#everything isn’t tickety boo

[lesbianballofgender]

Aziraphale would be livid

[yourghostwrotethis]

Fic Recs #2

I've already made one of these which you can find here, or check out my #fic rec tag.

All of these are pre-S2.

Read until the end!

Endless Night (T)

by AppleSeeds

Spending Halloween in an old cottage with his housemates, university student Crowley finds himself trapped in a time loop that repeats every four hours, with only the spirit of Anathema's dead witchy ancestor to help guide him. Agnes believes the time loop has been triggered by Crowley's own thoughts, and that the only way to break it is to ensure that Aziraphale, who Crowley is completely infatuated with, actually enjoys himself. Despite how flustered he gets every time he even looks at Aziraphale, Crowley does everything he can to try to make that happen. But no matter what he tries, things keep going wrong.

Words: 31843 (Complete)

I'm not usually a fan of time loops, but this one is so sweet! Crowley gets to grow and be his best self here, and it's wonderful to see. The fluff is so cute!! And the ending is so happy. Aziraphale and Crowley are both so sweet, it just makes me smile so much :)

.

.

Fledging (M)

by FeralTuxedo (on Tumblr @feraltuxedo)

Cool Dad was at the school gate again. Clambering out of his ridiculous sports car like a great big spider, all black denim and designer sunglasses. What a prat. He made his way towards the entrance, followed by his equally lanky son. All the mums' eyes were on him. Which was fine. At least they weren't staring at Aziraphale for a change. Cool Dad high-fived his son goodbye, because of course he did, then sauntered back to his car. Making it look so bloody easy. Aziraphale Fell is much too young to be looking after eleven-year old Pepper. He barely has his life together as it is, with his minimum-wage job and a half-baked dream of trading rare books for a living. And as if adopting a recently bereaved pre-teen isn’t enough, there are some rather more adult problems to navigate: playground politics, the shadows of his own childhood, and the growing question of how Crowley, the only other dad at the school gate, feels about him. A human AU/kid fic.

Words: 53381 (Complete)

This fic is so cool. It goes to some really deep places while also exploring multi-level and complex relationships. There's an honest discussion about boundaries and grief and trying, and it's all mixed up with fantastic moments slotted in perfectly. This fic feels like a representation of reality in a way, because it's not afraid to talk about subjects that affect us all.

.

.

[SERIES] In Which a Bentley and/or a Bookshop are Sentient (G)

by AnonymousDandelion and DandelionDrabbles (AnonymousDandelion) (@anonymousdandelion )

Series title says it all. Each work can be read alone, and is connected to the others only through their shared sentient headcanons.

Works: 5 (Ongoing)

Total words: 5543

These are such cute drabbles! They're so nice and funny to read. I truly believe that they can cheer anyone up if they're having a bad day, they're super snarky and funny and fluffy. (Also, it's no secret that I love the Bentley an unreasonable amount, so her having a voice delights me.)

.

.

muddle through somehow (T)

by curtaincall (@fremulon)

Aziraphale Fell runs a successful food blog, Celestial Comestibles, where he shares mouthwatering recipes and heartwarming stories about his happy domestic life in a cottage with his husband and son. As promotion for his upcoming cookbook, his publishers run a contest: one lucky winner will get to spend Christmas with Aziraphale and his family. What the publishers don't know is that the real Aziraphale Fell is a single city-dweller. And if he wants to keep up his happily married persona, he'll have to acquire a cottage, husband, and son before Christmas. As it happens, his friend and neighbor Anthony Crowley has his nephew staying with him for the holidays. One fake marriage proposal later, and everything seems tickety-boo--as long as Aziraphale can keep from developing inconveniently real feelings for his pretend husband...

Words: 27030 (Complete)

You guessed it, it's another fake relationship AU. But they grow in such a beautiful way I'm not sure it can even count as such. There's definitely development and some less pleasant interactions still present, but they all contribute to making this fic memorable.

.

.

it's a new craze (T)

by attheborder (@areyougonnabe)

CROWLEY: I try not to make a habit of gratitude, but I must give our appreciation to everyone out there who’s been listening and subscribing to The Ineffable Plan. AZIRAPHALE: Ooh, yes, we’ve become quite popular, haven’t we? CROWLEY: Yeah, just hit number eight on the advice charts … No advertising at all. AZIRAPHALE: Mm. How … miraculous. CROWLEY: … Aziraphale. You did not. *** Crowley and Aziraphale are very possibly the people least qualified, on the entire planet, to start up an advice podcast. But what else is there to do when the world isn’t ending anytime soon, you’re technically on indefinite sabbatical from your lifelong careers, and you need a plausible excuse to spend more time with your best friend who you’re definitely not, absolutely not, maybe just a little, actually maybe overwhelmingly in love with?

Words: 5541 (Complete)

This is so sweet and funny. I love fics in an "unconventional" format (read: social media AUs) and this is no exception.* One of the few non-human AUs I really like, this is a gift to fandom. It's hilarious and stuffed with references that are a joy to see.

.

.

And finally, to complete this list...

Snow Angel (T)

by Vagabond (@waffleironbiddingwar)

Human!AU. Aziraphale needs a date to his brother's Christmas party to avoid getting set up with someone. Anathema suggests Crowley, the office bad boy. They go, get snowed in, and have a heart-to-heart that ends in a Happy Christmas. From a prompt: Human!AU: Aziraphale needs a date for family Christmas. He invites the office rebel/bad boy, Crowley.

Words: 14372 (Complete)

This is one of my favourite fics. It's so cute and sweet and awkward, and just overall a pleasure to read and to reread. I love fake dating and this does a wonderful job of it. It's one of the stories always capable of making me smile. Read it! :)

.

.

*if you like A:TLA and more specifically Zutara, I can't recommend blue ticks, red hearts enough

[sparkly-key]

A small kindness

Aziraphale returns to Earth after weeks in Heaven, covertly slipping messages to Crowley about the Second Coming so they can figure out a way to thwart it. He should have known better than to think he could keep secrets in Heaven.

Whumptober 2023 Day 9 - "Learning everything ain't what it seems, that's the thing about these days" | Polaroid | Mistaken Identity | "You're a liar"

The panels of lights passed over Aziraphale’s body as he ascended into Heaven, his mouth a thin line.

This wasn’t tickety-boo. Not good at all. In fact, it was looking rather disastrous.

---

“Muriel?” he called as he stepped over the bookshop threshold, the bell cheerfully tinkling above him. “Are you here?”

His favorite scrivener popped their head out from around the corner of a bookcase.

“Supreme Archangel Aziraphale! Hello!” they greeted, tossing something to the ground.

Aziraphale fought hard not to wince at the noise of books clattering to the floor. “My dear, I told you the title isn’t necessary.”

“Oh. Sorry.” A crease appeared between their brow for a second before Muriel’s smile bloomed. “It’s just confusing. You telling me not to call you that. And The Metatron telling me I have to.”

The Archangel’s smile faltered. “The Metatron was here?”

“Oh yes,” Muriel informed him. “Just last week.”

“I see,” Aziraphale murmured, his mind racing. “Muriel, do you know where Crowley is?”

“Oh, I haven’t seen him since last week.” They picked up a full cup of tea and held it out to him. “Since just before the Metatron asked me where he was. I told him he was at the duck pond this time of day usually. Cuppertea?”

“N-no, I’m sorry, I don’t have time,” he apologized, fidgeting with his bowtie. “I’ll be back shortly, my dear.”

“Oh. Would you like me to wait for you? Ms. Sandwich said young women – that’s me. I’m a young woman here, apparently! – should always have somebody waiting for them at home and since this was your home, I thought it might be good to have somebody like myself waiting for you.”

Aziraphale smiled kindly at the scrivener. “Thank you, Muriel, but there’s no need.”

His throat closed up for a second. “And you should really think of the shop as your home as well. You’re doing a good job with it.”

The nearly blinding smile directed at him buoyed his spirits significantly.

---

The elevator dinged pleasantly as the doors parted and Aziraphale left the metal box, striding briskly toward the Metatron’s office.

“What did you do,” the Supreme Archangel snapped, planting his face on either side of the impressive oat desk and leaning toward the Voice of God on Earth.

“I merely thought our plans would be more effective this way,” the Metatron explained, reclining slightly in his office chair. “You can’t focus properly on the Second Coming if your attention is being split between that and Crowley.”

He tapped a stack of papers on his desk, their handwritten content more elegant than the efficiently typewritten forms in his outbox.

Aziraphale stilled, recognizing the documents. “You’ve been reading my journal.”

“Of course I did,” the Metatron said briskly. “You didn’t expect to have secrets from Heaven, did you?”

--

Aziraphale breathed a small sigh of relief when he saw the familiar figure on the bench by the duck pond, newspaper unfolded in front of his face. He nervously straightened his vest, picking off an imaginary piece of lint.

Well, no use putting off the tongue lashing Crowley was sure to give him.

“Lovely weather we’re having, my dear,” the angel greeted as he sat next to the redhead.

The newspaper remained in place. “You’re looking for the Swedish prime minister. He’s here on Wednesdays.”

Aziraphale’s smile wavered. He should have known Crowley would be like this, bitter over his departure. He thought the coded messages he’d been sending would have soothed at least some of the sting from their last encounter but apparently not.

“No, I assure you, I’m not,” Aziraphale insisted. “I’m here for you, Crowley.”

The demon lowered the periodical and peered over at the angel from behind his glasses. “Do I know you?”

“Oh not this bit,” the blond sighed, thinking about the time with Furfur, with Saraquel. “We’ve known each other for 6,000 years. You’re my best friend.”

Crowley frowned, concentrating. For a second, Aziraphale thought he saw a glimmer of recognition, but it transformed into a grimace of pain. “Nothing coming to mind.”

It wasn’t a lie, Aziraphale realized. It was all too similar to Jim.

He needed Crowley to remember, if they were going to figure out how to thwart the Second Coming. He needed Crowley’s harebrained schemes and clever mind to see the flaws in Heaven’s plot. He reached out toward Crowley, a bit of Grace on his fingers to heal this ailment, but the demon flinched and recoiled from him.

“Get that thing away from me,” Crowley hissed, his glasses slipping slightly.

Aziraphale could see the yellow filling his eyes, pupils their typical narrow slits. In al their years, Crowley had never been afraid of him.

Crowley took advantage of his pause to jump to his feet, the newspaper falling to the ground.

“Wait! No, don’t go,” Aziraphale pleaded, drawing back. He clasped his hands in front of him and stood, aware of the way Crowley was tense and ready to flee. “I-I’m sorry. I was mistaken. No need to spoil your day.”

The angel hurried off.

---

“You should have left him out of this,” Aziraphale snapped, his hands curling. He dug his fingers into his palms, the whisper of pain nothing compared to the ache in his heart. “If you had told me, I would have stopped. I wouldn’t have –“

“But you did,” the Metatron interrupted, rising. “I wasn’t lying, Aziraphale, when I said Heaven needed someone who thinks outside the box. But Heaven needs somebody dedicated to this task. And even the thought of Crowley corrupts you.”

The Voice of God circled his desk, coming to stand toe to toe with the newly promoted Archangel. “If anything, I was being kind. You should have seen him, Aziraphale, an utter mess, moaning about losing his best friend and never being enough. You did that to him.”

[elementalsight]

TW for weight and body issues! As a cosplayer and especially as a photographer I talk a good talk about self love and identity, about picking costumes that suit your sense of self and you’ll feel good in, about accepting the body you are in and not the one you wish you had. I’ve been having this talk for years with friends and clients and I know it’s helped people, because they’ve told me so. But this was the year I really, really had to apply it to myself and holy shit but no one tells you that you can have body dysphoria when you gain weight. You see it in conversations about gender all the time, but the amount of self loathing and disconnect I had when I saw myself in this costume was shattering. And the thing is, it’s not like I’m ignorant of what I look like or the weight I have gained over the years. It’s age, cancer, covid, and a fucked up thyroid with CFS all rolled into one body that does what it can but isn’t exactly uh... tickety-boo, and in my head I look like my selfies and my photos that come up in facebook memories or tagged with friends - all from 3, 4, 5, 10 years ago. In my head that is what I look like. And then I get photos of this version of me - significantly larger all around, significantly rounder - and for the first time in my life the voice in my head goes ‘you look fat and it’s bad’.

And I know that’s bullshit - the negativity, that is. The inherent self assessment that society has drilled into my head that being a certain size too large is a moral failing and ruins my physical attractiveness. That I am now going to be judged more harshly and given less credit and already I’m dealing with even more BS from my doctors and that combined into a perfect storm of just hating, loathing myself for simply existing 40, 60 pounds heavier than I was when I was fucking 18.  After everything I’ve been through. It took two. Solid. Months. To get past that. Which is not the same as over it. But to get to the point where I can see that I look good, not perfect (but I rarely look perfect) and that I like the costume and myself in these photos, that I did good work but that the work looks good on me. That the shape that I am doesn’t deserve to be hated or shamed or to be hidden. I’ve always known it wasn’t easy but fuck, even knowing what I had to do it was still a struggle, and I came at it with every tool I had and a lot of experience. I guess this rambling post is to say - if you’re having body issues, you have my sympathy. They fucking suck. But I hope they take it easy on you, in time, and you can at least learn to accept the shape you are in if you cannot love it, if it cannot be changed. And also hey, I made a costume and I look pretty cute in it.

[merelygifted]

Everything pointed to voters recognising that the Tories had got all the big calls right, Johnson said. God knows what deep shit we’d be in if they’d got them wrong

Sensible MPs avoid the airwaves after elections. Fortunately, Dumb and Dumber were available | John Crace | The Guardian

On days like these, every prime minister needs his useful idiots. The morning after the local elections is a time for twattery as all parties try to make sense of the results and give them the best possible spin, so any sensible MP makes sure to steer clear of the airwaves.

Unless, like the unknown – even to himself – Tory MP for Ruislip, David Simmonds, you’re using the opportunity to call for your leader to go over Partygate. Though once he’d sensed his was a lone voice and that others were biding their time for now, he rather rowed back. He just wanted Boris Johnson to rethink his priorities. Of course he did. So brave. We won’t be hearing from him again.

But the Convict could be grateful for Robert Jenrick and Oliver Dowden, who toured the studios as a double act, Dumb and Dumber, giving a second-rate impersonation of what they imagined to be the authentic, official voice of Her Majesty’s government.

Jenrick isn’t even in the cabinet. He had been, of course, but Johnson had realised he was too rubbish even to make it into his cabinet of the talentless. Imagine being that crap. But Jenrick isn’t one to let his no-mark status bother him, in that he’s the heir apparent to the needy Matt Hancock, so he’ll do or say anything to curry favour with the boss class.

So Jenrick’s take on the results was unsurprisingly chipper. Everything was going wholly to plan. Couldn’t see what the fuss was. The Tories might have been in meltdown in London, but elsewhere everything was just tickety-boo, all things considered. Which, of course, he hadn’t considered.

He was also happy to relate that he had been shopping at the 24-hour Asda in Newark at 5am. The Asda later confirmed it wasn’t open round the clock and that any shoppers turning up in the middle of the night would have to come armed with a jemmy, ready to break in. So where Honest Bob had been at 5am was anyone’s guess.

Dowden has ample form on the moron-meter. Back in the day, before he became an MP, he worked in David Cameron’s planning unit, where his most telling contribution was to admit he had been taken by surprise by unforeseen events. He had one job … But as co-chair of the Tory party, and being more or less responsible for the Conservatives’ election campaign, he was rather obliged to front up the results.  ...

[a-froger-epic]

Interview with a Queen “groupie”

Cross-posted to AO3. I encourage you to leave any comments you have there.

---

I compiled this interview following a long email exchange with J, a very sweet lady who went to Ealing Art School between 1972 and 1974. She knew all four members of Queen personally and was part of their larger circle of friends.

First off, you may find this hard to believe. I don’t blame you. But I assure you I’m not pulling your leg. As well as the pictures I share in this post, I have seen current pictures of J (which I will not share to protect her privacy). There is no indication as far as I am aware that she isn’t who she says she is.

Nastally, hold up. How exactly did you find this lady?

She found me. It turns out that she has been following my story Dawn of Aquarius for quite some time. The story is set in 1969. A lot of research about the era went into it, because I wanted to portray that time period - and Freddie’s and Roger’s surroundings - as accurately and realistically as I possibly could. That was what drew J in. She tells me it brought back a lot of memories for her. One of the reasons I love DoA so much is the nostalgia, she says, which genuinely means the world to me. Eventually, she talked to me in the comment section. Of course, I freaked out!

And then, I asked her for an interview, to which she replied: I will give it a go, but you must remember that I am 65 and there were great drugs in the 70s, and at 16, away from home, I had a lot!

And so...

Here’s what is IMPORTANT TO KEEP IN MIND when you read this interview.

These are one woman’s 50-year-old memories and subjective impressions. J has been incredibly kind to let me pick her brain, trying to recall everything as best as she can. In her own words:

Just remember that when I answer the questions, it is from a 16-year-old who is 9 years younger than Freddie and a little girl with no family and friends in a strange country trying to fit in. The only reason I was there, was because some hippie thought I had a unique art style.

---

J as a teenager.

[I have edited the interview together from our long, and somewhat messy at times, email exchange. Typos have been fixed and some punctuation added for clarity, but I have not changed anything J has written to me. Again, bear in mind these are personal opinions and impressions.]

So, J, how did you end up at Ealing Art School in 1972 and what was it like?

This was the painting done for the Australian school-leaving certificate.

It placed first and gave me a scholarship. I could pick France, the USA or England. As a dual citizen of the UK, the choice was easy. The scholarship paid for board and fees, so had to be and sell whatever for spending money.

This picture is from the dorm. We all had a 10pm curfew and a very thick rule book that, I am proud to say, I broke every one of them, one by one. The rooms were on the 1st and 2nd floor. We were on the first floor, rooms one side and admin staff the other end. We had two bathrooms for 18 girls. One of them had two baths. The walls were your standard half wall, so it was a given that if you had a bath you run the risk of having a bucket of cold water dropped on you. Downstairs was the kitchen and lounge room.

I want to ask you a few things about life in London in the early 70s, to get a picture of what it was really like. For example, was there alcohol at the music gigs you went to?

If it was a school, church or community hall, no. If it was a pub, yes.

Did you and your friends drink as much then as young people tend to drink now when you all went out?

No, we didn't. I think it had a lot to do with money. We didn't have the disposable income, and it was unheard of to still be living at home with the parents after the age of 20.

Was weed and LSD as big and easily accessible as depictions of the 60s and 70s would have us believe?

The drugs! Got to have drugs. Pot (weed) was easy to grow, very cheap. Used to smoke it in bongs rather than joints, more bang for your buck. Trips [LSD] were cheap, I think. About 2 pounds and you were on the high for over 24 hours with no sleep. My drug of choice was hash. Either the oil or the block. It was a nice high, but you could not function well. But if you listen to the music of the time it really does reflect what it was like, to have a group of friends over for a session. Having said all that the most outlandish and shocking drug I ever saw anyone use was the birth control pill. Didn't you have to hide that stuff away?!

Can you tell us some 70s slang that isn’t really in use anymore? What in the world does “ultra-blagging” mean? (As written in a letter penned by Freddie to his friend Celine in 1969.)

Abso-bloody-lootely!

Man, I thought I was the bees knees to be on a scholarship in London. But that didn't stop me from jigging or having a skive day. They were the days that I blagged my way into a pub, had too many lagers and ended up chundering in the gutter. That was how you knew your night was ace. I would get a right bollocking if anyone found out. It would be a bugger when all that you could find at a car boot sale was chavtastic, but sometimes you could be Jammy Dodger and tickety-boo you find something brilliant. Bob's your uncle. Anyways, I need to see a man about a dog.

[It seems to me that J uses a bit of Australian slang here, like chundering, which makes sense because she is, after all, Australian. She also provided the translation:]

Cheers

J

It would be my honour.

I felt very privileged to be given a scholarship that let me study in England. But being so young and having no family to guide me, it was often tempting to not turn up or give a false excuse for being sick. (I had a lot of food poisoning). These would often happen if the night before I had been drinking beer and ended up vomiting outside the pub. But in my young mind that was a good night. If any of the teachers found me drinking I would be in a lot of trouble. Often I would have to say I was holding it for someone else. Not having much clothes with me, I would buy them second hand from church jumble sales or other students and, yes, Kensington market (the market). Some of the stuff would not be very tasteful or in good condition. But sometimes you would find something that was cheap and in good condition. I will stop this text now as I must go to the toilet.

PS: Ultrablagging sounds very Freddie. Blagging was used, but not ultra, meaning to persuade someone to do something or act better than you are. They were always rock stars.

Sincerely

J

[It was at this point that I realised I was talking to an absolute legend. She also told me then that the majority of her old photographs had sadly been lost when her house was flooded in 1988, including most of the photographs from her stay in London. Noooo! :(]

When you went out to dance, did you have only live music? Were there DJs yet?

You know, that is hard. We did not have a DJ. Sometimes there would be a band. Often we looked for places with a band or the jukebox. I think pubs closed at 10pm and some stayed open to 12 or 1, but public transport stopped at 9. So if you had not arranged a lift then you had to make the last bus. Most of the time we would be heading back to someone's place to get stoned and then crash there. In the morning you would have to work out where you were. When I got back to Australia, the discos were all the rage. They could have been in London too but it was not cool to like disco.

How many people would show up to Queen’s gigs when they played in pubs or at, for example, the Imperial College?

Depending on the location and the night: 10 to 1000!

So how did you first meet the Queen boys?

I was at the pub talking about a band we saw last week when Brian stuck his head into our booth telling us he knew a better one. Thinking about seeing them at the stall... Roger not often, Freddie quite a lot. Often on different stalls, I think that is why I can't remember the name. [The name of the stall. Other sources confirm that Freddie also worked at Alan Muir’s stall, for example, selling shoes.]

How well did you know them?

Just looking at your tumblr account. [she has had a look at my blog, where somebody asked if ‘groupie’ meant she had slept with the band] No, I never slept with the boys. I would not say I was a close friend, but I started at Ealing Art College in ‘72 and moved in the same circles. I loved the music and could be called one of the first groupies. I had to sneak into the pubs because I was 16. Roger always teased me for being so young. They all did seem to be one very large family, not just the band. It was a group of about twenty regulars, both male and female. Everyone knew that Fred was too gay to function. We were all at the gay rights march in London in 1972, had to run after the march. Lots of sharpies [Australian slang: youth gang, thugs] wanting to bash us. Back then I was in every protest that was going, student union rights, even the secretary protest. Just part of the times, stick it to Man or Woman. I left London in ‘74 for Australia, been here ever since and lost track of the boys but have never stopped being a fan.

What do you remember about them? How would you describe their personalities?

Don’t let the trolls hate me, but I did not like Brian. I found him to be rather full of himself. Space was a subject you never brought up around Brian or you would die of old age before he stopped talking. He was always the first to speak and start a conversation and then quickly passed you off to John, who was always tired and shy. Roger was also quite shy at times. He was very self-conscious of his looks, as he felt being pretty, nobody would take him seriously. Fred, well, he was not yet the big star, so I think he was working on his stage persona. When talking to groups at parties, he had the best stories of things that had happened to him or close friends. They were very funny and very descriptive. He was the life of the party. When he had a few to drink or was the centre of attention, he would take a cigarette out of the closest person’s hand and start smoking. Now remember this is the point of view of a 16-year-old girl that was a fish out of water, trying to fit in and not having much worldly experience.

It is said that Freddie and Roger were very stylish. How did they dress in everyday life?

Fred would do his hair and makeup to check the mail. Yes, he was always turned out, but so were a lot of people. Freddie did go over the top with hats, scarfs and jewellery. With Roger, it is a surprise he was able to have kids his jeans were that tight. And his shirts were always open unless he was in a jumper. I think it could have been so that you knew he was male, as it was the start of the unisex clothing. When I travelled out of London I realised it was a London thing. When I got back to Australia everyone thought I was a show-off.

There are some disagreements about how tall especially Freddie was. I know this is a difficult thing to try and remember accurately. But do you remember?

Freddie was taller than me but everyone was. Roger was shorter than Fred, but I never saw Roger in platform shoes. I did meet up with the band by chance at Sydney airport in 1984, said ‘hello’ but they did not remember me, or if they did then they did not say anything and I did not want to be a dork. At that time Fred was the same height as me (5ft 8in/1.72m), Roger was taller than me. It made me think at the time that he had a growth spurt! John was shorter than me and Brian has always been tall. [I have a feeling the platform shoes - or lack thereof - played a vital role here! Although 172cm for Freddie seems likely.]

You said everyone knew Freddie was “too gay to function”. Attitudes towards homosexuality have changed so much that it can be hard for us, now, to fathom what exactly people must have thought of him. Was it more of a joke that he was so camp? Was it something he would have been teased for? Also, he had a girlfriend. Did you ever meet Mary or the other girlfriends?

In 1972 a whole group of us - and I am pretty sure that Fred, Roger, Brian and Tim were there - were in a gay pride march. [Since then, J has found and showed me a picture of a boy she thought was Tim Staffel, and it wasn't, so Tim was most definitely not there. Whether Freddie, Roger and Brian really were there or if J is misremembering, who knows?] Us youth believed you could not choose who you fell in love with and if it was same sex, so what? However, if it was two girls then it was every guy’s duty to change her!

It was also a time that the gayer the guy was, the more the girls were interested. Also, if a guy was gay then you did not have to worry about him and he was a good person to take with you if you were going out drinking. However, the police, parents, teachers and anyone of authority were horrified and treated them badly. I did meet Mary a couple of times at pubs and once after a gig. This is just my opinion, but I found her a bitch. It could be that I was so young. It could be that I was very Australian. It could be that she felt threatened as my accent was a magnet to people around. And the boys (Queen) were no exception. Brian had a cousin in OZ and was always asking questions. I remember that my close group of friends thought that Mary made the perfect girlfriend for Fred as they were as fake as each other. Having said that about them, I often wonder if I would think the same now and if my perceptions were just because she would not give me the time of Day. Chrissy and Jo were a lot of fun.

This was before your time, but I read that Freddie's nickname at Ealing Art School was ‘Freddie Baby’. Any ideas how this came about? His showmanship or maybe personality traits?

I don't think so. There were an older crowd that would talk like that. I think the slang ‘baby’ was a 60’s thing, like groovy baby.

How long, roughly, did Roger and Freddie have their stall? I can't find anywhere when it closed down. What did it actually look like? Was it a sort of wooden stall type of thing? Or an actual room? What were some of the other things people sold at Kensington Market? Mostly clothes or all sorts?

The markets were little divided shops. The back was brick and the walls wood. I have been trying all day to remember the name. [Of the stall.] I think it was something hard to say. More often than not it would be Freddie's dad in the store. It was still open when I left. Roger and Freddie were both in the store on Saturdays and some Sundays. There was a girl, I think Jill, who was in the store more. And during the week it could be anyone. You name it and you could get it at the markets. Second hand or designer clothes, shoes, jewellery, pot and assortments. Hair cuts, food, bric-a-brac.

Wait, wait. What? Freddie’s dad? Really now?

Yeah, it was an older Indian man. so we just assumed it was his father. It was my understanding that he started the stall then the boys would work it as the whole markets were set up for younger people, but if needed he would work there. I don't think the boys would be able to pay the rent on their own. [I have since found out that the stall closed in late 1971, and Freddie continued to work at the Market until '74, for Alan Mair and possibly others. So the stall J witnessed wasn't their original stall - explaining all the different people she saw there - but she had no way of knowing that it wasn't.] They always had incense burning that was very big in the 70s. I still occasionally bring out the sticks, but it does not last like the candles and diffusers of today. If you could get in touch with Robert Daniels, he ran ChaChaDumDum it was the stall across from Freddie. He would know the dates.

[J says it’s this look, in a picture she happened across while looking at my tumblr] Yep, that is the one. It usually means that he does not believe or agree with something that was said and is working out how to respond, or he has lost the plot.

You mentioned Roger seemed shy to you at times. Was he also quite charming? We read a lot about what a chick magnet he was. Was this the impression you had?

My favorite subject! I had a thing for Roger. Everyone has a type and mine is the blue-eyed blond. Now, before you ask, was he brunet? No, he was a mouse/dirty blond. If it was summer he would have blond streaks mostly at the ends. He knew he was pretty and was always dressed in the latest fashion and had the current hairstyle. So, being my type I was constantly watching him. Everyone slept around during that time. I did not notice Roger doing it more or less. 80% of the time he was with Jo. Yes, he was a chick magnet, but he did not do the chasing. He was always very polite to everyone. If it ever looked like there would be any conflict he would be the first to leave it. It was not that he was a coward, just not into conflict. If he saw anyone that needed help he was right there, and often had to have Freddie's back. I never saw him in a fight. He could always talk his way out of things. He was also very patient and would listen for hours to other people talk. However, he would get this vacant look in his eyes at times.

And Freddie would either click his fingers, change the subject or just give up. I don’t think that Brian noticed, and it would be fair game for John, he would see how far he could push it. Roger liked to drink a fair bit and when drunk he would be hanging all over Jo. If she was not there then he missed Jo. If, however, he thought that he or his friends were not being respected, then look out! It was a verbal volcano heading your way. That is what happened to me one time. I was trying to talk with my friends close to where a drunken Roger was and I yelled at him to shut the hell up, you wannabe blond. We/I coped a mouthful back, all in the same sentence, that finished with: Sorry, I didn't realise you were on your rags (period)! I have to have the last word, so I told him the truth: I don’t get them yet! (I was a late starter.) He went so red in the face and called me JB [jail bait] from then.

You also mentioned Roger’s cat Ziggy having kittens. I read about this but never when exactly it was. Do you remember?

I think it was winter ‘73. I remember being cold when he was asking around the pub. [To find homes for the kittens, I gather.]

Is it quite strange reading fictional interpretations of real people you knew? When did you first find out there was Queen fanfic?

No, we used to make up stories about people all the time, a verbal fanfic. Was looking up Adam Lambert and came across the fanfics. Some had me in stitches! Others, like DoA, had me hooked.

Please, allow me to be a little self-indulgent at the end. What's one thing I got totally RIGHT in DoA?

All the Ibex stuff.

What's one thing I got totally WRONG in DoA?

Roger did not have a temper, and I don’t know what the go with his father was, but he would talk about him quite a bit and was always visiting his mum. [Absolutely fair, not only did I change the timeline of Roger’s parents divorce in DoA - for lack of information at the time - but also created a completely fictional narrative around it for the sake of storytelling.]

J, thank you so much for all this, sincerely. Can you tell me a little more about yourself? Are you still an artist?

I don't paint or draw any more. At the age of a 50 the doctors operated on an aneurysm or three, and now my eyesight is very bad, I have no fine motor skills and a tremor. I was married in January 1984 and have just celebrated our 37 year anniversary. I have one daughter who is 30 and two great, although tiring grandkids. A girl, 11, and one boy, 5. I have lived my life as the average middle class Australian with great memories. Talking with you has helped me a lot to remember a time when the world was mine for the taking. When I returned to OZ I started nursing, met my best friend, and we planned that once we graduated we would go back to London to study midwifery. But I fell in love instead.

J's wedding in 1984. As you can see, she found her own blue-eyed blond.

---

Upon request, J has shared some of her past and present artwork with me.

These are from her time at Ealing Art School:

These were done later, back in Australia:

J: Did this just before Christmas as you had inspired me. It did not require fine motor skills!

So there you have it! I hope you found this little glimpse through a 16-year-old girl’s eyes as much of a fascinating read as I did. I urge everybody one more time to remember that J did not have to share any of this, and I think we all owe her a big thank you for delving into her memories. She is likely to see the responses on AO3, so I have comment moderation enabled there as I will not let anybody harass this lovely lady. The tumblr she created is @since72, but she isn’t really an active user and also very new to it all. Again, I can only urge everybody to be respectful.

If you have other burning question for J, feel free to leave them in the comments on AO3. I will either pass them on, or she may want to reply to them herself directly.

[sometimeseffable]

a sudden proposal

Aziraphale finds he likes talking about Crowley rather a lot.

“How long have you two known each other?”

“Oh, ages. Practically since the beginning.”

The women coo. “High school sweethearts, how romantic!”

“Er, actually, the getting together bit was fairly recent. Our, uh, families weren’t too keen on it, so. Well. It was mostly me who put it off, I think Anthony would have been ready to elope a few thousand years ago.”

If there’s anything odd about the statement, the group doesn’t show it. They simply laugh it off as a humorous exaggeration, which Aziraphale is grateful for. Sometimes he forgets how time works for humans.

“Families can be hard,” says Candace sympathetically.

“Indeed. Took a while to get over thinking Gabriel would show up at my door just to tell me off - “ Aziraphale freezes, realizing the slip up far too late. Susan just clucks her tongue.

“Older brother?” 

Relieved, Aziraphale nods. “A fairly overbearing one at that.”

“I know all about that,” Deidre interrupts. Adam’s mother had been, with a little demonic intervention, graciously welcoming of Adam’s ‘godfathers’ dropping in on the boy’s twelfth birthday party. Even if it was completely unannounced. “When Arthur proposed, my sister was not happy with me. Kept wanting me to get back with my ex, you remember John from secondary school? Well, I told her, I said…”

Aziraphale lets the idle chatter wash over him, pleased to be part of a human social gathering for the first time since Portland Place gentleman’s club closed. He glances over to where Crowley is busy entertaining the Them, and can’t help but smile.

 The demon is engaging in a non-lethal watergun fight with the kids and Newt. The teams had started off as strictly Adults vs Kids, and has since devolved into Newt running around yelping as Crowley tag-teams with the Them in a desperate bid to get him soaked to the bone. They seem to have devised an exceedingly efficient battle strategy.

 Aziraphale can just catch the edge of fangs in his demon’s manic grin. His entirely too-human heart flutters at the sight of Crowley letting go of his ridiculously aloof facade and having fun for once. Such a rare sight after centuries of looking over his shoulder, unappreciated by his colleagues and at constant risk of Hell’s displeasure.

“Anthony certainly knows how to handle kids,” someone remarks, bringing Aziraphale back to the present. “Do you ever want some of your own?”

He flushes under the August sun. “Oh - well, um, we’ve never - never really discussed it.” 

The answer was a hard no, but the angel felt rather uncomfortable discussing the delicate horror of watching onesselve outlive their human children. Thankfully, Candace comes to his aid.

“Understandable. Anne and I didn’t even consider having kids until they passed the marriage act. I remember the day they passed it. Hopeless romantics, we were, we got married the very next day. It was all very exciting.”

There’s a moment of wistful joy as Candace gives him a knowing look, eyes quickly flicking down to the winged ring on Aziraphale’s pinky. He blushes harder.

“Oh,” he demurs, “No, we’re not - “

“Everything alright over here?” Crowley materializes at Aziraphale’s shoulder, somehow bone dry despite that he’d been manning a SuperSoaker 9000 for the better part of an hour. A plate slides smoothly into the angel’s lap. “Cake, angel?”

The women all twitter at the pet name. Suddenly, the idea of correcting Candace’s assumptions seems terribly wrong as Crowley settles into the lawn chair next to him, arm slung loose over Aziraphale’s shoulders. His demon is wildly animated in his storytelling, wooing the ladies further. Aziraphale listens to him with a flutter of pride and quietly eats his cake, contemplative. 

The drive back to London is spent in comfortable silence. What had begun as Tchaikovesky’s 14th symphony has morphed slowly into the heart-aching refrains of Love of My Life. Crowley hums along softly, fingers laced through Aziraphale’s on the angel’s knee as he steers one-handed. 

Aziraphale watches him. Warm light from the setting August sun catches his hair so that it shines like fire, painting delicate gold over high cheekbones. Those infernal glasses cover his eyes, yet he imagines they would be soft with contentment. In fact, with all the tension loosened from his shoulders, radiating love like a furnace as he is, Aziraphale is quite sure this is the most relaxed and - dare he say it - happy Crowley has ever been in his presence. Possibly, and he would be remiss not to consider it, his happiest since the Fall. 

All of a sudden, the millennia he’s spent denying they were even friends feels like an anchor crushing his chest, collapsing his ribcage until he can barely breathe.

They break the silence at nearly the same time.

“So, I was thinking when we got back, we could get - “

“We should get married.”

Since they’re doing just ten over the speed limit, the Bentley’s screeching halt holds less promise of imminent discorporation than usual. Neither being moves; Aziraphale’s heart beats a rapid tattoo in his chest as Crowley stares at the road ahead of them, mouth ajar.

“...Thai,” the demon croaks, “I was gonna suggest Thai. Hang on, back up, you want us to what?” 

Aziraphale wishes the seat would open and swallow him whole in a fit of cliche. “I - I said perhaps we should get married,” he says, voice sounding terribly small even to his own ears, “I just - well, I was talking to Candace, you know, Deidre’s friend, and - and she made an excellent point regarding - “

“Okay.”

“Sorry?”

“Okay,” Crowley repeats. The black glasses leave his face unreadable, “We’ll get married.”

It does not sound like the most enthused of proposal acceptances. 

Aziraphale feels the swell of assured confidence deflate a touch. “Oh. Right then. Tickety...boo.”

Crowley nods and turns back to the road. The Bentley makes it another ten meters before it stops again.

“I can’t go in a church.”

“Loads of people get married other ways, dear.” Aziraphale wonders if that were a true concern, or a deflection that could be used as a big red TERMINATE button.

“Right.”

Another two meters before they stop.

Aziraphale throws up his hands, exasperated. “Oh for Hell’s sake, if you don’t want to marry then we won’t!”

“No!” Crowley yelps, strangled. He twists his ridiculously lanky body to face the angel, and were he capable of it, there would probably be sweat on his brow, “It’s not that, it’s just. Like married married. Like you want to spend the rest of eternity trapped in a legally binding contract to me in the eyes of the Almighty, and you think we won’t tear each other up because sssomeone’s leaving the telly on or dishesss in the sssink, and it’sss not too fassst - “

Aziraphale kisses him.

The rest of Crowley’s diatribe is muffled into a short mmph. Instinctively, his hands come up to frame Aziraphale’s face, protective as always. Aziraphale pushes the glasses back up into his hair. Wide gold eyes blink at him, terrified and hopeful and oh-so smitten.

Aziraphale presses another reverent kiss to his palm. “Too fast?”

“Never.” Crowley lets out a shaky breath. “Whatever you want, angel, s’long as you’re sure.”

“Of course I’m sure.” Aziraphale kisses him full on the mouth again, slow and sweet. Then he pulls away with a frown. “Don’t we miracle the dishes clean?”

“It’s an expression,” Crowley mumbles before swooping in for a thorough snog. Aziraphale’s hand tangles in his fiance’s hair - oh, but isn’t that a thought? A very, very lovely thought. Someone snaps their fingers; they fall, giggling, into the back seat, trading fervent, giddy kisses. 

London can wait. They’ve got all the time they need.

---

Part two of the ineffable godfathers miniseries

[theineffablecon]

Feeling nervous about TIC2?

Are you considering attending TIC2, but are feeling nervous?  

We’d like to help, so here are some common concerns:   1) I don’t want to be on voice or video  

You don’t need to be! Voice and video are off for panels for participants and only on for games. You choose what you do!

2) I don’t like using Zoom  

Good news! As long as there isn’t an Armageddon with our platform, you shouldn’t need to use Zoom! Everything will be in your browser. Our platform, Accelevents, has made a handy “what’s it like” vid here: https://youtu.be/NGLfNriUeVU

3) I’m worried I won’t know anyone  

We’ll have text chat available during all of our sessions and chat rooms, where you can opt to use text, voice or video as you wish, available throughout. There’s evening games, too, which are a great opportunity to meet new people!

4) I really don’t want to get to know anyone!   

That’s OK, too! All panels (with the exception of interactive sessions) will be recorded, so you can watch at your leisure and without interaction. You don’t have to have chats open if you want to watch live, either.

5) Will any of the sessions be subtitled?  

All special guest sessions (https://theineffablecon.org.uk/guests.php) will be subtitled and other panels will be transcribed on a volunteer basis. Get in touch if you’d like to help!

6) I want to come, but I can’t afford to...  

That’s what Tickety Boo is for! The assistance scheme has raised £869 and helped 48 people to date. You can apply or donate here: https://theineffablecon.org.uk/ticketyboo.php

7) I won’t know for sure if I can come until...  

You can book tickets up to TIC2 itself-in fact, you can book tickets DURING the Con, if you need to! Sessions will be available for members for 30 days after the convention (ticket sales close when the convention ends, though!)

Any other worries, we are genuinely here to help. One of us is new to fandom, the other a fandom stalwart, so we understand and can support any concerns you have.  

So...is it temptation accomplished?

[justkeeptrekkin]

If you’re still doing ineffable husbands prompts??? Something with Crowley and being self conscious bout his eyes pls. It’s a weakness of mine lol

I had way too much fun writing this… I hope you enjoy!! Tagging my mate @mikudave, who also requested some snake Crowley. 

***

“Crowley, dear, where are you hiding?”

Crowley cracks open one snake eye. Technically, he isn’t hiding. He had been napping, until Aziraphale’s sing-song voice woke him up. Naps are always significantly better when you can be a snake and curl up in some quiet nook somewhere. No bed required. No judgment. Because, unsurprisingly, people don’t tend to judge snakes that happen to be asleep behind a bookcase- they just scream and run away. 

Crowley pokes his snakehead around the edge of said bookcase and darts his tongue. He can taste Aziraphale’s cologne in the air. Out of sight, somewhere in the room, Aziraphale sighs wearily, but affectionately. 

“Oh, come now, there’s no need for that. If you want to ignore me then don’t go to sleep in my bookshop.”

He stretches his head out further, and he sees him- stepping slowly into the room, looking about the place with a small smile and a twinkle in his eye. His neck craned backwards so he can gaze up into the light that pours through the glass dome above. Bathing in it like the day he was born- how all angels are born, in the light of God’s smile. 

All angels including Crowley, once upon a time. 

Crowley lets his snake eyes stare at him from afar, just for a moment longer. Then, he gathers his limited energy and slithers into view. He likes a good slither. Slithering is much more satisfying than walking, which involves using too many joints, and hips getting in the way. Just as he’s about to sneak up behind Aziraphale’s back, the angel turns and peers down. He sighs again, straightening his waist-coat thoughtlessly. 

“Oh there you are, my love.” Crowley’s cold blood warms at those words. He curls around Aziraphale’s leg like a vine, wrapping around his waist and coming to rest his head on his shoulder. Aziraphale peers over at him with narrowed eyes and raised brows, a furtive smile. “Where have you been, then? Scare any customers away?”

“Yesssssss. Jusssst a couple. One of them almost called animal control.”

“Wonderful. Hang on- actually,” Aziraphale double takes, planted on the spot now that he has a giant python wrapped around him. “Not all that wonderful, Crowley. I do very much appreciate that you’re- uhm-”

“Sssssstanding guard,” he supplies.

“Fine, standing guard, however you want to call it. I admit that it was getting exhausting miracling all the customers away, and I do love you for doing this, but- I don’t know how many times I can convince the RSPCA that ‘no, there’s no python here, everything’s just fine, tickety boo, nothing to worry about, officer, thank you very much, have a nice day’. And all that.”

The chastising look he’s getting from Aziraphale isn’t very intimidating- actually, it’s a bit comical, particularly with his face this close to Crowley’s. He can only see him with one eye, anyway- the other eye, on the other side of his snake head, is facing Aziraphale’s desk and surveying the half drunk bottle of whisky with interest. 

Thinking that perhaps he ought to give Aziraphale a chance to have a real conversation face to face, he makes a sussurating, serpentine sigh and takes his human form. By the time scales have become skin and the tail has become limbs, he’s still wrapped around Aziraphale, albeit with his feet on the ground. His arms are around Aziraphale’s waist, clinging. His face buried in the soft cashmere of his jacket. His breath hot on his face, trapped between the material and his lips. He lets himself hang there. 

Aziraphale feels like home. 

It makes Crowley angry sometimes, thinking of all the times he could have held him like this, felt like this. All the times he could have been braver and said those three simple words.

“Have you been sleeping all morning?” Aziraphale asks gently, rubbing his back.

“Sleepy,” he grumbles.

“Oh, dear.” The way Aziraphale says this is like he’s consoling a moody toddler. 

“S’fine. Just that it’s cold outside and your shop’s warm.”

“Mmm, yes. I turned the heating on the day before yesterday. Such strange weather we’re having at the moment. Do you know, British Gas rang me yesterday and tried to tell me that I haven���t been paying my bills. Can you believe it?”

Crowley snorts, lifts his head up and leans back from their embrace a little. Soft, but stern pale eyes scan over Crowley’s face. 

“What did you say?”

Aziraphale blinks at him. “Well, obviously I found my log books and gave them a thorough run down of my payments. As if I don’t keep track of my bills. Really.”

“Really,” he agrees with amusement.

There had, of course, been the time when Aziraphale had been visited by the Tax Man for being so suspiciously good at balancing his books. Truth is, he really is just that diligent. Crowley briefly feels sorry for the British Gas employee who must have been on the other end of that phone call- they must have had their ear talked off. Gotten a proper lecture, just like the Tax Man. And then, Crowley is bizarrely overwhelmed by how proud he is of Aziraphale for being so unceasingly irritating. 

This thought process is interrupted as Crowley registers the dreamy look on Aziraphale’s face. A sweet smile and pinched brows. 

“What is it,” he asks warily. Aziraphale’s soppy expressions usually indicate when Crowley’s unintentionally done something nice. Or romantic. 

Well, at least, it’s very rarely intentional.

“Nothing, my dear.” Aziraphale pats his chest with a coy smile. Implying it’s not nothing at all, and he’s about to expand any second- 

“It’s just,” the angel continues, gaze peering at him through his lashes. “You have such lovely eyes. Sometimes, it just catches me off guard.”

Of all the things for Aziraphale to say, he hadn’t expected that at all. 

And after all the years that the two of them have known each other, his compliments still make Crowley twitch. 

“Don’t be stupid,” he mutters. He hates how he sounds. 

And he loves that Aziraphale is unfazed by the sneer that’s most probably on his face right now.

“You do. They’re really, truly beautiful, my dear.”

“Stop it.”

“I am being totally serious.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re right.”

“Oh- I may be a bit daft at times, but I’m right about some things, and this is one of them.”

“God you’re- you’re insufferable-”

“You’re beautiful, Crowley-”

“Aziraphale.”

“Your eyes are golden like Autumn leaves-”

“Jesus. I’m- I am genuinely considering becoming a snake just to strangle you, you do realise that-?”

“Shining like distant suns-”

“I will leave you.”

“Do you not see that you have nice eyes, Crowley?”

“They’re fine. They’re eyes. Serve their purpose.”

“Yes but- they’re golden. They’re remarkable. Some would even say angelic.”

“Except they’re not, are they?”

The teasing smile on Aziraphale’s expression falls a little. The teasing tone in Crowley’s voice turns bitter. And Aziraphale’s hands hold onto the lapel of Crowley’s jacket. The gesture is strangely protective. 

“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry, Crowley. I hadn’t realised you were self-conscious,” Aziraphale says quietly. Just for them to hear, even though they’re alone in the bookshop.

And Crowley doesn’t look back, even though he feels Aziraphale’s eyes on him. He refuses to look back. Something in him makes him want to run away. He doesn’t- instead, he grinds his teeth and breathes loudly through his nose, staring at the pile of E. M. Forster books on the table adjacent. 

He could stand here silently and ignore that statement, or he could argue (and lose that battle, because there’s no use arguing with Aziraphale). Instead, he sighs. 

“They’re not angelic, though, are they. They’re the one thing about my form I can’t change. If I discorporate, I could have any other body, but I would still have these eyes.” And he thinks he’s finished, except he hasn’t, because the words tumble out of his mouth like he’s drunk. “Just- you know, a fun reminder of that little mistake I made, when I was young and reckless- and hung out with the wrong crowd, like any stupid kid does. A warning to everyone else that I’m wily. And bad and cruel and untrustworthy. Because, obviously, you know, people deserve to have their mistakes literally branded on them for the rest of eternity.”

And then he really is finished, so he swallows and sighs, turning his gaze to Aziraphale’s bow tie. It’s not tartan today, but it’s just as poncy. Meanwhile, Aziraphale is quiet. Like he’s been embarrassed into silence for putting his foot so thoroughly in it, Crowley thinks. 

But then, Aziraphale always manages to surprise Crowley, just a little. 

“I know just the thing.”

With one more comforting pat on Crowley’s chest, Aziraphale untangles himself and disappears behind some bookshelves. The shop feels almost frighteningly large- without Aziraphale’s close presence, without the tight nook of a bookshelf as a bed. Crowley peers over his shoulder to see him fussing, tutting to himself as he peruses a pile of dusty first editions. Moving one pile out of the way to make room for the next, bending down to find something in particular, it seems. 

“What you looking for, angel,” he asks, a little gruffly in his confusion.

Aziraphale doesn’t answer, which is his way of telling Crowley to be patient and bear with him. Eventually, he makes a pleased little hum, and pulls out a book from the bottom of the very last pile. 

Aziraphale twirls around theatrically to face Crowley, book open in one hand and the other clutching his chest. 

“Golden Eyes,” he announces, with his best thespian voice. “A poem by Laurence Hope.”

“No,” is all Crowley says in response. 

“Oh Amber Eyes, oh Golden Eyes! Oh Eyes so softly gay!”

“Christ.”

“Wherein swift fancies fall and rise, Grow dark and fade away!” Aziraphale begins to pace the room, book hand extended like he’s reading from a script. Like he’s one of Shakespeare’s actors, only, miraculously, even more ridiculous. “Eyes like a little limpid pool That holds a sunset sky, While on its surface, calm and cool, Blue water lilies lie-”

“You can stop now,” Crowley argues, a smile creeping up on him. 

Aziraphale seems to pick up on his amusement, because he bounds over with dramatically wide eyes, and is now, God help him, making whimsical hand gestures to accompany his performance. He’s enjoying this too much. “Oh Tender Eyes, oh Wistful Eyes, You smiled on me one day, And all my life, in glad surprise, Leapt up and pleaded ‘Stay!’ Ooh, now, hang on,” he interrupts himself, “let me just find my favourite bit…”

“You- don’t. You don’t have to.”

“I do, and I shall,” he replies primly, putting on his reading glasses and tilting his head upwards so he can read the pages a little better. “Ah! Here we are- are you ready?”

“No.”

“Ah laughing, ever-brilliant eyes, These things men may not know, But something in your radiance lies, That, centuries ago, Lit up my life in one wild blaze Of infinite desire To revel in your golden rays, Or in your light expire.”

And- yeah, alright, that is quite nice, Crowley thinks. Maybe he can put up with being serenaded every now and then, so long as he gets to roll his eyes and pretend he hates it. And Aziraphale’s bashfulness finally seems to catch up with him as he approaches Crowley slowly, eyes fixed on the book and a small, self-conscious smile on his lips. 

He continues, softly.

“If this, oh Strange Ringed Eyes, be true, That through all changing lives This longing love I have for you Eternally survives-” 

Crowley reaches out a hand to find Aziraphale’s, to run along his arm. 

“May I not sometimes dare to dream In some far time to be Your softly golden eyes may gleam Responsively on me?”

And at that, Aziraphale sighs. He looks away from the page and Crowley takes the book from him, lays it on the table behind him. 

“Well?” Aziraphale asks quietly. A little coquettishly. “May I dare to dream?”

Crowley huffs and shakes his head. He lays a hand on Aziraphale’s cheek, watches the angel’s eyes flutter closed. 

“You silly sod,” he whispers, just so he doesn’t have to hear himself choke. 

With that said, he answers Aziraphale’s question- he answers in a kiss. Soft, sure, and more eloquent than any words he’d ever be able to stumble through.

[lyricwritesprose]

More Dialogue Stuff

This is part of a series about writing.  You can find the first part here.

Okay, so, dialogue.  Again.

If you've ever read Jane Austen, you will know that popular views on how dialogue works have changed a lot.  Back in the day, there wasn't as much emphasis on making dialogue sound natural.  They wanted it to sound good, instead, and had specific ideas about what sounded good.  These days, we're all about sounding natural and will sacrifice smoothness.  Except, of course, that transcribing a conversation as spoken would involve way too much "uh," and "um," and starting over—so the goal is dialogue that sounds real, but isn't.

To that end, a lot of writers these days include “uh,” and “um,” and sentences that break off—but only when they tell us something.  (That thing can be just that the character is inarticulate.  Still.  The point is, it serves a function.)  So, if you have dialogue like this:

“I couldn’t—”  He took a deep, ragged breath.  “I couldn’t.  I just—you were—I couldn’t take it, I couldn’t do anything, you were just gone.  So what was the point?  Of anything?  What was the fucking point?”

The places where the sentence loses its way, the m-dashes (these things: — ), the single curse, all of it is supposed to indicate a character in emotional turmoil, talking about a traumatic event where they thought they lost someone close to them.  This character may talk differently when they are not talking about trauma.

(It is worth noting that m-dashes, ellipses (three dots, like so . . . ), and italics are something that I arguably overuse, as a writer.  Some of this stuff is based on personal preference.  It’s worth thinking about those personal preferences, and what you like in the stories you read.)

Let’s have a cut and then talk about voice.

“Voice” is the distinctive speech patterns of a particular character.  This is something that stands out especially in fanfiction, so I’ll talk about it from a fanfic writer’s perspective.  An example: my current main fandom has a character by the name of Aziraphale.  He happens to be an actual, supernatural angel, but that’s not necessarily important for writing his dialogue.  What is important is that, despite not being born in England (or arguably born at all) he is almost stereotypically English.  He will use silly-sounding phrases like “tickety-boo,” with absolutely no trace of irony.  He tends to speak in an old-fashioned way.  He also speaks in an erudite way, like someone who has been reading books for hundreds of years (he has).  Aziraphale uses phrases like, “dear boy,” and “dear” (more in fanfic than in canon, but then, fanfic tends to be more overtly romantic).  And it is worth noting that Aziraphale presents himself as very gay—opinions on how much he’s doing it deliberately vary within the fandom, but it’s there.

What this means is that there are some things you do, when writing this character, and there are some things that you avoid.  Modern slang, imprecision, local dialects from somewhere that isn’t England (unless you’re writing an AU)—these are things to keep out of this character’s speech.  On the other hand, you can, with care, use long, fussy words like “imprecision” and “erudite” and other things that you might not use for a different character.

If you are doing fanfic, you can get a sense of voice from canon.  Many characters have extremely distinctive voices—for me, the tenth Doctor comes to mind—full of personal quirks and special ways of enunciating and words that he loves to use.  (Sometimes, if it’s a TV or movie franchise, these things are difficult to represent in print.  I have never been satisfied with the phrase “popping the P,” which everyone seems to use for Ten’s distinctive approach to plosive consonants, but I’ve also never seen anyone come up with anything better.)  If you are writing an original story, you’ve got to come up with all this on your own, and depending on your writing style, keeping a cheat sheet might help.

Another thing to remember about dialogue is something I picked up from Russell T. Davies, the person who brought Doctor Who back and wrote a valuable book on writing which I have meant to obtain for some time now.   Davies notes that people don’t often listen to each other on more than a superficial level, or explain what’s really going on with themselves.  You can create a lot of tension with this: a character who is having a breakdown keeps saying things like, “I’m fine,” and you have a situation where the character you want to care for them will be uncertain whether they ought to, or whether they’re welcome, or whether, in fact, the subtext is, “Go away, I don’t want you.”  The moment when that character decides, “Screw it, I am taking care of him anyway, because he needs it,” thus has more dramatic weight.  (If it seems like this particular scenario is heavily draw from the hurt/comfort subgenre of fanfic—you are absolutely right.)  You don’t have to make your characters talk past each other all the time—but you don’t want to make them understand each other all the time, either.  Especially with certain kinds of stories.  If you’re writing an episode in the life of an old married couple, it’s likely that they’ll have at least a few aspects of this “communication” thing hashed out, but if you’re writing a romance where people get together?  The moment when they actually understand what’s going on with the other one may well be your climax, and you don’t want to make things too easy for them.

Which means it’s also important to keep in mind what each character actually means when they say something.  You can conceal it from the reader—probably should, if you’re writing in third person limited, which most people do these days.  But you, as the writer, should have an idea of where they’re coming from.  A character can say, “I’m fine,” and mean I don’t want to talk about it because it bothers me and I don’t want to think about it, or say, “I’m fine,” and mean I am on the edge of a breakdown, or say, “I’m fine,” and mean, you are not actually my friend and I know it, go away.  (Maybe it’s just the genres I read, but I feel like it’s actually fairly rare in fiction for a character to say, “I’m fine,” and mean everything’s okay right now.)

Anyway, that’s all for right now.  Next, by special request: outlining!

If you guys are interested in supporting me in this, I’ve got a ko-fi.

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

Once Bitten, Twice Stupid 119

119

   Lance was sleeping in the car as Keith parked in front of the bookshop where Colleen was waiting with Coran, who’d brought a wheelchair up. Keith was glad the drive back was over. Matt and Pidge were exhausting. Snacks were scattered through Lance’s bronco, despite him scolding them to stop throwing food at each other. Matt helped Pidge out and into the wheelchair, Kosmo inviting himself to follow them out

“You guys go ahead, I’m going to wake Lance up”

Coran nodded, preoccupied with Kosmo. Colleen taking control of the wheelchair, Pidge calling out “remember me how I used to be” as she was wheeled towards the bookshop. Folding his seat down, Keith didn’t want to disturb Lance. His boyfriend deserved his sleep, buuuuut, the vomiting had him worried and he wanted Coran to check Lance out as soon as possible.

  Climbing into the backseat, he undid Lance’s belt, Lance stirring at the belt sliding back into its holder

“Hey, you”

Smiling at him sleepily, Lance still didn’t look well

“Hey yourself, Mullet. We there?”

“Yeah, babe. Here in one piece”

“Mmm, good job, babe”

“You okay?”

“Just tired... I’ll be okay”

Keith wanted to believe him. Having seen Lance throw up more than once did nothing to give him confidence. He’d nearly lost it at Pidge when she’d elbowed Lance

“We’re heading down to Coran’s office. Let’s get you out the car”

“I’m sorry... I really don’t want to move”

“I know but you wanted to see Coran. Let’s get you checked out then I’ll take you home”

“Alright... I’m too exhausted to even argue back”

   Keith kept his arm around his stumbling boyfriend. Lance kept yawning, his head against Keith’s shoulder. Keith had no idea if this was normal or if Lance was lacking in blood. He was surely dehydrated, Keith worried that’d affect their baby, not just his precious boyfriend. The holiday had been relaxing, a little up and down, but very much needed and appreciated. He still had to question how Hunk had found out, but that was a job for later. Lance seemed happier for Hunk knowing, Keith a tad jealous that Lance had sought comfort from Hunk than him, yet extremely grateful Hunk had accepted their news without making Lance feel too insecure to talk to him.

   Pidge was up on Coran’s examination bed when they got there, hovering in the doorway. Colleen scolding her daughter, while Pidge’s face burnt with embarrassment. She looked ready to turn on them, Coran trying his best to calm everyone down, though he seemed slightly scared of Colleen. Keith was ashamed to admit that he wished Coran would assign someone else to Pidge so Lance could be checked over. He loved Pidge, but she wasn’t carrying his baby

“Boys, if you want to take a seat, I’ll be with you shortly. Colleen, perhaps you’d like to hold Pidge’s hand. Pidge, you’ll be right as rain in tickety-boo”

  “Shortly” was too long. He was a horrible friend. What he actually wanted was two Coran’s, or a magical time machine that’d speed up hearing Pidge was going to be okay. Her knee and ankle were both swollen, having done a pretty good job sending herself flying. Coran must have been told off for calling her “Katie”. The poor man couldn’t catch a break. It was best they head out and Lance got some rest  before someone snapped

“Actually, Coran, can we grab a blood bag? And borrow a conference room? Lance is a little dehydrated from sleeping in the sun”

“Good heavens, of course you can. Lance, what have I told you about keeping up your fluids”

Lance sighed at the pair of them

“Sorry, Coran. Keith’s doing that thing where he worries too much”

“Because you’ve barely eaten today!”

“Because I was too tired!”

“You still should have eaten!”

“And you’re worrying too much!”

  “Boys! Please. Matt, why don’t you grab Lance a blood bag out the fridge. Keith, you may use the main conference room. The Blades are out at the moment. Lotor fancied shopping, they’re providing an escort for him and Allura”

Keith hoped Allura wasn’t mad at not being able to come on the trip. It would have been nice to have her, yet another secret to try and keep over her slightly inhuman features. Matt rolled across the room on the examination stool, grabbing a blood bag out the fridge and rolling backwards over to them

“Save yourselves. Mum’s mad Pidge fell over...”

Colleen fixed Matt with a “mother” glare that sent a shiver down Keith’s spine

“That’s enough Matthew”

“Don’t be mad at them. They weren’t there when Pidge decided to show the world why she never made the Olympics”

“No, but you were. Honestly, when will the pair of you act your age?”

“Whelp. It was nice knowing you guys...”

  Keith tugged Lance back with him, Matt closing the door, Collen’s voice cut off as she started yelling at him

“She scares me”

Lance nodded

“Yep. You didn’t have to dob me in”

“I’m allowed to be worried”

“I’m fine... seriously, find me a corner and let me sleep”

“Not until you’ve eaten”

Lance sighed, Keith knowing it was a sigh of defeat

“Then I can go back to sleep?”

“I promise”

“Lead the way...”

    *

Lance made good on napping the moment he could. Keith found himself in the Blade’s main room from muscle memory, it seemed too much effort to find another room when this one empty. Draining the blood bag, Lance fell asleep too fast after eating. First he didn’t even want to eat, then he did, then he was asleep. In that order, with very little time between each step. With Lance sleeping, Keith had nothing to do but look at the pile of papers that’d seemed to accumulate while he’d been gone. There contained schematics of a building with no street address, and that was about the most interesting thing in the paper work.

  About an hour later their peace was disturbed. Pidge wheeling herself in, foot in a moon boot, as Matt held the door open

“Hey, losers! Look what I’ve got!”

Keith regretted everything thought he’d had about Coran needing to prioritise Lance when he say that boot. What kind of friend was he?!

“Pidge...”

“Relax, it’s a bad sprain. Coran put her in it because it’s the only way to keep the gremlin down”

Their talking roused Lance, sleepily he looked to Pidge, eyes widening

“Pidge?”

Coran chuckled, ruffling Pidge’s hair. Pidge looking murderous about it

“She’ll be just fine. Tippity-Top in no time!”

“She’ll be staying at home until she’s given clearance to be up and walking around again”

Pidge whined at her mother

“Muuuuuum. I’m fine. I’ve got these hell cool wheels to test out”

“That’s enough. You’re very lucky Coran was able to see you on short notice”

“My door is always open to friends. I feel like I’ve know our young Pidge for years”

“I would prefer she not get herself into these kinds of accidents to begin with”

“Mum, it was an accident! I didn’t exactly plan on face-planting!”

“I’m really sorry she was hurt...”

  What was Lance apologising for? Right, because he was Lance. Colleen pinched the bridge of her nose like Shiro would have

“This one is all on her. I’m relieved it wasn’t worse”

“You guys are fussing too much”

Matt chuckled at his sister

“That’s because we love our little Pidgeon. We’re going to split. I’ll let the others know Pidge is under house arrest”

“Shoot me already”

Pidge was going to be okay. Accidents happened. It wasn’t serious. A bad sprain wasn’t going to kill her... Keith took a deep breath. His heart racing at the sight of his friend like that, but he tried to be okay knowing she’d be okay

“Maybe we should find that ankle monitor you gave me for my birthday?”

Pidge gaped at him, before pouting

“I’m not the one who needs it...”

Lance snorted with laughter

“I don’t know. We all know you can’t keep a good gremlin down”

Pidge wheeled herself slightly backwards

“Well, I’m out of here! Later losers. Thanks for the weekend!”

“I’ll talk to you guys later. You right to get back to Garrison?”

“Yeah. I’ve got my car. See you later, guys. Nice to see you again, Colleen”

“You to, Lance, Keith”

   Coran let out a long breath once the trio had departed, before lightly slapping his palms against his cheeks

“I would not like to be Pidge. Colleen is a most formidable woman”

Lance yawned softly, nodding as he did

“She scares me. You probably get along with her better because you sub-contract out to her”

“We’ve met very rarely. I never would have placed her as Pidge’s mother. Now, my boy, I do believe you wanted me to a little looksie at you?”

Keith butted in before Lance could downplay his exhaustion

“He’s been tired all weekend. His body temperature dropped on the Saturday and he needed hours in front of the fireplace to bring it back up. He’s also been throwing up more and having trouble with scents”

Coran hummed, fingers going to play with the top of his moustache

“Fatigue and exhaustion are exceptionally common during the first trimester. As is feeling moody, and, or, hormonal. Let’s head to my office and I’ll do your blood work”

  Lance went to get up, only to trip, and hit his head against the table. Keith rushing to his side as his boyfriend groaned

“Babe!”

“I’m okay... my legs are still asleep like the rest of me”

His head wasn’t bleeding, but the egg was already swelling up

“That’s it, I’m carrying you”

“I’m...”

“You’re not fine. You had a whole bag of blood but you’re still tired as hell”

Lance sheepishly amended what he was going to say

“I’m going to be carried?”

“Yes. Now hold onto me”

  Hefting Lance up, his boyfriend was blushing, hand rubbing at the egg forming on his forehead

“Stop rubbing it”

“It hurts”

“All the more reason to leave it alone”

Coran laughed at the pair of them

“I can see you had a long weekend. I’ll try to be as quick as possible to you may go home and rest. I’d love to hear about all your adventures, if you’ve got time to fill this old fae in”

“Keith can tell you. I slept a lot and we went for a walk around a smell pond...”

“He overheated on the walk”

“You’ve got a big mouth for a man without a knife”

“And you said you wanted to talk to Coran, which means talking honestly”

Coran adding to conversation

“And I think perhaps this isn’t the place”

   Carrying Lance to Coran’s office, things were still slightly messy from the fae treating Pidge. It was the messiest he’d ever seen Coran’s office. Laying Lance on the bed, Lance immediately sighed as he sank back against the bed both of them knew wasn’t all that comfortable

“Right. Sleeve up, shirt up, let’s see what’s happening... oooh, I’ve been dying to see this little one again”

“You’re going to do an ultrasound?”

Keith hadn’t thought about Coran doing an ultrasound, he just wanted Lance to feel better and stuff...

“I will. I’m afraid I’ll be going in internally... I guess pants off too would be best”

“I’ll help him while you clean up”

“Do I get a say in this?”

An ultrasound did sound like a good idea. How were they supposed to know if everything was okay if they couldn’t see the baby?

“No. We have to make sure everything is okay with you and the baby”

“I hate it when my arse has to suffer for logic”

“I love you and your arse. You’ll be okay...”

Lance huffed at him

“It’s not your arse being probed at”

“No, but if you’re good I’ll buy you whatever you want to eat on the way home”

“Can I choose sleep instead?”

Lance would eat, then nap. He wasn’t getting out of it. Whatever his boyfriend wanted, he’d pay for, provided Lance gave him directions of where to go

“Nope. You have to eat”

“You’re so mean to me. Coran, can I at least keep my legs covered? I’m too tired to do much of anything”

“Sure, my boy. I’ll get you a blanket for privacy. You’ll need to tuck your knee up to your chest for me. Please try to bare with it”

   Lance’s face made the same expression as when Kosmo had his first anal thermometer. There was no happiness in his eyes, which reminded him his precious puppy was missing

“Where’s Kosmo?”

“I put him in Allura’s office. Oh, dear. I forgot he was in there...”

How could Coran forget Kosmo? How could he forget Kosmo?

“Babe, you can go get him...”

Now he was torn. Lance was finally in Coran’s hands, but Coran was going to start the ultrasound and he didn’t want to miss it... Buuuuut Kosmo was probably destroying Allura’s office. Was it too much to push the responsibility onto Coran seeing he locked Kosmo in there?

“I’ll get him after your scan...”

“I don’t mind if you want to go now”

“Are you saying I should?”

“Nope... I want you stay, but my butt isn’t enjoying this”

“It’s a nice butt”

“It’s be nicer without this huge arse wand up it”

  Both of them shut up when the image of their baby came up on the screen. Keith staring at the black blob, semi confused by the greyish line...

“Oh my...”

That didn’t sound good

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, per say, but you’ll have twice the preparation to carry out”

“What?”

The question sounded dull, Keith not sure what Coran meant

“Yes, you can clearly see two sacks...”

“But there was only one before”

“It is possible to miss...”

Lance blinked half a dozen times

“Coran. You better not be fucking around. There was one. One. What do you mean there’s two”

“That’s how twins work... oh, my. Let me just...”

Keith went wobbly. Two... how were there two? There was one last time. One macaroon to worry about... what... how was there two?!

“Are you sure it’s not something he ate?”

Lance glared at him, Coran chuckling, Keith not appreciating either reaction

“My dear boys, there is indeed two in there and this should confirm it”

  A strange noise filled the room, like two racing beats... Lance asking

“Is that...?”

“You’re far along enough now detect both heartbeats. Oh... two babies! You’re going to have your hands quite full! One was a stroke of luck it was! It shows how deeply connected you are...”

“But you said...”

“It is possible one was behind the other, but they’re making themselves known now. Growing one baby is hard enough, two... I can certainly see why you’re exhausted my boy!”

Lance sighed

“I really am... is... are they both okay? I mean... we thought it was one?”

“Both little ones have a good strong beat... I’ll take some fresh photos and measurements. We’ll increase your blood intake to match. It’s very important you...”

Everything swam. The room spinning. Keith out of it before he hit the floor, his last thought before fainting was once again “how are there two?!”.

    *

Lance couldn’t react as Keith crumpled to the ground. He was in shock. Shock that... no way. He’d barely wrapped his head around one. Why was there two? He was getting his mind around one... why... no, how?

“Keith!”

The vampires face burned in embarrassment as Coran left the wand inside of him, to move around the examination table to Keith. Keith groaning as Coran looped his arm around him and moved the hunter to sit in the chair beside his desk

“Whaaa...”

“Just a little fainting spell. I imagine the news of twins was completely unexpected. Lance did have high hormone levels, I suspected it was thanks to his unique physiology...”

  Keith looked completely ashen. Lance’s eyes filling with guilty tears. How were there possibly two in there?! His boyfriend was scared when there was only one... two would surely mean he was worrying twice as much. Wasn’t he at the age where his fertility shouldn’t this good? Or did have super potent baby making sperm? And shouldn’t the testosterone in his system help prevent pregnancy? Was that why his ego was sending him crazy? Did the vampire in him already know he was carrying two? Making him twice the moody bitch he was? Twice the amount of blood he usually drank was a lot of blood. Like... way too much. He’d been careful for so many years to split a bag into three... Would keith be turned off by him drinking more human blood when he was still fighting to settle himself over Lance feeding on strangers? This had to be a joke... despite the evidence right of him. Evidence that screamed this was no joke. He’d heart their heartbeats before the wand slipped. Two racing rhythms of two balls of cells that’d be human someday in the not so distant future

“Place your head between your legs, and take deep breaths”

  What was going on in Keith’s head? Keith was only child. He’d never had a brother until he was already an adult. He’d missed out on all the fights that came with having siblings, and what was Shiro going to say about there being two? Would he be allowed to keep them both? Or would he be labelled as a threat and forced to run? Where would he run? He couldn’t leave Mami. She was old. She only had so much time in this world. He’d never leave her behind to spend it alone. He couldn’t choose between her and Keith. He wanted both of them. He needed both of them... soft sobs escaped his lips. Coran said these symptoms were normal, yet all Lance had done lately was sleep and cry. He wasn’t normal. He’d kept his emotions reined in so tightly that the metaphoric straps bit into his hands. Would it be selfish to want both? Two little Keith’s... with Keith’s big purple eyes and messy black hair...

“Oh, babe...”

  Keith ignored Coran’s instructions, pushing himself over to grip Lance’s hands

“Babe... Hey, look at me. Whatever you’re thinking, I still love you”

Him... He loved Keith. He’d never found love in anyone like he did with Keith. Keith was the oxygen to his lungs... he might be dead but the blood in his system still needed oxygen... sure, he could hold his breath far longer than a human and sometimes he questioned his need to breathe. But without Keith his lungs didn’t work. The space seemed deprived and cold, like being sucked into the vacuum of space

“I want to go home”

“We will. We’ll go home. Coran’s going to clean you up and then we’ll get Kosmo and we’ll go home”

They both needed to think. He couldn’t tell Keith he wanted to go home in an attempt to run away until his thoughts made sense again

“Garrison...”

“We can go back to Garrison. We can... we... we’ll work this out...”

“But... we...”

“Rieva knows. Matt’s in Platt... we’ll kick everyone out, if that’s what you need”

Lance let out a louder sob

“I don’t deserve you”

Leaning down, Keith nuzzled into his hair affectionately. He was showing Keith all the uncool sides of him again

“I love you. I love all of you... we’ll work it out...”

“How...?”

“I don’t know, babe. But you’re not alone...”

“I didn’t...”

“Shhh... we didn’t know. We didn’t know...”

“I don’t deserve you being kind to me”

“I’m not going to run from this... I need to think, but you’re not... I’m not walking away from you. No matter what you think”

“I just want you to be happy”

“And we will be, together. Coran, can you please clean him. We’re not staying here”

  Coran came to the head of the bed, placing his hand on Lance’s shoulder as he softly answered

“Of course, my boys. We’ll keep the scan appointment for in a few days. I’m prescribing lots of rest, and keep your food and blood intake up. You’re going to be emotional, and your fatigue is most likely increased by your emotions. I want you to rest. I’ll extend you leave until the next scan, Keith. If anything happens, you are to bring him here immediately”

“Will anything happen?”

“I’m not sure. Both heartbeats are good and solid. I would ask you to stay longer, yet neither of you seem particularly keen on that. You are both shocked, and this situation is unique... sexual intercourse is fine provided Lance is getting enough nutrients and energy. Have you been giving him his injections?”

“I’ve been... I forgot to yesterday... and I don’t remember if we...”

Nope. Keith was asleep on his feet again and Lance had spent the morning throwing up as his zombie boyfriend tried to human before coffee

“Not this morning... we were packing”

“These injections are important. The demands on your body will be higher with multiples. You may not like it, but each injection will be given with fresh blood. I trust you, Keith, to organise this. Lance, it may not be what you want to hear, but this is what your body needs. Aggression can be a sign you are not getting enough energy from the amount of blood you currently consume. I know you have your own beliefs on this, yet what is important now is keeping your energy levels high to compensate for their energy lost. Keith, make sure you don’t allow him to sleep for days at a time. If he becomes lethargic to the point he won’t wake, you must give him blood immediately and bring him in. Lance, we will get you through this pregnancy, but I am out of my depths with multiple births. I will not allow anything to go wrong under my watch”

  Things sounded somehow worse than ever. Did it not count that he was trying? That he was forcing himself and making the effort despite knowing it’d come back up?! Apparently he was an unfit father already... He’d wanted to sit and explain things to Coran. He wanted to understand why he was acting like he’d never acted before. He didn’t expect this. That a lack of blood could cause anger, well, he knew that, but he was already drinking more than ever. He should be stronger than this! He was 45, not 8... and he was a goddamn vampire. His ego was so on edge that his nails felt tender, ready to extend if Coran kept going on as he was

“See, babe. Coran’s going to make sure you’re okay, and that you’ll be okay...”

“I feel like the most immature person in the room... what happened to my awkward boyfriend?”

Keith kissed his hair again

“He fell hopelessly in love”

“You really a kind of hopeless. But, like, a little bit hopeless”

“Nah, I’m completely fucking whipped. Now, what do you want to eat?”

  He didn’t want to, but Keith was trying to distract him from Coran

“I think... maybe strawberries?”

“And what else?”

“Italian?”

“Done. You’ll have to give me directions”

“Okay, but I’m paying”

“Nope. Let me be all manly”

“You’re very manly”

“I do try my hardest”

“You’re very trying too...”

Keith pouted at him, Lance adding

“But that’s something I really like about you”

His boyfriend brightened a little, not enough to make Lance feel better about his failed joke

“I really love you, Keith”

“I know. I love you, too”

[theflikchic]

Things I Love About “Good Omens” (From A Christian)

I read the book a year ago but only just watched the show because of a fluke that made us get Amazon Prime. And now that I’ve gotten to watch it and really absorb it (and not be on a ton of painkillers, since I was recovering from surgery when I read it), I realized there were SO many things I love about it, most of which come from the fact that I...am Christian. 

(So heads up: I’ll be referring to all this stuff as if it’s real since...it’s my belief system and I feel “Good Omens” is an awesome show so yaaay, celebrate that darn adorable angel and demon with me) (WARNING- LONG POST AHEAD)

- First and foremost: Jesus’ death. The way that was HANDLED so well just blew my mind. I have anxiety so I’ve tried to avoid all crucifixions scenes but I’m glad this was the one I saw because it was so respectful and heartbreaking (i was sobbing). 

- It was also cool to see Jesus’ death from the perspective of people who aren’t Christian and to see that although they don’t believe him to be the Son Of God, they still recognize it as a tragedy.

-  Frances McDormand as God. Okay, I was iffy on it at first but I was reminded that God is supposed to be the mix of masculine and feminine and He presents himself as Father to us so we can get a better idea of who He is. So although I refer to God as a man, He is supposed to be reflective of both so having a woman voice Him is a really interesting viewpoint........And I just like Frances McDormand.

- Newt’s casting. Just...so perfect. Exactly the way I pictured him.

- The fact that the angels mention how they’re celestial and not organic because HEEEELL yes,

- Adam and his friends ringing their bike bells just to tell everyone how they got into the airbase. Iconic.

- The fact that they toned down the Famine sequence. Reading that part made me feel so sick so I’m glad they toned it down for the screen.

- Michael Sheen’s terrifyingly accurate David Tennant impression.

- The angels, though seen as more aggressive than they probably are, are militant and that’s...kinda what they’re meant to be.

- The fact Heaven is filmed to be nauseating because (in my theory), we as humans find being good to be incredibly hard and stressful so we can’t imagine what it would be like to constantly be good.

- They defeated Satan with a MEME.

- Bonus: They defeated Satan and we got to SEE IT.

- Michael McKean. Bonus points because he’s one of my mom’s favourites and he made us all so happy.

- I’ve read Revelation TWICE and it wasn’t until I saw this that I learned 666 is an actual thing and not just a meme.

- The moment when Crowley prays. Biblically inaccurate but I sorta saw it as us in sin, as humans, praying to God because I have BEEN THERE. The amount of times I’ve asked God- “What do I do. I don’t know what to do,” is wild and I did it just earlier. And that moment hit me.

- “Oh.........FUCK,” *heavenly jingle intensifies*

-  THE FACT THAT REVELATION KINDA HAPPENED

- The fact that, besides Crowley, there are no redeeming qualities in the demons. That’s a hard thing to write and they nailed it.

- *to the Doofenshmirtz Evil Inc jingle* Demons are holding a buuuuckeet!

- Although Aziraphale is genuinely a bad angel, he’s a pretty good representation of what we should try to be as Christians: loving, trying to help everyone, not kill kids, etc.

- “Tickety-boo,”

- The fact that they literally got ALL OF THE HOLMES SIBLINGS TO BE IN THIS LIKE WHAT-

- “We are Satantic nuns,”

- BOOK ACCURATE DIALOGUE

- I will praise Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett on this forever but the fact that the kids talk like kids. Because kids talk like adults. Because kids are little adults. Love it.

- The moment when Aziraphale at the sword and said to Adam- “We’ll be right beside you,” was like a hardcore guardian angel moment and I was SHOOK.

- The casting of literally anyone to play the angels, demons, and supernatural beings because- as Neil Gaiman and the Bible say- they’re genderless. They’re angels and demons. 

- When Madame Tracy just screamed at that woman and she screamed back. That must’ve been so much fun to film, my goodness.

- The narrative creates a flawed way to try and talk to God and recognizes that it’s a flawed way, whereas the real way in the belief system isn’t because we as humans find it difficult to fathom that you can just...talk to the Big Boss.

- The little add-on that that one angel was from Sodom and Gomorrah. Which made me laugh but then made me sad.

- NOT ONE HUMAN BIBLICAL FIGURE WAS WHITE. NOT. ONE. AMEN.

- Those crappy camp chairs being in Hell because of COURSE they are

- The sea monsters. I just really like the sea monsters in Revelation so that was cool.

- Got to see Death ride that motorcycle because that’s the closest that we’re probably getting to a live-action “Soul Music”.

- War’s jacket.

- The fact that I had an existential moment when I realized Death being an actual...being is Biblical.

- Every “Doctor Who” reference.

- The hint that God planned everything because...just up.

- The repeated emphasis on how supernatural beings aren’t the reason behind every choice or event in history. Because they really aren’t. WWII happened because of humans. Supernatural beings can influence but they aren’t the REASON for everything.

- The pushing of the idea that the plan is “ineffable” but it constantly contradicts this idea because even in real life, God’s plan has never been ineffable.

- “He was waving,”

- God narrates so He/She knows everything which kinda gives Aziraphale and Crowley a Jonah-feel since they’re trying to outrun an almighty being. And obviously failing.

- Aziraphale’s gasp when he got betrayed. Legend.

- Agnes Nutter’s prophecies being insanely specific like the actual prophecies in the Bible. (I read a verse and Jesus said- “Remember me when there’s anger in the streets” and I was like WAIT)

- The emphasis that most- if not all- witch killings were rooted in sexism and superstitions. Also, that whole scene gave me “Holy Grail” vibes which is always a win.

- And most importantly: “Good Omens” has fun with the creatures and supernatural beings in the Christian belief system but never ONCE makes fun of the religion itself or the people who believe in it. The book takes an extra step and mocks organized religion (which, YES, do that, please) but it’s never mean-spirited. While flawed and inaccurate in some Biblical aspects (like the basic plot), it’s so funny and witty while remaining accurate in other aspects to the source material of the Bible such as the supernatural beings being genderless. It’s basically like- “Woah...it says in Revelation that there are giant sea monsters! We get to write giant sea monsters, awesome! What can we make the sea monsters do? OOooh, what if they took down a whaling ship?” It also gets the message of Christianity down: love others, forgive others, give second chances. And I feel that’s why it’s so effective, because it’s fun and cool but still hits those perfect emotional beats that resonate with everyone because they’re true. Love each other. 

And go read more Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. They deserve all the love.

[rimmers-swimming-certificate]

Red Dwarf fanfic - Comatose (15/19)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12 | part 13 | part 14

As Holly had promised, Lister found Rimmer in the Science Room. He was standing with his back to the door, staring intently into one of the scanners. Lister folded his arms and waited for Rimmer to notice him and turn around.

When he didn’t, Lister cleared his throat to tell Rimmer that he was there. Rimmer leaned a little further into the scanner, as though he had seen something fascinating in there. He showed no sign of turning around.

“Rimmer,” Lister said, eventually. “You okay?”

Rimmer still didn’t move. “Listy,” he said, still staring into the scanner. “Didn’t notice you there.”

That was a lie, Lister was almost certain of that. It didn’t matter. He walked quietly across the room and sat down in the chair right next to the scanner that Rimmer was using. “So, you okay?” he asked again.

“Fine, thank you. Tickety-boo.”

That told him everything he needed to know. “Rimmer, if you’re going to lie, at least make it believable,” he told him.

Even with half his face buried in the scanner, Lister could see Rimmer frown. “What are you talking about?”

“Tickety-boo,” Lister told him. “I know that’s what you say when you’re not okay.”

“Right,” Rimmer said scornfully. “So you’ve got me all figured out, have you? You think I just say the opposite of what I mean. So what would you have assumed if I’d told you I wasn’t okay? That everything was just hunky dory, I suppose?”

Lister rolled his eyes. “No. I didn’t mean that. What I meant is, you say stupid things like ‘tickety-boo’ and ‘hunky dory’. Like you think using made up words makes you more believable or something.”

Rimmer shook his head dismissively. “They’re not ‘made up words’, Lister. Well, no more than any other word is, anyway. And I am fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Lister shrugged. “I dunno, call me crazy if you like, but there was just something about the way you charged out of our quarters as soon as Kryten said I could go back to my body that made me think that maybe you weren’t feeling a hundred percent.”

Rimmer, frustratingly, continued to stare into the scanner. “Well I am,” he said. “A hundred and ten percent, actually. No… a hundred and fifteen. Now if you’ll excuse me, Lister, I’m very busy and you’re interrupting me.”

“Right,” said Lister, playing along. “So, what is it you’re busy doing, anyway?”

“I’m recalibrating the scanner,” Rimmer told him. “Remember I asked you to do it and you didn’t? I have to do everything myself around here.”

“Oh yeah,” Lister said. “You mean the time you suggested it, but then you told me not to do it because I’d need the skutters, and they didn’t respect me enough to do what I said.” He glanced around the room. “So, where are the skutters, by the way?”

The tension in Rimmer’s stance increased noticeably. “They’ll be along shortly. I’m just doing some pre-checks first,” he said.

Lister nodded as though that was plausible. “Right, yeah. Makes sense,” he told him. “But why are you doing this now? How come you chose this particular moment to recalibrate the scanner?”

“Why not now?” Rimmer countered. Lister could hear irritation in his voice now, as the lie began to fall apart. “Is there something wrong with this particular moment? Is there something else I should be doing?”

“No, but…” Lister sighed. “Rimmer, come on. Can you take your head out of that thing for a minute and look at me; talk to me?”

For a moment, he thought Rimmer was going to refuse. Then, slowly, Rimmer moved back from the scanner and turned to face him. “Fine,” he spat. “You know, I can talk to you perfectly well while I’m working. Why are you even here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be down in the medi-bay getting transferred back into your body?” There was an edge to his voice, a tone that would have told Lister, if he hadn’t already known, exactly what was bothering Rimmer.

Lister shrugged. “I will. There’s no rush. Kryten’s got to sort some stuff first anyway. That’s what’s bothering you though, isn’t it? You’re upset about that. What is it, you jealous?”

“Oh please.”

“So you’re saying you’re not jealous?”

Rimmer gave him a contemptuous look. “Of course I’m jealous,” he said. “Was there ever any doubt in your mind that I’d be jealous? You know it’s everything I ever wanted.” He looked away, down at his feet, and folded his arms. “I’m happy for you.”

“Yeah,” Lister said, “I can tell.”

“I suppose you think I’m lying about that too? Maybe you’re right, I’m not being very believable, am I? Maybe I should be dancing a jig when I say it.”

“No.” Lister shook his head. “I know you’re not lying. You’re unhappy for you though, right?”

“I’m fine,” Rimmer insisted. “Anyway, you should be going. You don’t want to keep doctor Bog-Bot waiting.”

Lister shrugged. “In a bit. I wanted to talk to you first.”

“And now you have.”

True. That wasn’t what he had meant though. “Yeah, I know. But I’m not done yet. And I was kinda hoping you might talk to me, too.”

Rimmer folded his arms. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he said.

Lister sighed. He folded his arms and glanced at his feet. “I want to say I’m sorry,” he told him.

Rimmer frowned. “You did this already, remember? We’d been drinking, you apologised for being such a smeghead when Holly first switched me on, I accepted…”

“You provisionally accepted. And I never said I was a smeghead.”

Rimmer shrugged, “No, I know. I said it.”

Lister smiled. He supposed that was fair. “Okay, fine. That’s not what I’m apologising for this time, anyway. You know, when I first woke up after the attack and you told me I was a hologram, my first thought was how you’d be looking forward to seeing me struggle with everything. I never thought you were serious about helping.” Okay, it hadn’t really been his first thought, but it had definitely been his second or third.

“Oh.” Rimmer looked away, embarrassed. “Actually, I was looking forward to that,” he said. “A bit. I mean I genuinely did intend to help too, but you can’t blame me for wanting to see you suffer a bit first.”

Lister supposed that should bother him. Actually, it made him feel a bit better, like the universe made sense again. He smirked. “I guess I can’t. I should have trusted my instincts.”

“Yes, well, it turned out to be less fun than I’d imagined,” Rimmer added. He unfolded his arms, folded them again, and shuffled his feet nervously. “In fact, it was downright uncomfortable. Seeing you going through that, it brought everything back; all the things I couldn’t do anymore; everything I’d lost. Just when I was finally starting to think I’d come to terms with it.”

There was something almost accusatory in his tone, as though Lister had done it on purpose. At the same time, Lister thought that he sounded very sad. A sense of loss appeared to permeate his words, one that felt completely raw and new. Lister resisted the urge to reach out and touch Rimmer, to comfort him, he didn’t think it would help. Instead, he folded his arms even more tightly, and remained quiet, giving him the space to continue.

Rimmer hesitated, for a moment he looked at Lister as though he had expected some kind of interruption; as though he had planned for it and when it didn’t come, he didn’t know what to do. He floundered for a few seconds, then his expression hardened and he glared at Lister. “Why’d you have to go and get yourself hit in the head like that anyway? Couldn’t you have just been more alert, checked behind you once in a while? Why couldn’t you have had faster reflexes?”

Lister shrugged helplessly. There was no good answer to that.

On a roll now, Rimmer continued. “And I’m not too happy with Kryten either. This whole thing was mostly his idea, you know. I mean, sure Cat accidentally put the thought in his head but Kryten’s the one who actually suggested it. The stupid metal goit.”

That didn’t seem exactly fair.

“I was perfectly happy before all this happened, and now look at me! I’m sulking in the science room pretending to repair the scanner.”

Well, at least he admitted he wasn’t really fixing the scanner. Lister shook his head, “Rimmer, you weren’t perfectly happy before. I don’t think you’ve ever been perfectly happy. Remember when you screwed up Better Than Life for all of us because your brain just couldn’t handle you being happy?”

Rimmer’s nostrils flared with irritation. “Fine. Maybe I wasn’t happy, but I wasn’t miserable either. I was okay. I was getting on with it. I was used to it. Then you came along being all touchy-feely, and…”

“Er… Touchy-feely?” Lister said.

“Yes. All touchy-feely, and now you’re going to go back to your body and I’m going to be left trapped as a hologram again.”

Lister sighed. “Yeah, I get it,” he said. What was worse was, he agreed. He had screwed up here. “You’re not going to be any worse off than you were before, though,” he said.

“I know. I know that. It just feels worse now. I’d forgotten what it was like to feel like a person.”

Lister folded his arms even tighter in an effort to stop himself from grabbing hold of Rimmer, whether it was to hug him or to shake some sense into him, Lister wasn’t sure. Either way, he didn’t think it would be appreciated right now.

“You are a person, Rimmer,” he said. “You’ve always been a person to me.” He shrugged. “I mean, a really annoying person, but still, a person.”

Rimmer glared at him, but his expression quickly softened. “You mean that, don’t you?” he said.

“That you’re annoying?” Lister grinned and placed a hand on his heart. “Yes, I absolutely do.”

Rimmer shook his head in apparent irritation, but Lister could just about make out a hint of a smile, and he knew that while things were far from okay, they were at least better than they had been.

Lister sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Again? What for this time?”

“Everything. This whole crappy situation. You’re right, it is my fault, and I wish there was something I could do to make it b…” he stopped.

He couldn’t. Could he?

Rimmer looked at him. “What?”

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this,” Lister said, “but what about, after I transfer back, when I’m all healed up and everything, we could… I mean you’d have to make some promises, and you’d have to mean them, but you could do that, right? Maybe? I mean, it’d be worth it, wouldn’t it?” He shrugged, “I dunno, what do you think?”

Rimmer was still looking at him, an expression of pure bafflement on his face. “Lister, I don’t know if you noticed, but you didn’t actually say anything there. What are you drivelling about?”

Hadn’t he? He was sure he had. “Swapping bodies,” he clarified. “On a very very temporary basis. I’m talking like a day or two at the most, at first anyway. ‘Til we see if you can handle it without going insane this time. Then maybe we can talk about doing it for longer. No keep fit regime or anything like that, just you know, relax. Enjoy yourself.”

Rimmer briefly closed his eyes.

“Rimmer?”

Rimmer shook his head. “Not a good idea.”

Yeah, he was probably right. Just the thought of letting Rimmer loose in his body was terrifying. It evoked memories of the frustration of watching him gorge himself on every food available with Lister powerless to do anything but beg him to stop, and that terror of waking up to find that Rimmer had stolen his body again as he had slept. Worse still, had been the horror of the crash, and the certainty that Rimmer had killed himself, and Lister’s body along with him.

“See!” Rimmer said triumphantly. Lister pulled himself out of the bad memories to find Rimmer pointing at him animatedly with a victorious look on his face. “You don’t want to do it; you’re relieved I said no. It’s written all over your face!”

Lister shrugged. “Of course I don’t want to,” he said. “The last time we did it you nearly killed me, and then you thought it’d be funny to pretend I lost my arm in the crash. I had nightmares about that for… I still have nightmares about it, Rimmer.”

Rimmer nodded slowly. “Then what are you offering for, you idiot? What would you have done if I’d said yes?”

“I was hoping you would,” Lister told him. “I mean, I kind of owe you. You’ve made this whole thing tolerable, Rimmer. And you’re right, now I’m just going to swan off back to my body, and it’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair, Listy,” Rimmer told him. “That’s still as true today as it was when I learned it at three years old, now kindly smeg off before I change my mind and hold you to that offer.”

“Offer’s still open,” Lister told him.

Rimmer shook his head. He sat down and folded his arms. “Want to know something funny?”

Lister nodded.

“I never really liked being touched,” he said. “Before, I mean, when I was alive. Well, not never, there were times…”

“Yvonne McGruder,” Lister said

“Among many, many others, but yes, that was one of the times that it was good. But other times. You know those casual touches; pats on the back, hugs, even handshakes, I always avoided them if I could.”

Lister nodded. He’d known Rimmer had never been the most tactile of people. “How come?” he asked.

“Self preservation, I suppose. You really had to watch your back at school, there could be literally a fraction of a second between some upperclassman giving you a friendly slap on the back, and him shoving your head down the nearest toilet and pulling the chain. All in good fun, of course. And of course if my brothers got hold of me during one of their -- our -- games… well I still have the scars from some of those encounters. Again, great fun of course, but it always felt safer to keep people at arm’s length.”

Apparently Rimmer’s idea of a funny story and Lister’s were very different. The more he heard about Rimmer’s childhood, the more the person that Rimmer had grown into made sense. “You know, Rimmer, you’re about the only person that’s ever made me grateful for my own childhood.”

Rimmer frowned. “Weren’t you abandoned under a pool table?”

“Yep, and thank smeg for that.”

“You misunderstand,” Rimmer insisted. “It was good; it was character building.”

“Yeah, well technically everything’s character building, isn’t it? That’s all anybody is, is the sum of their experiences, right? It just seems like the character that your experiences built was… well, was…”

Rimmer’s nostrils flared. “Yes?”

“Doesn’t matter. What’s this about, Rimmer? Why are you telling me all this?”

Rimmer sighed. “Because these past few months, while I was making things ‘tolerable’ for you, I was realising, for the first time, that sometimes it’s not such a bad thing to be touched. Sometimes it’s even…” he shook his head. “I don’t want to have to give it up, Lister.”

Lister folded his arms. “What are you saying to me, Rimmer? You asking me to stay as a hologram?”

“No, of course not. I couldn’t ask you that. I just wish…” He broke off and shook his head. “I told you this would happen. I warned you. You insisted on us touching, and I knew it was a mistake. I knew I wouldn’t want to give it up, but you had to go and make your stupid poppadom speech, and convince me, and…”

“Samosas,” Lister said.

“What?”

“It was my stupid samosa speech,” Lister clarified. “It’s the samosas we’ve run out of, I’ve got plenty of poppadoms.”

Rimmer rolled his eyes. “Oh, how nice for you. So when you can go back into your body and leave me stuck here unable to touch anything again, you can enjoy a nice plate of vindaloo and poppadoms.”

“Rimmer…” Lister began, then stopped. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

Rimmer turned back to the scanner, as though he was done with the conversation. Before he could bury his attention back into it, Lister reached out a hand and touched him lightly on the arm. Rimmer flinched back as though he had been burned.

Lister pulled his hand back quickly. “Sorry,” he said.

Rimmer turned to face him again, eying him warily, arms folded defensively across his chest, as though he expected Lister to make another attempt. To reassure him, Lister took a step backward, putting a little distance between the two of them. “I won’t be able to have vindaloo for a while anyway,” he said. “Not according to Kryten.”

“What?” Rimmer looked at him with something approaching horror. “Surely you won’t have to switch to bhunas?”

Lister smiled, but shook his head. “Yeah, that’s what I said. But no, no curries at all, apparently. For a couple of weeks, anyway. Kryten reckons it’ll be a while ‘til I can do pretty much anything, and I guess tucking into tongue-meltingly spicy food comes way down the list, somewhere underneath working up the strength to sit up in bed.”

“Oh.” Rimmer winced sympathetically. “Right. I suppose that makes sense. Honestly, with you being here like this, it’s easy to forget how ill you’ve really been.”

“Yeah,” said Lister, “tell me about it.” He had a feeling he wasn’t going to know exactly how bad it really was until he was back in his own body and could experience it for himself. As much as he did want to go back, he wasn’t looking forward to that part at all. “You know, I don’t have to go back to my body right away,” he said. “Kryten says there’s no rush, it’ll wait.”

“Yes, but surely the longer you wait, the worse your condition will get and the harder it’s going to be to get yourself back into shape.”

Lister shrugged. “It’s been nearly a year, I don’t think another day or two’s going to make a huge difference.”

“Okay, no, probably not. But what would be the point?”

“Give you another day or two of being able to touch,” Lister said.

“And again, what would be the point? We’ll just end up doing this again in a couple more days, and then what? Are you going to delay it again?”

He shook his head. Probably not.

“Do me a favour, will you? If you see the skutters on your way down to the medi-bay, let them know I need them in here. I might as well get this scanner recalibrated since I’m here anyway.”

Lister sighed. “I’m going to miss it too, you know,” he said. “I mean, not like you will, I know it’s not the same, but you didn’t just make it tolerable, Rimmer. Some of it, I’ve even enjoyed.”

“Enjoyed?” Rimmer smirked and shook his head, “Oh yes, I’ve seen what a great time you’ve been having getting frustrated with the skutters for being useless and moping around in bed feeling depressed. Not to mention all the fun you have trying to pick things up and remembering you can’t -- I saw you do that again yesterday. Frustrating, isn’t it?”

He hadn’t realised that Rimmer had seen that. He wondered what else he had noticed. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s a massive pain in the arse.”

“So, not all that enjoyable, then?”

“Well, not that part, no. But other stuff.” Lister scratched absently at a piece of holographic dirt on his jacket. “I can hardly remember the last time I just, you know, hugged someone. I didn’t even realise I’d missed it. And falling asleep with someone else there, next to me. I thought it’d be weird, but it was actually great. You know you said you felt like a person again? I get that. I did too.”

“Apart, presumably, from the times when you woke up with half of your body embedded in the wall.” Rimmer said.

Lister laughed. “No, even then. Good thing nobody was in the quarters next door though. That would have given them the fright of their lives!”

Rimmer gave him a small, but genuine smile. “I never liked doing things like that,” he admitted.

“Things like what?”

“You know, walking through walls, putting a hand through something. Anything that reminds me I don’t have a body.”

Lister nodded. He got it. Honestly, he hadn’t liked it that much either, it had been weird and disconcerting. “Sorry. Didn’t bother you too much did it?” he asked. “Like you said, there wasn’t a lot of room in that bed.”

“Oh, no, it didn’t bother me at all,” Rimmer assured him. “It’s fine when it’s somebody else.”

Of course it was. Lister resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Anyway, you really should be going,” Rimmer told him.

He knew that, but for some reason he was finding it very difficult to actually turn around and go down to the medi-bay. “You sure you don’t want me to wait a couple of days?” he asked. “I never did give you that back massage I promised you. Last chance.”

“I…” Rimmer seemed to think about it for a moment, then he shook his head. “No.”

Lister nodded. He hadn’t really expected him to have changed his mind.

“But…” Slowly, Rimmer unfolded his arms and held out a hand to Lister. Remembering the way Rimmer had flinched back the last time he had touched him, Lister hesitated for a moment, then took a step forward and took Rimmer’s hand in his.

He had been expecting a handshake. Instead, Rimmer simply held onto him with a gentle, almost careful, firmness that reminded Lister of the first time they had touched. Rimmer’s gaze was completely focussed on their hands, as though he was trying to cement it in his memory.

When he was finished. He took a step closer, closing the distance between them to a point that would have felt uncomfortable once. Now, it felt right. He placed his arms around Lister and they hugged tightly. “Don’t get the wrong idea,” he said quietly into Lister’s ear.

“About what?”

Rimmer moved back just slightly and turned his head so that he faced Lister directly. He closed his eyes as he leaned in and kissed him.

It was nothing like the last time. The last time, they had both been drunk, and the chaste, dry brush of Rimmer’s lips against his own had lasted less than a second before Rimmer had come to his senses, realised what he was doing and stopped. This time, they were completely sober, this time it was completely intentional, and this time, Rimmer didn’t hold back.

When he finally pulled away, they were both breathless. Lister saw an unfamiliar embarrassed blush colour Rimmer’s cheeks. “Sorry,” Rimmer told him. “I had to do it, like you said, it was my last chance.”

Lister stared at him, speechless for a full thirty seconds before he could bring himself to respond. “You smeghead!” he said.

Rimmer frowned. “Eh?”

“You waited until now? You couldn’t have done this months ago? The first time you kissed me? One of the times we were in bed together? You had to wait until five minutes before I’m supposed to go back to my body to…?”

Rimmer shrugged, embarrassed. “I wanted to, but I didn’t know how you’d react. Then when I realised I wasn’t going to get another opportunity…” He shook his head. “Like I said, sorry.”

Lister closed his eyes. He didn’t know what to do. “What did you mean ‘don’t get the wrong idea’? What idea should I get?” People, in Lister’s experience at least, didn’t kiss like that if they didn’t mean it.

“You shouldn’t get any ideas at all,” Rimmer told him. “I was just… curious. That’s all.”

“And now what?”

Rimmer looked like he didn’t know what to do with his face. His expression morphed from a frown to an embarrassed smile, back to a frown again. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and finally shook his head. “And now I know,” he said.

Arms folded, Lister looked at him appraisingly. “So that’s it, is it? Curiosity satisfied, let’s just forget about it and move on?”

“Er…” said Rimmer. “Yes.”

Lister sighed. “You sure, because I really don’t mind…”

“Sure,” Rimmer said quickly, before Lister could finish the thought. “Absolutely one hundred percent certain.”

“Oh.” Lister shrugged, feeling a little insulted. “A hundred percent, eh? Right.”

Rimmer blushed a little harder. “Maybe closer to ninety… maybe eighty-five”

“Well, that gives me ten or fifteen percent,” Lister said. “I can work with that.”

Rimmer shook his head. “No you can’t. That’s enough stalling, Lister, it’s time for you to go.”

Lister stared at him baffled. “Stalling? Rimmer, you just kissed me. If anyone’s stalling here it’s you.”

Rimmer shrugged. “Well, it’s time for me to stop. Come on, I’ll go down to the medi-bay with you. I have a feeling you’re never going to go if somebody doesn’t escort you.”

“Hang on a minute.”

“No,” Rimmer told him. “I’m serious about this, Lister.” He placed a hand on each of Lister’s shoulders and began to guide him firmly out of the room and toward the lift.

(next)

(Thanks to @norwegianpornfaerie for betaing this fic)

[lostcybertronian]

How aboutttt “I’ve been praying for you” for Ineffable Husbands?

Combining this one with another Ineffable Husbands prompt I got.

---

Prompt 38/84: “I’m just tired.” / “I’ve been praying for you.”

    “Is everything all right, my dear? You’ve been acting quite odd lately.”

    Late nights in Soho were reserved for drinking; however, Aziraphale and Crowley had hours ago given up on being drunk. So that night in Soho was reserved for reading and tea.

    Or, in Crowley’s case, lying sprawled in his desk chair, looking quite twitchy and anxious.

    “I’m just tired,” he muttered, sounding quite irritable.

    “Well,” Aziraphale said, clearly unimpressed, “I will pray for you then, because I have never seen tiredness quite like yours.”

    “You’re being a bastard again, angel,” Crowley retorted, and Aziraphale smiled. “Better be careful with that.”

    “Nonsense. I haven’t seen Gabriel since you spat fire at him and Michael.” The angel flipped a page. “It’s all tickety-boo, now.”

    “Tickety-boo.” Crowley muttered, his long, slender fingers twitching. “It’s all so tickety-boo, isn’t it?”

    Aziraphale lowered his book, his eyebrows rising. “Now you’re just being rude, my dear.”

    The demon snorted. “It’s my job to be rude, angel.”

    “Not anymore.” Aziraphale got up, abandoning his book and his tea in favor of coming over and resting his hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “What is wrong, my dear? Your behavior is quite peculiar, even for you.”

    Crowley sighed dramatically, and spread his twitchy hands. Then, after a moment during which neither of them spoke-- though they did have a quiet stare-off, which Aziraphale won through sheer force of heavenly will--  and reached into the inside pocket of his black jacket, withdrawing a ring.

    “Marry me,” he said, “cause it’s about time you did.”

    “Oh, Crowley, I- I’m not sure what to say.” Aziraphale took the ring from him, examining its delicate, golden shine under the dim lights of the bookshop.

    “Say yes, or don’t.” Crowley suggested, tilting his head back toward the ceiling and sounding quite bored. “Doesn’t matter one bit to me. I just figured since we’re practically humans now apart from the, well, all-mighty powers and immortality and all that, we might as well act the part.”

    Aziraphale smiled, slipping the ring on to his left ring finger. Then, he leaned down to press a kiss to Crowley’s cheek. “I would love to marry you, dear.”

    Crowley rolled his eyes, but nevertheless smiled grimly. “Don’t get too mushy on me, angel,” he mumbled, as Aziraphale kissed him again.

[qqueenofhades]

can you write a fic where aziraphale decides he needs to change up his look so he comes to lunch one day dressed in like tight pants and a t shirt and crowley loses his mind

(i realize i did not say please in that last ask like some kind of bARBARIAN please forgive me)

The year is 2018. The world was saved from apocalypse about, oh, three months-ish ago. This is relevant only insofar as it means that it has been one hundred and thirty-five years, one not-quite-apocalypse, and three-ish months since the angel Aziraphale went clothes shopping, which he did in 1883 to make a jolly good splash at the discreet gentlemen’s club. William Gladstone was prime minister, the gavotte was really crackingly fashionable, and the supply of jackets, bow ties, and other items that this venture provided him with have stood Aziraphale in good stead ever since, with minor additions here and there. He’s had to use the occasional miracle to keep them really tickety-boo, but he is just so very fond of them. Whilst Crowley has been trying every hairstyle and fashion under the sun, Aziraphale has seen the value in being traditional, steadfast, old-fashioned. He’s a bit of a silly, yes. But he likes it that way.

Now, however, he’s been feeling just that bit self-conscious about his antiquated wardrobe, and as such has ventured out on a probably doomed attempt to, well, groove it up a bit. Aziraphale has only a fuzzy idea of what is considered fashionable by youths these days, but all of it is what Crowley wears, just in lighter colour palettes. He figures he can’t go wrong by copying Crowley, though some of the price tags on the designer bits make him worriedly hope that the demon hasn’t just been nicking them. Surveying his spoils back at his flat, Aziraphale isn’t sure how well he did, but he is determined to try. He’s meeting Crowley for lunch later, and he’s heard you should keep things fresh in a relationship. If that’s exactly what they are. He thinks, at least.

It takes Aziraphale an excessive amount of wiggling to make it into the dungarees (jeans, angel, they are called jeans, Crowley’s voice remarks in his head), and he is self-conscious of the fact that he is not a celestial being properly built for skinny jeans. It’s all right for Crowley, he’s got the dimensions of a beanpole, but once Aziraphale has added the jacket and unbuttoned his collar in the fashion he has seen of really agonisingly cool gentlemen, he’s hopeful that it’s not a total disaster. He’s tried that elegant-shadow-of-stubble thing, and he’s even gelled his hair. His hair looks very much as if it would prefer not to have been gelled and would have run straight off his head to avoid it if possible, but is just stuck there like a sucker. Too late to change it now.

Aziraphale puts on a pair of mirrored sunglasses, takes a deep breath, says, “Pip pip, chaps,” to himself, hopes this is a thing that really agonisingly cool gentlemen still say, and pops out.

Once he gets to the restaurant where they’re meeting, he sees Crowley sprawled casually at a corner table and gazing off into the distance, and he doesn’t glance up even when Aziraphale is standing right in front of him. Finally, when Aziraphale has cleared his throat a few times, Crowley looks up. “Yeah, sorry, human, I’m waiting for someone, I -- ”

At that, the Serpent of Eden cuts himself off with a small choking noise. His face turns a very interesting hue indeed, as Aziraphale wonders nervously if angels can have heart attacks. Finally Crowley wheezes, “Angel, you feeling all right?”

“Er, yes?” Aziraphale decides that care in sitting down is justified, in case he splits the dungarees up the backside. Everything feels quite a bit more form-fitting than usual. “Do you not like it?”

Crowley opens and shuts his mouth, remains completely immobile for a solid twenty-three seconds (Aziraphale counts), and then beckons him to sit down with one of his indecipherable keysmash noises. (Aziraphale understands keysmash as something that you do when the typewriter has got its ribbon stuck, and is rather an unkind thing, since the poor machine is trying its best.) He picks up the menu. “Ah, what are we brunching on today? Nip of a nice Châteauneuf-du-Pape to go with it? I’ve been having a craving.”

“Nnnngh.” Crowley is wearing his sunglasses, of course, so it’s hard to tell, but he seems to be blinking even less than usual. Another fifteen seconds elapse before he says, “Ah. Yeah, yeah, whatever you like.”

“Oh no,” Aziraphale says despairingly. “You don’t like it.”

“It’s...” Crowley shakes his head as if to clear an opium haze. “It’s just... you haven’t changed your clothes since -- what, 1883? I need a minute.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, suddenly uncertain what to think that Crowley has apparently tracked his wardrobe obsolescence in such pinpoint detail. “Time to, well, change with the times and all that, isn’t it? Try new things? Now that we’ve got the whole world? You’re always so very interested in all of that, my dear, always on the cutting edge, and I thought...” He trails off. “Well,” he says, almost inaudibly. “Perhaps I feared that you’d get bored with me.”

“Wh -- ” Crowley starts to say something, then stops. They order brunch, a middle-aged woman at the next table looks at Aziraphale admiringly, and then decides to keep her eyes front upon receipt of a scorching yellow glare. At last he says, “Aziraphale, you have to know that I have never once, in six thousand bloody years, expected you to be fashionable, don’t you?”

“I’d hope not,” Aziraphale says feebly. “Not really something I know much, me.”

“Exactly.” Crowley looks as if he can’t decide whether to laugh or not, but he suddenly reaches forward and grabs both of Aziraphale’s hands, which have knotted anxiously on his lap. “Look,” he says. “You look amazing. Really. I’d be happy to -- well, kids over there, I won’t say it. But I don’t care if you wear your ridiculous bowties for the rest of eternity, angel. It doesn’t matter to me.”

Aziraphale blinks. “It doesn’t?”

“What do you think, you feathered numpty?” At that, Crowley really does look incredulous. “Save the bleeding world with you and then complain about your pants?”

“I. Ah.” Aziraphale, despite himself, can’t deny that he’s relieved. “The dungarees are rather tight. I’m afraid to stand up too quickly.”

“Jeans, angel,” Crowley says, in exactly the tone Aziraphale imagined him saying it earlier. “They’re called jeans.”

(They eat brunch, and have a perfectly lovely time, and go for an arm-in-arm stroll in the park. Then they return to the bookshop, Crowley demonstrates exactly the carnal thoughts that the clothes put into his head, and later, Aziraphale puts on his frumpiest and most comfortable plaid dressing gown and carpet slippers. Crowley comes up behind him, wraps his arms around his waist, rests his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and kisses his ear. “There,” he says, with a satisfied hiss underlying his words. “That’s more like it.”)

[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), Beelzebub (Good Omens), Dagon (Good Omens), Hastur (Good Omens), Gabriel (Good Omens), Uriel (Good Omens), Disposable Demon (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Fluff, Bodyswap, Episode: s01e06 The Very Last Day of the Rest of Their Lives, Aziraphale loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens) ---

Back at it again with the Gift Fics!  this one for @apple-duty​ whom I love so very much, I hope you like it <3

The song prompt Apple gave me was I’ll Be Your Mirror by The Velvet Underground, so of course I wrote a body swap fic xD

You can read it on AO3 or the full fic is under the cut (but you’ll miss the very lovely poster; that's only on AO3)

---

The first thing Aziraphale is aware of is the stench.  Like rotting eggs mixed with bile mixed with month old trash with just a hint of lilac.  As if someone decided to pin all of their hopes and dreams on a multipack of Poundland air fresheners.

Also it’s wet.  The air feels damp; his clothes feel damp.  He can hear dripping coming from somewhere.  That constant trickle of a faucet drip, but one that never quite keeps to a pattern.  The kind where you expect the drip, but then it’s just a millisecond off course and grates on your nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.

It’s a veritable assault on his senses.  After all, Aziraphale has standards.  He also has a throbbing pain in his head that he doesn’t quite remember where it came from.  He keeps his eyes screwed shut, trying to will the pain out of his head.

Think back, try to remember.  He’d been in the park with Crowley.  He’d had ice cream.  He liked ice cream.  No, focus back.  Angels; a kidnapping.  The Sound of Music?  Still sick of that one.  Then a crowbar.  Tickety-boo.  But it’s all backwards because…

Aziraphale finally opens his eyes.  Everything is dark, impossibly dark.  Sunglasses, of course.  Oh dear, that’s right, they’ve swapped faces.  He’s in Hell wearing Crowley’s face; laid out on a concrete slab in what appears to be a prison cell.

He sits up and takes stock of his surroundings: four concrete walls with no visible door, the concrete slab, and a poster on the wall.  The poster has a kitten hanging from a tree branch, it says “Hang in There!” at the top.  Underneath, in a scrawl, it says “The Worst Is Yet to Come” with a crude approximation of a smiley face1.  It’s unsettling at best, completely idiotic at worst.

He lies back down on the slab.  It’s uncomfortable, but far from the worst place he’s ever rested.  There’s nothing for it now, all he can do is wait.  Whatever denizens of Hell have been charged with capturing him will come back for him soon enough.

After all, “the worst is yet to come”.

He has to focus, he has to become Crowley.  This won’t be difficult, he’s known Crowley so long.  Aziraphale has memorized nearly everything there is to know about the demon - for thwarting purposes, obviously.

He knows the kinds of quips Crowley would make in the face of adversity.  How he carries himself around perceived authority.  How he walks like he’s not sure what exactly ‘hip bones’ are supposed to be.  

But he also knows Crowley’s kind heart and his clever mind.  He knows Crowley’s loyalty.  And it is loyalty, isn’t it?  He never went to Alpha-Centauri.  He never would have, not without Aziraphale along for the ride.

He knows how the lines around Crowley’s eyes crinkle differently when a smile is genuine.  How he stammers when he’s overwhelmed or embarrassed.  How when he’s had just a bit too much red he starts to hiss at the end of his words.  How he can captivate a room, hold it in the palm of his hand like an apple on offering.  How when he laughs, he laughs deep and full and melodic.

He knows so much about Crowley; the being in the world he holds most dear in this life.

He’ll have to channel all of that to keep Crowley safe, and he knows that right now Crowley is doing the same for him in Heaven.  They’ll survive this, they have to.  Aziraphale can reflect everything Crowley is right at them and win Crowley his freedom.

Aziraphale closes his eyes and a razor sharp memory comes back to him unbidden.  A church in 1941, the burning remains of a house of God that signalled the beginning of Aziraphale’s own awareness.  He’d been falling for a long time, but not from Grace.

He’d seen it, in Crowley’s flat the night before.  The eagle lectern from the church.  Sentimental old serpent.

When this is over, if they survive, there’s no need to hide any longer.  Their sides are perfectly aware of their “fraternizing”.  

If they get out of this, Aziraphale resolves to tell Crowley what he’s known for so long, in the deepest recesses of his angel’s heart.  He loves Crowley, with every fiber of his being that shouldn’t.  And when this is over, he’s going to tell him just that.

---

Ozone.  Overwhelming, nostril burning, ozone.  Like an overactive air conditioner.  And pine, but that particular artificial pine.  Cleaning solution.  Hovering over the surface like someone dumped an undiluted jug of it on the floor and just walked away.

And the light, it’s so harsh.  Hell is supposed to be harsh, but this is on another level.  He can’t see anything else for how bright the light is, these eyes that are not his are taking their sweet time adjusting.  He strains his wrists against the rope restraining him.  It’s rough and itchy, obviously imbued with some kind of celestial energy since he can’t will it away.

The room feels cold, like an unbearable chill.  But he can still feel himself sweating.  Like the worst waiting room in the known universe.  No temperature regulation to be had.  It’s ironic, he thinks, if this is supposed to be where you want to end up.  The chair that creaks every time he moves is not helping.  It’s so uncomfortable he wants to scream.  

He can’t, of course.  He’s bound and gagged.  By angels, of all things.  Figured his lot would go in for that before Heaven did.  Hell has several agents with those kinds of things as their purview (for pain and for pleasure, and for that weird place they intersect.)

Ah well, focus on something else.

The windows are a nice touch - floor to ceiling polished glass.  He can see all the wonders of the world from here, and even Crowley has to admit the view from the top is nice.  But it’s so empty.  A vast hall with no life in it whatsoever.  Where are they keeping all those alleged pure souls?  Not here, obviously.

It’s lonely, he realizes, with a twinge of affection for a certain ineffable being.  One that he’s currently wearing the face of.

No wonder the angel surrounds himself with books and food and the finer things.  There’s nothing here.  Nothing but overly bright and overly clean.

Aziraphale belongs in a dusty bookshop.  He belongs on Earth with the humdrum monotony of human life and the ever-changing majesty of human invention.  Not in this place.

This place that belittles him, makes fun of his hobbies, of his corporation, of his soft heart, of his do-gooder nature.  Everything that makes Aziraphale, well, Aziraphale.

This place never deserved him.  Never deserved an angel that cared about every being he came across, even so much as to cover a lowly demon with his wing in the rain; or who cares so much about humanity he’ll swan dive away and straight back down to Earth for an infinitesimal chance to save them all.

They’ve never deserved the one angel who truly is a being of pure love.  They were never his angel’s home.  Home doesn’t treat you like that; home is supposed to be a place of love.

He shakes his head.  Gotta play the part, he thinks.  He knows Aziraphale better than he knows himself.  Aziraphale has a few nervous tics, but underneath is a soldier.  A guardian charged with protecting the first of humanity.  A protector who has watched over the Earth and its inhabitants for longer than anyone or anything else (save for two).  

A being of so much immeasurable ethereal power that a mortal being could never comprehend his true form.  A being of so much love that it overwhelms even a demon who shouldn’t be able to sense that anymore.  A being who cares about things like crepes and Shakespeare and nonsense first editions of books no one even remembers anymore.

A being who cares about him.  Who cares about Crowley.  And is right now in Hell wearing his face and being strong for him.  

Crowley can do the same.  He can be a mirror image of Aziraphale, in every way.  He has to.

And when he gets out of here, the first thing he’s gonna do is finally, finally kiss his angel senseless.  Let him know, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he is wanted, that he is loved, and that he is home.  Crowley will be there - for as long as Aziraphale would have him - to show him how wonderful he is, how beautiful he is, and how absolutely loved he is.

Even love from something wretched is better than the falsehood of this place.  Crowley had learned that the hard way in the early days.

But when this is over, he’ll be there to hold Aziraphale together, to be the light on the door that leads him home.

---

“Demon Crowley,” Beelzebub sneered, “I sentence you to extinction via holy water.  Have you anything to say?”

This trial had been a farce at best.  Just evidence and an execution sentence.  But they had been prepared for this.  

“Well, yes,” ‘Crowley’ says after a bit of contemplation.  “This is a new jacket and I’d hate to ruin it.  Would you mind if I took it off?”

Beelzebub rolls their eyes and Dagon groans.  He hears Hastur mutter something about “flash bastards” under his breath.  Aziraphale turns and takes off the jacket, folding it neatly over a metal chair in the corner.

He spares a couple of passing glances to the tub full of holy water next to him, saying a silent prayer to no one that this works.  He can feel the residual energy radiating off of the water and he suppresses a shudder as he strips down to just Crowley’s socks and underwear.

He’s wearing his demon’s face and facing down the very thing he’s feared for so long would be Crowley’s undoing.  How long has he been terrified of this?  Ever since that horrid argument in 1862 he’s feared for the demon where holy water is concerned.  

The lengths Crowley had gone to to get it has scared him, but it had been worth it in the end.  Aziraphale can’t imagine a life without Crowley in it, and hopefully after this he won’t have to.

He moves to the tub, stands staring into the water.  It feels a bit like things coming full circle, at this point.  “Any time now, traitor,” Hastur calls to him, “We don’t have all day.”

He turns around, takes a deep breath, and falls in backwards with a dramatic splash.  Aziraphale is gripped by a momentary panic as he hears the tell tale pops and sizzles of holy water-induced destruction.  It soon becomes apparent that this is just the residual demonic energy on the floors and walls, sizzling away into the ether when it mingles with the splashed water.

Oh, that means this is going to be fun.  He can’t resist, tossing a bit of water towards the window of the demons staring at him.  Watching them scream and recoil.  He smirks in a way that he hopes fits on Crowley’s face.

“I don’t suppose that anywhere in the nine circles of Hell there’s such a thing as a rubber duck?”  Aziraphale asks to the room in general, finally turning to his supposed ‘jury of peers’.  He has to suppress a laugh.  Dagon is cowering behind Beelzebub, who looks like they just witnessed Gabriel trying to dance the salsa.  

“No?” he asks with an obvious lilt to his voice. When they don’t answer he goes back to his humming and splashing, being as ‘flash’ as he can possibly be.  

“He’s gone native,” Beelzebub croaks out while Dagon cowers behind them, “He isn’t one of us anymore.”

“So you’re probably thinking,” Aziraphale says with a flourish, draping himself over the edge of the tub as though he doesn’t know what bones are, “‘If he can do this, I wonder what else he can do?’”

He watches their faces, sees the fear underneath.  Angels can sense love, that’s true.  But they can sense other things, too.  Fear, in particular.  They’re meant to assuage fears, to calm and reassure.  But Aziraphale has been playing both sides for long enough in the Arrangement that he knows how to nurture that fear as well.

He stares Beelzebub right in their beady eyes, “And very, very soon, you’re all going to get the chance to find out.”

“He’s bluffing, we can take him,” Hastur says, a bit too quickly to be casual, “One demon against the rest of Hell?  What’s he going to do?”  Aziraphale pays him no mind, Dukes of Hell are beneath Principalities anyway.  And none of the demons in Hell are fit to even look at Crowley’s face, as far as he’s concerned.

“Shut it!  Get him out of here, this’ll cause a riot,” Beelzebub shouts while rushing to block the window to the peanut gallery; Aziraphale honest-to-someone giggles.  Beelzebub keeps shouting, “What are you all looking at?  Nothing to see!  Nothing to see here!”

There are footsteps and a flickering of fluorescent lighting, and Aziraphale turns to see Michael, prim and proper as always, strolling down the hallway without a care.

“I came to bring back the - oh, Lord.”

Aziraphale almost wishes he had a camera phone, just so he could preserve the shocked look on the archangel’s face.  For days when he needs a good laugh

“Michael! Dude. Do us a quick miracle, will you?” He says, hand outstretched, not wanting to waste an opportunity and feeling emboldened by wearing Crowley’s face, “I need a bath towel.”

Michael hands him one in an instant, still looking shocked as anything.  The confidence that comes from being Crowley is exhilarating.  The more he gets away with, the bolder he is.  Aziraphale decides right then and there, he’s going to make sure they never, ever threaten Crowley again.  

“I think it would be better for everyone,” he puts on his best angelic fury voice, preying further on that seeping feeling of fear, “if I were to be left alone in the future.  Don’t you?”

He stares each of them down in turn, holding eye contact and glaring into their very souls.  He waits for each to nod in turn before deciding he’s satisfied.

“Right,” he says with a smirk and a wiggle (he is still him after all, even wearing Crowley’s face), before getting out of the tub and doing his best saunter towards the exit.

He heads for the elevator, stands still as a statue as he waits for it. He’s in such a hurry to leave he nearly runs into one of the Erics on his way in.  As soon as the doors close, he sinks against the elevator wall and sobs.   Aziraphale cries as he feels the worry wash away from him, the worry that’s plagued him for centuries now.  Crowley is finally free, and Aziraphale couldn’t be more relieved.

---

“Can I hit him?  I’ve always wanted to hit an angel.”

Of course Eric would want to take advantage of an opportunity.  Idiot that he is,

Sandalphon grins, gold tooth glinting in the harsh lighting.  “Go for it,” he says with contempt.  Aziraphale had told Crowley about earlier the day before, when the Archangels had cornered him in an alleyway.  Now it seemed they didn’t want to get their hands dirtier than necessary.

Eric stands in front of him, reeling his fist back like he’s gonna be able to do anything.  Lowly disposable demons, always wanna be above their station.  Crowley can’t break character, but he isn’t gonna let this asshole get a punch in.  

He stares coldly into Eric’s face, pouring every but of contempt he can without breaking the facade.  He can’t let them see him crack.  He can’t let them see Aziraphale crack.

He screws his angel’s face into what he knows Aziraphale to be.  Brave and steadfast, even in the face of adversity.  Never truly backing down when he’s up against the wall.  And he lets out one, teeny, tiny little smirk.  Just enough that only Eric would be able to see it.

“I...should be getting back,” Eric stammers, fear radiating in waves,”I’ll come and pick up the Hellfire in, what, an hour?”

“Barbecue will be over by then,” Uriel says with all of the enthusiasm of a uni student with a 5 AM math class.

Uriel makes her way over to him and unties the ropes on his wrists in one movement, “Up.”

And he does jump up, because that’s what Aziraphale would do.  He adjusts his clothing - waistcoat, bowtie, cuffs - same way Aziraphale has always done.  The nervous tic that’s been his calling card for millennia.

“I don’t suppose I could persuade you to reconsider?” Crowley knows the angel would make one last attempt, one last gesture to give them the opportunity to do the right thing.  “We’re meant to be the good guys, for Heaven’s sake.”

“Well for Heaven’s sake,” Gabriel says with his corporate smile, “we make an example out of traitors.  So...into the flame.”

Crowley stares at the pillar of hellfire for a beat, more than a little concerned with if their plan will work or not.  He thinks of his angel, burning in hellfire, burning out of existence.

He thinks of a bookshop.  Of a Queen record melting to a gramophone.  Of linen pages and leather binding going up in smoke.  Of himself, on the floor, soaked to the bone, screaming to no one and nothing.  Of an angel shaped hole in his life.

Crowley thinks of how relieved he was, sitting there drunk on Taliskers, when Aziraphale had materialized in front of him.  Not himself again, not yet, but safe.  Where are you, wherever it is, I’ll come find you.  He’d meant it, and Crowley had found his angel again at the end of the world.

He’d screamed through fire, he’d drove through fire, and now he’d walk through fire.  All for his angel.

“Right, well, lovely knowing you all,” Crowley says, knowing Aziraphale would be kind, even to the last.  “May we meet again on a better occasion.”

“Shut your stupid mouth and die already,” the smile that Gabriel gives him now makes him want to vomit; it’s so callous and fake.  He stares Gabriel right in the eyes as he steps forward.  The heat from the pillar is warm and comforting; he’s a demon, after all, he was born anew in Hellfire after the fall.

Crowley takes a deep breath and walks in, letting his body adjust to the heat.  It’s comforting, in a twisted sort of way.  Like a nice screaming hot bath at the end of a particularly difficult day.

Crowley sighs and rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck a couple times for good measure.  Hellfire is surprisingly good for the joints, when it doesn’t kill you instantly.  Gabriel and the other archangels are staring at him, stupid gaping looks on their faces.

What’s a field trip to heaven without a little bit of fun at the expense of some right bastards?

He breathes Hellfire right in their faces, laughing as they scamper back liked spooked rats.  He thinks to himself that it’s a shame that the Hellfire didn’t hit any of them.

Sandalphon looks like he’s about to jump out of his skin.  Uriel is shivering.  Gabriel is wearing his fake corporate smile again, trying to find a way to salvage the situation.

“It may be worse than we thought,” he stammers out, Sandalphon hiding behind him like a scared little kid.

“What...is he?” Uriel asks, the only one with a level head in this situation.

“You see,” Crowley says in a multi-layered version of Aziraphale’s voice, “I don’t think you want to know what I am. Because the less you know, the less danger you’ll be in.”

Crowley weaves his hand in front of him, almost like an orchestral conductor, swirling the Hellfire between his fingers.  Shaping it into little spheres and then banishing them back to the rest of it, acting for all the world like he doesn’t care.

“Gabriel, we need to go to damage control,” Uriel says, tugging on Gabriel’s sleeve, “If word gets out about this.”

“You’re right, yes, of course,” Gabriel stammers, rubbing his temples with one hand, “It’ll start riots, I know.  Fine, Aziraphale, just...get out of the fire.”

“Oh are you sure?  I’m just working on my tan a bit, it’s ever so dreary in my bookshop, I don’t get much sun you know.”

“Just leave, Aziraphale!” Gabriel shouts, face red and perfectly done hair falling out of place.  That alone was worth the trip, to break the composure of the Archangel Fucking Gabriel (what a prick).

“Ah, right then, I’ll just…” he steps gingerly out of the fire, adjusts his clothing again (waistcoat, bowtie, cuffs - every single time), and worries his hands together as he heads for the exit.

He gets in the elevator that will take him back to the lobby, where he’ll hurry to the prearranged rendezvous point as fast as he can.  As soon as the door closes, he collapses against the wall and laughs.  Big, full, gargantuan laughs.  Soon enough his sides is hurting and he hadn’t even known their corporations were capable of that.  

Aziraphale is free now, and Crowley has never been happier.

---

Aziraphale fidgets anxiously on the park bench.  Crowley should’ve been back by now, he’s sure of it.  He’d been half expecting to meet him in the elevator or the lobby, if he’s honest.  Then again, Heaven does like to drag things out.

It’s all he can do to keep from jumping from the bench when he sees his own usual corporeal form heading towards him.  They did it, they survived.  They averted the apocalypse and tricked both Heaven and Hell.  And now they can spend the rest of their days on their own side; together.

A place that Aziraphale has wanted to be for a very long time.  He settles himself as Crowley sits next to him on the bench.

“So,” Crowley says in the angel’s voice, but sounding so very much like himself anyway, “D’you think they’ll leave us alone now?”

“At a guess, they’ll pretend it never happened.”  Aziraphale is practically vibrating off the park bench.  He’d made his promise to himself, he’s going to tell him.  Just, not while he’s wearing his dear demon’s face.  “Anyone looking?”

Crowley presses fingers to his temples and scans the area, Aziraphale fidgets with a ring that doesn’t exist and shoots a look skyward despite knowing he doesn’t need to any longer.

“No,” Crowley says, sounding a little distracted in his own right, as he extends a hand, “swap back then?”

They link hands and Aziraphale feels the atoms on the outer edges of his corporeal form rearrange themselves back to his usual soft and stuffy self.  He shakes out the kinks just a little while Crowley cracks his neck next to him.

Aziraphale looks over at him, noting that he seems stiffer than usual.  Must be the swap.  Even if it was just outward appearances, it’s still rather taxing.  Crowley catches him staring and reaches up to change the collar on his jacket back to red.

“A tartan collar, really?”

“Tartan is stylish!”

Crowley just rolls his eyes at him, and Aziraphale decides it’s now or never.

“Crowley, I have something I really must tell you,” he’s glad to have his own visage back, if only so the ring exists again for him to fidget with.  This should be easy, but what if he’s wrong?

“Whatsit then, angel?” Crowley says, raising an eyebrow, and oh suddenly it is so very, very easy.

“I’m sure you must already know, I don’t see how you wouldn’t, I’ve never been good at hiding it, but Crowley,” Aziraphale can feel the sting of tears in the corners of his eyes.  He’s heard of happy crying before, but never experienced it himself, but this feeling of release so close to saying those three simple words must be what that’s like.  “Crowley, I lo-”

He doesn’t get to finish.

---

Crowley is, at best of times, a bundle of anxiety and nerves.  Today was no exception.

He hadn’t been sure when the time would be to make his move, but then Aziraphale had looked at him like that and every bit of resolve he might’ve had holding him back faded away.  

Aziraphale had been saying something, Crowley hadn’t really been paying attention, but suddenly it didn’t matter.  All that mattered were those lips and his lips and the tears in the corners of his angel’s eyes and making them go away.

His hands were on Aziraphale’s face before he could tell them not to be, and their lips were crashing together soon after.

So now here they sit - on a park bench, lips locked together.  Aziraphale is frozen stiff as a statue and suddenly Crowley has a very sharp and very real fear that he’s gone to fast again.

He breaks off and hides his face in his hands, sunglasses pushed up into his hairline, “Christ, fuck, ‘m sorry angel, shouldn’t have done that.”

“Crowley, my dear-”

“Won’t happen again, promise you that,” he just can’t stop stammering.  “I mean, now you know, so if you want time or something or for me to fuck off just say the word.”

“Crowley,” Azirpahale says louder this time, gingerly touching Crowley’s wrists, “dear would you please put down your hands.”

Aziraphale wraps his fingers around Crowley’s wrists, tugging his hands away from his face.  Everything is a bit blurry and Crowley realizes he’s crying.

He blinks the tears away and sees Aziraphale, smiling that bright and wonderful smile that Crowley doesn’t always get to see.  

“There you are,” Aziraphale says, running a thumb along Crowley’s cheek to wipe away a tear that dared to escape it’s confines.

“Stop it,” Crowley says, trying to look away but finding himself unable, “don’t give me that look.”

“What look would that be?”

“You’re looking at me like you...you…”

“Love you?” Aziraphale asks and Crowley could swear the angel’s eyes sparkle.

“Yeah, that,” Crowley says softly as Aziraphale continues stroking his cheek, “you can’t love me.  I’m a demon, twisted and unkind that’s me.”

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale says cupping the demon’s cheek, “you couldn’t be more wrong about that if you tried.”

And then, miracle of miracles, Aziraphale leans in and kisses him.  Aziraphale is actually kissing him.  And he’s kissing Aziraphale back.  And Aziraphale is kissing him back again and what a revelation that is.

There’s no telling how long they sit there, it’s not like either of them have to breathe.  When they finally break apart, Aziraphale’s voice is barely a breath against his lips.

“I love you, Crowley, I’ve loved you for so very, very long.”  Aziraphale tilts his forehead against Crowley’s and for some reason the intimacy of that is more overwhelming than the kiss they just shared.  “Wily old serpent, light to my darkness, my darling, my dearest.”.  

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says reverently and wistfully, drunk on love and belonging, “Aziraphale, you never belonged there, you’re so much better than them.  I’ll spend the rest of my days proving that to you, if you’ll let me.”

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale says, kissing him again, “I’d like nothing better.”

“Love you, angel,” Crowley says, peppering kisses all over Aziraphale’s face, getting to hear that laugh that sounds like daybreak, “let me tempt you to lunch.”

Aziraphale laughs, full of hope and full of love, the way Crowley thinks he should always be able to laugh.  “I do believe, my darling,” he says as he kisses Crowley on the nose, and it should not be as adorable or endearing as it is, “a table for two at the Ritz has just miraculously opened up.”

As they stroll through the park, hand in hand for all the world and Heaven and Hell to see, Aziraphale feels like he’s home for the first time.  Here, with Crowley, finally allowing himself to bask in the glow of a love unconditional and patient.  And finally Crowley can feel the love that’s been his all along; the unyielding adoration of his angel.  Faintly in the distance, they can hear a nightingale singing in Berkley Square.