguising one emotion as another, whatever is the most useful for the situation. Most of the time, people perceive him as detached and cold, making it hard for him to maintain regular relationships for long.

Introvert or extrovert?: Extroverted

Obsession: Finding people’s weaknesses

Phobias: Snakes! Egads! 

Drug use: Recreational, mainly drugs like ketamine, molly, acid

Alcohol use: Daily, mainly vodka

Prone to violence?: No, would rather use their snakey ways   

Prone to crying?: hahaha, no

Believe in love at first sight?: No

MANNERISMS.

Accent: With years of effort and practice, Sacha manages to disguise his natural Russian inflection with something closer to a Southern English accent, though it’s not perfect and you can hear it on occasion, especially if he’s been drinking

Hobbies: Binging shit TV, giving shitty stick-n-poke tattoos, making shitty tunes on the piano, listening to music, demanding aux privileges 

Habits: Drinking, smoking, lying their ass off

Nervous tics: Clenching jaw

Drives/motivations: Power, control, greed, attention 

Fears: Failure, losing control, submitting to others 

Sense of humor?: Kinda fucked up tbh

Do they curse often?: Tastefully

FAVORITES.

Animal: Bears

Beverage: Iced Coffee or Vodka

Book: Bret Eason Ellis’s American Psycho 

Colors: Green, Purple, Silver

Food: PIZZA! but a childhood comfort food is syrniki 

Flower: Orchids

Gem: Chalcedony

Mode of transportation: Land Rover

Scent: Vanilla, Oud, Tobacco

Weather: Cloudy, breezy

Vacation destination: Swiss Alps

ATTITUDES.

Greatest dream: Becoming bigger and more influential than his father ever was

Greatest fear: Missing a huge opportunity, becoming irrelevant, being controlled 

Most at ease when: exerting control 

Least at ease when: being forced into something

Biggest achievement: Making a name for himself outside of Russia / Becoming the benefactor of Death

Biggest regret: Not negotiating with Uriel to enter Death as a Seraphim x 

[moveslikebuckywrites]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Good Omens (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens), Anathema Device, Sergeant Shadwell (Good Omens), Newton Pulsifer Additional Tags: Established Relationship, witchfinder army, still not finding any witches Summary:

“So, the situation is, the angel, my angel, has somehow misplaced his halo,” the demon takes in the confused looks on the faces of present company, “He’s quite clever but he can be a bit of a ditz at times. He’s asked me to find it for him, somewhere we’ve been in the last week. We’re going to split up and canvas the neighborhood and find his halo. Simple enough, yeah?”

Crowley stops pacing and stares straight at them as Newt raises a very shaky hand. Crowley ignores it.

“I said,” he glares, “Simple. Enough. Yeah?”

---

It’s another prompt fill for the Ineffable Outliers discord channel!  This one was a real treat to write!  Click through to AO3 or read the whole thing under the cut!

Edit:  Helps if I remember to put the cut in the post; this is why you don’t post fic when you’re at work kids!

---

The year after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t had been very good to Crowley.

Hell was no longer breathing down his neck, he was free to do as he pleased.  So was his angel.

Yes, his angel.  It had taken all of five minutes after leaving the Ritz the day after the world almost ended for things to start rolling, and once they started, they just didn’t stop.

Walking to the bookshop that day, Aziraphale had reached for his hand.  That alone had been near enough to discorporate him on the spot. Aziraphale had lingered with him outside the bookshop, rocking back and forth on his heels while Crowley tried to get his face to stop being such a bright shade of tomato-red.  Aziraphale had finally huffed and said I think, dear boy, this is the part where you’re supposed to kiss me.

Crowley had finally found his footing and lurched forward to kiss him and they stumbled backwards into the bookshop together.

They didn’t come back out for a week.  (A lot to catch up on, one might say).

Things might have been too fast back in the sixties, but now they were going at a breakneck pace.  Crowley was almost afraid it was too fast for him.

Once Aziraphale was free to love as much and in every way that he wanted to, it was almost overwhelming.  Every day a new pet name, every night the softest kisses to the demon’s temple or wrist or palm or lips (most of the time, all of these).  There were long walks in St. James Park, holding hands like it was something they'd done forever.  Lingering kisses whenever they could get away with it.  Long evenings in the bookshop led to long nights sleeping in the flat upstairs, and after six months Crowley had realized he only visited his flat once a week at most to water scream at the plants.  The whole flat seemed a bit superfluous after that.

Within a few days of that realization, the plants had all been relocated to the bookshop.  Some were in the shop itself; most were in the upstairs flat (unused for the better part of two centuries, but now in use almost all of the time) collecting sunlight from the skylights in the bedroom or the bay windows in the kitchen.

The Mona Lisa sketch was in the living room, as was the lectern from the church.  The wrestling statue was nowhere to be found, but Crowley knew exactly where it was. He’d sneak it into the décor at some point.

He had tangible mornings now.  Mornings waking up next to Aziraphale, or mornings where he’d wander blearily into the kitchen only to be handed a cup of coffee made exactly the way he loved it.  There were dinners and dates and oh so much life to live. One would think, having been around for 6000 years, that one would’ve seen it all.  

It turns out there’s much more to see when you get to see it with someone you love.

Paris was different.  Venice was different. Hell, the entirety of London was different.  Crowley no longer had to hide the affection he had for his angel, and all of that time spent pining when they’d visited places before could now be spent holding his angel’s hand and stealing kisses at opportune moments.

Go- Sat- Somebody, Crowley was happy. He couldn’t think of anything that could possibly be better than what he had right here with his angel.  

He’d do anything for Aziraphale (which, in itself, wasn’t a change at all), so when his angel came to him with a problem, all he could do was try to solve it.

---

“Alright, you lot,” Crowley addressed the group assembled in the main area of the bookshop in much the same way he would address an unruly rhododendron, “We have a very important job to do, and as I want it done quickly, I decided to call you in.  You are still on my payroll after all.”

The assembled group consisted of the entirety of the Witchfinder Army.  

One Sergeant Shadwell, who was not currently voicing his disgust in working with a demon, but it was painted clearly on his face, nonetheless.

And one Newton Pulsifer, currently promoted to the rank of Lance Corporal.  This was almost fully against his will and had only happened because he and Anathema had run into Shadwell and Madame Tracy in Tesco’s a few months previous. The conversation meandered to the promotion when Newt tried to distract Shadwell from asking about Anathema’s nipples.

Neither of them particularly wanted to be there, but neither of them particularly had anything better to do.

Plus, the demon was right, they were on the payroll.

Crowley paced back and forth in front of them, not unlike a general getting ready to deploy his troops and no less intimidating.

“So, the situation is, the angel, my angel, has somehow misplaced his halo,” the demon takes in the confused looks on the faces of present company, “He’s quite clever but he can be a bit of a ditz at times. He’s asked me to find it for him, somewhere we’ve been in the last week.  We’re going to split up and canvas the neighborhood and find his halo. Simple enough, yeah?”

Crowley stops pacing and stares straight at them as Newt raises a very shaky hand.  Crowley ignores it.

“I said ,” he glares, “Simple.  Enough.  Yeah?”

“Well, um,” Newt manages to stammer, hand still shakily raised in the air in much the same way the shy third grader from the back of the class might, “It’s just, Mr. Crowley, sir, um.  Wouldn’t someone have noticed a glowing disk? Or maybe not, maybe that’s silly, but um, the better question is, um, what exactly are we looking for?”

“Nae, laddie,” Shadwell said with a huff, “The question is why we’re doin’ this in the first place.  We’re the Witchfinder Army, not some kinda detectives.” He looked to Newt, still with his hand in the air, and yanked his arm back down by his sleeve.

“Can’t really call yourself an army though, can you?” Crowley asked, lifting an eyebrow higher than should be humanly possible, taking on an air of condescension, “I mean, Major Milkbottle?  Really? ”

“Cannae say too much about it, laddie,” he said with a smug grin, “The southern pansy thought the Major was a fine fellow.”

“Unlike Aziraphale, Sergeant ,” Crowley pulled his sunglasses down to the bridge of his nose, showing off his snake pupils, “I’m not so easily fooled.” He stared Shadwell down for a few seconds for good measure.  He didn’t like that there were humans that knew the truth, he liked it even less when those humans had been playing their own game for quite some time.

“Anyway, Lance Corporal Pulsifer,” Crowley continued, “to answer your question, it’s a signet ring.  Gold, looks like angel wings.  Dunno where the featherbrain might’ve taken it off at, but he definitely lost it and that makes him worry.  When he’s worried, he gets tetchy, and when he gets tetchy, I don’t get sleep.”

The demon paused to stare down his army, if one could even call it that.  But surely even these two could handle something simple.

“So I suggest you each take one of these lists, and start looking and asking questionssss,” he handed them each a sheet of paper, “Like the good little detectivessss you are.”

Newt and Shadwell crowded out of the door, each heading a separate way to start on their lists.  Crowley had a list of his own, and he was determined that the halo would be found by this evening.

He had a date with his angel, after all, and he wouldn’t be late.

---

“Angel, why are you so fidgety?”

Crowley had watched Aziraphale flutter and pace around his bookshop for the better part of the day, and now that they were in bed, supposedly relaxing the angel couldn’t seem to sit still.

“It’s nothing, dear,” he had that look on his face. The one that said he popped over the channel for crepes.  The one where he was hiding something.  

“Well, probably nothing.  More than likely nothing. Of course it’s nothing.” The angel was now wringing his hands together.

“Aziraphale, I haven’t seen you this wound up in months, it’s obviously not nothing,” Crowley had taken the angels hands in his, “What’s bothering you, Angel?”

Aziraphale sighed, “It’s just, I seem to have lost my ring.”

“Don’t see why you’d get so worked up about a ring, but we can find you another one, it’s not that big of a deal.”

“Oh no, Crowley,” Aziraphale stuttered, “You don’t understand!  It’s not just a ring, it’s the manifestation of my halo!”

Crowley stared at him, stunned.  “So you’re telling me, somewhere along in the last day or so, you lost your entire bloody halo?”

Aziraphale looked at him sheepishly, “Yes, it would seem so.  Oh, I do worry about it. I know I’m not on Heaven’s side anymore, but an angel without a halo that’s just silly, and I did rather like it.”

There it is, the puppy dog eyes.  The most powerful weapon in Aziraphale’s considerable arsenal of weapons he could deploy to get Crowley to do absolutely anything he wanted.  Oh sure, the angel had a lot of new weapons for that. Sweet fond smiles and softly spoken pet names had been quickly becoming a favorite, as had kisses of all kinds.  But it was always that sad yet hopeful pout that the demon was powerless to resist any time it was aimed in his direction.

Just enough of a bastard, indeed.

“Angel, would you like me to look for it tomorrow?”

Aziraphale brightened instantly, eyes sparkling, “Oh, would you, dearest?  I have to meet with that rare book dealer about an original copy of William Blake and I’d hate to miss it.”

“Of course, Angel, I’ll find your halo.”

“Oh, thank you, darling,” Aziraphale said and kissed Crowley so quickly that the demon didn’t even have time to be annoyed at the task in front of him.

---

There were two mugs on the little coffee table, one of cocoa and one of a nice earl grey tea.

“Does he suspect anything yet?” asked the first voice, dark and feminine with more than a little mischief of its own.  One might even say witchy.

“Oh, you know how he is,” this voice was posh and southern, “Once he gets started on something, he’ll be at it until the end.  He doesn’t suspect anything.” Both the tea and cocoa had been, miraculously, the perfect temperature for going on an hour now.

A cup of something warm and friendly company were always a good thing, after all.  Especially when you were plotting.

“Yes, well, from what I’ve heard the search has been entertaining so far.”

“Ah, yes,” said the posh accent, “Your man on the inside, as it were.  I do hope mine isn’t being too cruel to them.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” said the witchy voice, “Now, you mentioned wanting my help picking out your outfit?”

“Ah, yes of course my dear, I don’t want to be late after all.”

---

This was an impossible task.

Crowley was starting to lose the faith he’d always had in humanity.  Who didn’t turn things into lost and founds anymore? He was sure whoever had found the ring had taken it to a pawnbroker by now.

Though it would be kind of funny to know how much a place like that would think a ring made of pure holy matter was worth.  Could be quite a laugh.

Newt had checked Kew Gardens and St. James Park, among other places, with no luck whatsoever.

Shadwell had, likewise, been to the British Museum and the opera house and anywhere else Crowley had been able to think of.  Likewise, he’d come up with nothing.

Crowley had been left with the extensive list of restaurants he and the angel had visited in the past week.  (“Seriously, Angel, it’s been missing a week?” “Well I didn’t want to worry you, dear.”)

This list included, but was not limited to, three different Italian bistros, the little sushi place down the street from the bookshop, two tapas bars, a hole-in-the-wall Greek restaurant, and the Ritz.  Always the Ritz.

That had been his best bet, and he’d come up short.  Now he had less than thirty minutes until his date with Aziraphale and nothing to show for it.

He’d been so distracted about it he hadn’t even been able to properly yell at Newt and Shadwell, he’d just sent them on their way. Shadwell had still been grumbling, Newt was just happy to leave.

Now Crowley was back in the bookshop, in the backroom draped across his favorite chair with his head in his hands.  Headaches were so terribly human, yet he was pretty sure that’s what was happening now.

Nothing for it, he’d turned up empty handed.  They could check the pawnbrokers tomorrow and go from there.

Even though Aziraphale had wholeheartedly detached from his former employer, he was still an angel at the end of the day.  His halo would be the last thing he had of Heaven, and, even if Heaven wasn’t as good a place as it had ever been1, Crowley was sure the angel would be very sad without this one little reminder.

“Might as well face the music, then,” the demon said to no one in particular, because no one was in the bookshop with him.

Aziraphale had told him to meet at St. James at six o’clock on the dot.  No time to sit and brood.

---

He found Aziraphale with a full picnic spread out under one of the apple trees.

“Crowley, my dear! There you are,” Aziraphale’s entire face lit up as soon as he saw the demon, Crowley didn’t think he’d ever get tired of that.  Something was different though.

Aziraphale was actually wearing modern clothes.  

Not super modern, nor even vaguely modern by most standards.  He was wearing sensible khakis and a tartan sweater vest over a light blue button-up.  He’d forgone the bow tie, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows.

If it had been a year ago, Crowley might have thought it obscene .

“Y’look nice, Angel,” Crowley said as he caught up, giving the angel a quick kiss, “Finally decided to catch up with the times?”

“Oh, oh thank you,” Aziraphale said with a bit of a wiggle, “Just for today, thought I’d give it a go.  It’s a special occasion after all.” Crowley noticed the angel’s ears turning a very lovely shade of pink.

If he weren’t a demon, he might say it was cute.

“What’s all this then?  Evening picnic in the park is a bit different for us, yea?” Not that he minded, Aziraphale was constantly surprising him.

“Well,” the angel started, the pink creeping in on his face now, “I promised you a picnic, back in 1967, I figured I should make good on it eventually.”

Crowley felt the blush rising in his own cheeks as Aziraphale smiled at him fondly.  He’d never forgotten that night, his world had been reeling and it had been the first time he’d truly let himself hope that Aziraphale might truly love him back.

“After all,” the angel continued, starting to wring his hands together like he always did when he was anxious, “We’ve been to the Ritz so often, but never on a picnic, silly thing that.”

“You’re more nervous than usual,” Crowley said, raising an eyebrow, “’S just a picnic, Angel.”

“Yes, of course, just a picnic,” Aziraphale said quickly, taking a seat on the tartan blanket, “Any luck today finding my halo?”

Crowley felt a lump form in his throat as he leaned against the apple tree next to where Aziraphale was sitting, “Ah, about that, Angel. We looked everywhere and checked in at all the places we’d been.”  He couldn’t even look at Azirphale, he didn’t want to see the disappointment on his face. Didn’t think he could handle it.  

“Tore the bookshop apart even – don’t even start, everything is in its proper place, perfectly disorganized just the way you left it – if anyone found it, they likely took it to the pawnbroker’s so we’ll have to start there tomorrow.  I’m sorry, Angel, I really tried to find it.”

It was at this point Crowley heard what sounded like snickering.  He chanced a look at the angel who was very, very clearly trying to hold in a bout of laughter.

“What’s so funny, Angel?”

Aziraphale stopped his giggling almost immediately and swallowed hard, “Well, dearest, truth be told I’m more than a bit nervous.”

“Nervous?  What the heaven have you got to be nervous about?”

“Well, my love, if you must know,” the angel took a deep breath, “I never actually lost my halo.”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale open mouthed, his glasses sliding almost imperceptibly down the bridge of his nose.

“You what.”

“I never actually lost it.  I just had to do something with it, and I didn’t want you to ask where it was and-”

“So, you sent me on a wild goose chase?!  I called the Witchfinders!  I had to spend an entire day with those two lunatics!” Crowley was now stalking back and forth, gesticulating wildly.  So much so he didn’t notice Aziraphale moving from sitting on the blanket to being on one knee.

“Crowley-“

“And then I had to go to all of those restaurants,” he did not see the angel pull out a ring box from his pocket, as he was too busy stomping about, “Do you know how many bloody bistros there are near Soho?  Don’t even know if they were the right ones!”

“Dearest-“

“Not to mention I had to go to that Greek place,” nor did Crowley notice a very peculiar witch hiding in the bushes about 10 yards away with a video camera, “You know the one!  You know Yaya won’t let me leave without eating and I can’t disappoint her.2

“Crowley for Heaven’s sake will you just turn around and look at me?”

Crowley turned to the angel and his entire being stopped. He couldn’t form any more words, nor could he move at all.

Aziraphale was on one knee with a ring box in his hand; and, despite the fact that they were immortal celestial beings who definitely didn’t need to go in for that sort of thing, the very human implications were 100% clear.

“Dearest, I wanted it to be a surprise, but I worried you might suspect something was amiss if you noticed it missing, and it took a lot to disintegrate and reintegrate it in such a way.  So, I sent you on a bit of a red herring to buy time to get everything absolutely perfect.”

“Ngk,” was all Crowley could manage to say.  A bush about 10 yards away laughed.

“Crowley, my dear, I know it took me a long time to finally catch up to you, and the fact that it took the near end of the world was absolutely preposterous of me.  This past year has been, without a doubt, the happiest of my entire existence. If I had ever gotten my wits about me, I’d have known that on our own side, together, was right where we were supposed to be the entire time.”

Aziraphale opened the box, and inside were two gold rings. One of them was a golden Ouroboros with a tiny red stone for the eye.  The other looked very similar to Aziraphale’s signet ring, two angel wings, but much thinner and more modern. Crowley was still working on getting his brain moving again.  Aziraphale was here, for all intents and purposes proposing to him.  With his bloody halo.

Just enough of a bastard, indeed.

If he’d been in disbelief at the state of his life for the past year, that was nothing compared to the state of disbelief he was in now.

“This is the last piece of me that was still a part of Heaven.  I’m not on their side anymore, I’m on yours, forever if you’ll let me be.” Aziraphale paused, clearly waiting for some kind of answer, while all Crowley could do was open his mouth and then close it again.  

“While I know that it’s not in any traditional sense, and as celestial beings there’s no real need for it,” Aziraphale started to stammer, which meant he was backtracking, and that just wouldn’t do, “I still wanted to have some kind of symbol of all of this.  But if you don’t want to, that’s fine as well, I just-”

Having finally gotten his brain back online Crowley had answered in the only way he could think of, and had lunged full force into the angel, crashing their lips together desperately, knocking them both to the ground.

The bush 10 yards away heaved a sigh, stopped filming, and the occupant got up and walked away3

After what could’ve been a few minutes or a few hours (time is relative, even more so to an immortal celestial being), they finally broke apart.

“Does that answer your question, Angel?”

“Quite,” Aziraphale said, beaming at him.

Crowley was sure that the dopey grin on his face was most unbecoming of a demon, but as they sat on the tartan blanket drinking champagne, he couldn’t bring himself to care.  

He glanced down at his hand, gold angel wings glinting in the fading light of the sunset, and sighed contentedly.

As he laced his fingers with Aziraphale’s and kissed the snake ring on his angel’s finger, he knew in that moment there was nowhere in any universe either one of them would rather be.

After all, they were on their own side now, and they always would be.

---

1 - As far as Crowley was concerned, Heaven had never been worth the capital letter that always got bestowed upon it.  One group of pricks that you could only trade for a different, smellier group of pricks. In the end, it didn’t matter, they were all a bunch of bastards.

2 - The little hole-in-the-wall Greek restaurant was owned and operated by a small Greek family, who’d been running the restaurant for generations at this point.  ‘Yaya’, as Crowley (and most of the regulars) called her, was the family matriarch. She took one look at his skinny frame and immediately decided that no one had fed the poor boy a decent meal in his life, and therefore he was never allowed to leave without eating as much as she put in front of him.  Aziraphale always found this hilarious.

3 - It is a known trait of witches that they always know the precise moment to arrive and the precise moment to leave.  Whether or not this particular witch had any intervention on this conclusion from a different, much more particular witch from the 1600s was neither here nor there.

[noahfuckingdies]

I beg to differ, Lady Catelyn.

A counter-claim to this pasage from Catelyn I (Game of Thrones)

Lady Catelyn claims, "Every noble house had its words. Family mottoes, touchstones, prays of sorts, they boasted of honor and glory, promised loyalty and truth, swore faith and courage. All but the Starks."

"All but the Starks."

For reference, the "Stark words" are "Winter is coming." The Starks do not need to boast "honor or glory" as the likes of House Lannister. They do not need to swear "faith and courage" as House Baratheon does. Why would the Starks not need to boast such things in their words, you ask? Because, to take a line from the show, (probably the books too) "The North remembers." They remember their glory, their faith, and their courage because the Starks are the North. They do not need words to remind them of their honor, the Stark are the unequivocal most honorable people in Westros. Their "words" or motto explains the Starks and the North as a whole perfectly. "Winter is coming." Why yes it is, our dear Starks, because winter always comes. The North faces brunt of winter. They do not the pansy winter that the South gets where I assume they only have to worry about not getting food; the North gets chilling winds, frostbite, and frozen deaths. They need not words of courage, they are courageous every day. They need not sprout false words of faith, the Starks know their faith, whether it be their own honor and integrity or their faith in the Old Gods.

On my other Stark-loving hand (including Catelyn mind you), the phrase "Winter is coming." seems to be more powerful than any of the other great houses words or prayers because it automatically forces Catelyn to shudder at the mere thought of it. Now lets go down the list and explain why everything Catelyn says it isn't is wrong, for the most part.

Honor

Besides the fact the Starks are honorable and they kind of live by their motto, their words a truthful and truth is a large part of being honorable, no? Mostly, though, I see that if a majority (if not all the Starks) are honorable than so are their words.

Glory

If you heard the words "Winter is coming." being screamed at you by a huge army, you'd bolt. It's a terrifying phrase on its own, seeing as the words gave Lady Catelyn "a chill". It's not a glorious phrase, it is quite somber and sullen; however, it can be glorious when spoken in a certain context. Be it on the battlefield or in response to the dead rising, "Winter is coming." evokes a feelinv, which is more than other houses can claim.

Loyalty

The reasoning for this one being incorrect is a bit fickle and hard to understand. As mention farther down, winter is harsh even for Southerners, though for different reasons for sure. The Starks could always leave Winterfell, but they won't do to their loyalty to the North. In turn, their motto reflects that loyalty. They know that the deadly winter will return every year, no matter what. Yet they still stay, mostly because of their honor and it's their home. Regardless, loyalty has a play in both of those.

Truth

The phrase, in of itself, is truthful. Winter is coming and it always will. We may see it as a subtle foreshadowing, especially since it is and the show certainly played it that way, of the Others coming beyond the wall. The Others will try to bring and eternal winter. As such, in both the foreshadowing and physical sense, winter is coming. The words speak truth.

Faith

You know what, Catelyn? You've got me on this one. I've got nothing on this one that doesn't related to the Stark family instead of just the motto.

Courage

The Starks say, "Winter is coming." Winter is undoubtablely a hard time for all, especially those closer to the Wall. Yet, the Starks words remind people of the North that winter will come. The fact that the Starks are not hiding or pretending winter does not exist is courageous. They made their words that all highborns and Northern peasants know a reminder that winter will come.

As many others have put it, thank you for joining my TED talk.

[nicnacsnonsense]

With regards to the mention of holding hands earlier, here’s the exact quote from the book:

I’d just like to say,” he said, “if we don’t get out of this, that…I’ll have known, deep down inside, that there was a spark of goodness in you.”

“That’s right,” said Crowley bitterly. “Make my day.”

Aziraphale held out his hand. “Nice knowing you,” he said.

Crowley took it. “Here’s to the next time,” he said. “And…Aziraphale?”

“Yes.”

“Just remember I’ll have known that, deep down inside, you were just enough of a bastard to be worth liking.”

There was a scuffling noise, and they were pushed aside by the small but dynamic shape of Shadwell, waving the Thundergun purposefully.

Holding hands certainly is one possible interpretation of what’s happening here, but an equally possible — and I would even argue a more likely — interpretation is that they’re shaking hands. Then Shadwell comes and pushes them not apart (which even then would be ambiguous as to whether they were actually holding hands or just standing next to each other), but aside. So while there certainly is enough there that no one can tell you you’re wrong if you chose to believe they did hold hands, there’s not enough to definitively say they canonically held hands in the book.

And honestly, if this is queerbaiting, they’re doing a terrible job of it. The point of queerbaiting after all is to tease queer audiences with the possibility of a queer romance to drum up interest and get them to watch the show, without ever committing to the actual romance so as not to offend the conservative audience. And look I’m not saying there isn’t anyone out there who would be okay with a female God, black Adam and Eve, female Archangel Michael, black female Archangel Uriel, Heaven as the bad guys, the typically male presenting Crowley occasionally presenting female instead, the male presenting Crowley wearing clothes designed for women, God getting called out as a child murderer for the flood, Aziraphale gleefully identifying himself as *the* Southern pansy, Michael Sheen and David Tennant openly stating in interviews that Aziraphale and Crowley love each other, the show ending with a romantically shot lunch for two at a fancy restaurant while a love song plays in the background, and Neil Gaiman saying repeatedly across multiple platforms “yes, it is a love story, Good Omens is a love story, Aziraphale and Crowley are in love, oh my God, please stop asking, did you even watch the show, it is a love story,” but would draw the line at Aziraphale and Crowley’s hand holding scene being a little more obvious. I’m sure there are people like that out there, I just don’t think there are that many of them.

Really, there are a lot of reasons why the love story might have been left ambiguous in this case that have nothing to do with queerbaiting. Maybe he just genuinely believes what was depicted best reflects how Aziraphale and Crowley’s loving relationship would express itself. Maybe that’s how he thinks they would express themselves in their relationship right now, when they’ve only just been freed of millennia of hiding and implicit understandings. Maybe he wanted to be more explicit but what we saw was as far as Amazon was willing to allow. Maybe he wanted to be more explicit but what we saw was as far as he felt comfortable with changing things without being able to discuss it with TPrachett. Or maybe he left it ambiguous not to deprive anyone of representation but to be more inclusive. Because the thing is I have never spoken with anyone who has seen this show that didn’t believe Aziraphale and Crowley loved each other. I’ve heard them be called brothers and I’ve heard them called best friends, but I have never heard anyone suggest that the two of them aren’t 100% committed ride-or-die for each other. But what I have heard from a lot of people of all different orientations is that Aziraphale and Crowley and their relationship with each other made them feel seen and represented.

Ultimately I understand the need for more explicit queer representation. But I don’t think that makes Good Omens a failure for choosing not to go that route. There is value in stories like this too, ambiguous ones where we can all see ourselves in the characters. Because if we can all relate to Aziraphale and Crowley, then maybe that’ll make it a little easier for us to relate to each other too.

Gaiman: How many times do I have to say it? IT IS A LOVE STORY!

[ingravinoveritas]

Oh my GOD, Michael. WHAT ARE YOU DOING.