#trying to come up with a Solution which is..usually US intervention)

[cruelsister-moved2]

this is why i advocate philosophy and whimsy for the bairns because its so important to get comfortable with being like wow this question is unanswerable and YET i must decide on a working answer in order to hesitantly proceed in the way that feels most practicable. idk the part of your brain that allows you to do that is underdeveloped in social media users i fear

[twelvemonkeyswere]

I re-read Good Omens via audiobook and I just collected my favorite details

"Crowley rather liked people" is a quote I still love so much. Even though he is a demon with the job of making people upset each other, he likes humans. The contrast between what they make him do and how he experiences Earth.

That scene with the ducks where Crowley almost drowns a duck and Aziraphale is like "I say, my dear" and Crowley is like "Oh yes I forgot myself" and allows the duck to return to the surface. Crowley is usually very polite about the most unhinged things which I just find endearing

All the times Aziraphale calls Crowley "dear boy"

The fact Aziraphale has "exquisitely manicured" hands lmao. I like to think he does go to the manicurist, same as he has a proper barber in the show

Aziraphale blushes sometimes and often gives mean looks to customers to push them out of shop

I like the on-going theme in the Good Omens universe of wanting to build a better world for loved ones, but how that drive, when taken to an extreme, is self destructive. Adam says he'll make the earth good for the Them, and will make sure the Them will be protected and happy in it. But the Them don't want it, they understand Adam is acting out and is not thinking things through. There is no point in trying to possess something and bend it to will forcefully. It wouldn't be good. It wouldn't be of free will. It would make them just another of his whims and no one, either the Them or Adam, actually want that

Aziraphale thinks Crowley is a creature of God when you "get right down to it", which is a thought both meaner and kinder than he realizes

Crowley is described to have "a voice so laid-back you could lay a carpet on it"and it's my most favorite thing ever lmaooo

"You're seducing women here!" /"I think perhaps you got the wrong shop" is always a brilliant line

Even though everything in the Bently turns into Queen's Greatest Hits, I love that Crowley actually loves music, and keeps his collection of records highly organized

Also love the fact that Crowley keeps his apartment orderly, though that's probably in big part because he doesn't really live there

I do appreciate that Crowley sleeps because he wants to, not because he needs to. Truly a relatable guy.

There's a big HOLY SHIT moment in the audiobook - the speech the American evangelist gives about the apocalypse. It's fucking incredible. The actor is amazing, delivering fire and brimstone and absolute hatred and certainty until Aziraphale pops inside of him.

Death really is Azrael, literally the angel of death

Aziraphale comes up with the solution at the end but ONLY because of Crowley, who challenged Aziraphale about the difference between the great plan and ineffable plan at the very beginning of the book

There are many moments where both Crowley and Aziraphale are thought to be a gay couple, but it really made me laugh that they are at the end of the world, telling each other it's been a pleasure to know each other all this time, and then Shadwell interrupts to call them "Nancy Boys"

Everyone in the Good Omens fandom is right, I do love that in the book, the wings of demons and angels are the same color

Crowley thinks the biggest battle will be heaven and hell vs humanity. This has got me thinking a lot. I figure this is because at some point humanity will rebel against any divine intervention, once we figure out that heaven and hell have been playing dice with us. But we'll see.

It does warm my heart that the story begins and ends with a garden and with the eating of the apple - Adam doesn't know why the old man hates people touching his apples so much, but the world would be a lot less interesting if he didn't. It's a fitting end for a fitting beginning.

[love-toxin]

mh. I'm totally normal about the thought of getting married to the Steve Harrington, luxurious rich kid and caring babysitter extraordinaire as well as your high school sweetheart. he's such a doting husband and as newlyweds you're practically stuck to each other at the hip, enjoying your fancy honeymoon off in those exotic places Steve always promised he'd take you with a glass of champagne and your fingers laced with each other's. which also means that with all that alone time, you're really getting to work on making those six little Harringtons that Steve so desperately wants.

however, after about a year of trying with no results, both you and Steve are devastated to find out that his chances of producing are extremely low. possible, but improbable, even with medical intervention. Steve's so heartbroken he even fears you might leave him (which is just ridiculous) but after an incredible amount of comforting he eventually manages to comes to terms with it all. but that doesn't mean he's giving up, not at all, because you still have that dream of raising children together and he's not going to deprive you of that.

and it's through that line of thought that Steve comes upon a solution, a very unconventional one in every sense of the word. he's learned from his own parents that blood doesn't necessarily make someone a mother or a father, so he can compromise as far as the pure genetics of it all--but there's one person he knows he can trust to give his wife a child, someone safe enough to ask and freaky enough to agree to the conditions.

Eddie. Steve's decided to run the idea by you, the plan he's cooked up; how he could get Eddie to father your children for you, so you two can have your babies without putting either of you through all those painful and expensive processes that would come with other avenues. and he could get a good chunk of that money that you both know he could use, plus he'd get to fuck you, (with supervision from Steve of course) the girl he'd had a crush on all throughout high school and fantasized about even when Steve had scooped you up. it's a win-win, Steve's so confident about that. he just doesn't yet know what emotional turmoil the whole experience might bring on, when he's watching his friend go balls deep in his pretty wife and hearing her moan as she's bred for her husband to watch. how he's gonna very quickly realize that he likes watching you two go at it way more than he should, and that he's seriously gonna have trouble sleeping when all he can imagine when he closes is eyes is Eddie screwing you, breeding you like a feral animal, and teasing about giving you a bump and making you a pretty little mommy to send home to Stevie. and when he starts fisting his cock during his morning showers to the thought of all that, pent-up and needy even though he's been on you way more than usual, you notice. and it makes it much sweeter when you craft your own plan with Eddie under your husband's nose, so you can surprise your sweet, loving hubby with an extra special present for making each of your dreams come true <3

[moonsanoverthinker]

PLEASE TELL ME MORE ABOUT VOICE CHANGES IN TMA I WANT THE WHOLE RANT

LETS GO! Expect semi-coherent thoughts and a lot of random side notes. Also I apologise in advance for how long this post is, but then again I was asked for the whole thing and I like to over analyse x

Also second apologies, I didn’t intend for this to essentially become a weird essay / notes hybrid that goes well off topic! x

(This is JonMartin focused because those little men have a permanent place in my head)

Edit: I added the more thingy because then it’s not one super long text post (1. So I don’t have to scroll through it every time and 2. I only just found out I could do that!)

SERIES 1-5 SPOILERS (sorry forgot to add this!)

Series 1 Jon was fairly consistent in how he’d say Martin, usually pronouncing the R and the T, the ‘professional/formal’ way (Gotta try and convince people you are in fact the head archivist) as well as the tone usually being a little harsher when he was making unprompted jabs at Martin. (Also side note, MAG 14 where he talks about Martin maybe getting chopped up, sounding far too happy about that prospect Jon). MAG 22 is where we actually get to hear Martin, after hearing nothing but slander from Jon. Obviously he’s making a statement for a traumatic event but there’s a clear difference in how they speak in terms of confidence with Jon and nervousness from Martin. (Also side note 2, I listened to mag22 again and I forgot how much Martin wanted to prove his experience was real to skeptic Jon, makes me a little sad) That edge is still there in Jon’s voice but it’s softened the tiniest amount at the end when he’s actually providing solutions to Martin (Hurt/Comfort described as work) Then we get to MAG 39 where they have a real conversation! There’s still that ‘professional’ tone from Jon but this is the first time he actually has some form of emotion that isn’t annoyance, instead it’s fear. Also the ghost conversation where it just feels like the roles have flipped, with Jon being the one who doesn’t understand and Martin making fun of him. (Side note 3 I still think one of the funniest moments in MAG 39 when Martin mentions he records poetry on the tapes because of the lofi charm and then there’s the solid few seconds of silence with only the fire alarm sound).

Series 2 is pretty much the same between the two of them, but occasionally we start to see a different side to Martin when he’s answering Jon back. Like the whole ‘accidentally stabbing yourself with the bread knife’ conversation, he answers him a little firmer (like you would to someone you care about deeply) and in MAG 56 when Martins confronted by a paranoid Jon he answers in a firmer way but it feels less like it’s out of care and more just out of trying to diffuse the situation. Series 3 is where things start to change a little, we get Martin clearly being pleased about people saying him and Jon were ‘close’ as well as Jon mentioning ‘office gossip’ where he sounds like he’s attempting to convince himself ‘it’s natural and normal’. (The denial was strong)

Series 4 is where the big changes come from the two of them, and to me it almost feels like a role switch between them. Jon becomes the one practically pining and Martin becomes the one to deny it. There’s Jon demanding to know what Elias did to Martin, the constant asking about him as well as Jon actively seeking Martin out several times. MAG 124 is the first conversation between the two of them in series 4, Jon sounds excited to talk but Martin just sounds flat (it gives series 1 vibes) and this same pattern of Jon’s tone changing while Martins stays flat is carried on throughout. Then we get to MAG 154 (let’s gouge our eyes out and run away!) But first Jon thanks Martin for the ‘intervention’ which has says in that sarcastic tone, Martin jumps to the defence and Jon apologises and that is when Martin almost goes back to sounding how he used to. Then we get to the big we can leave together moments, Jon’s frantically trying to convince Martin and there’s a genuine hope ‘I could derail everything. We could derail everything and then just leave!’ To which he is met with Martin shutting it down with the harsh reality of the situation. Then we get the Mahtin’s (I can hear it, I don’t know how else to write it) and relief from the two of them as they leave the lonely together (I’m not crying) and everything ends in the cabin, nothing bad happens and they just live in Scotland with the cows

We’ve made it to series 5 where things are a little bit fucked! So let’s start at the beginning, Jon just sounds defeated, the thing he’s being trying to stop is everyone’s issue and he feels it’s his fault. Martins trying to sound reassuring and hopeful that things can be changed. Also there’s the various points where they sound almost happy despite the situation, ‘Eye spy literally everything’ ‘You are my reason. Just wanted to make you say it!’ And there’s warmth to the two of them, an oddly refreshing happiness that only comes in those short moments before everything’s awful again. (Side note 4, maybe I’ve got it a little wrong but Martin sounds less nervous in his voice, follows the character development of adapting and becoming a stronger character from dealing with everything) ‘You have to promise me, that your going to do everything in your power to live’ There’s a firmness in Martins voice but it sounds more like he’s either trying to convince himself that Jon would do that or he’s trying to convince Jon to do it. MAG 194 starts with the argument as the reality of it all is finally recognised. Martins clearly hurt by Jon claiming ‘it’s the only option’ resulting in him sounding more frustrated and almost like a petulant child. ‘Breaking his promise.’ ‘That’s not fair’ Jon just snaps at the accusation, despite it being partially true. This argument is similar to MAG 154 (to me at least) because of the pleading and convincing from Jon and the disagreement and bordering mocking from Martin. Jon was in an impossible decision and was attempting to justify his own sacrifice but Martin was mostly focused on the two of them living. ‘Tough! The world doesn’t care what you accept. It just is.’ Is Jons final attempts in the argument, he knows there is limited options and limited survival rates, it’s like he’s accepted the end of it all, then Jon does the statement, proceeds to make a joke of the lack of arguments given by it and says ‘I’m going to go and apologise to my boyfriend’ and there’s the brief smile in his voice again. Jump ahead a little to MAG 199 where we get the somewhat calm before the storm. And there’s a weird calmness to the two of them when they talk but there’s a mix of defeat and acceptance from Jon because he was always going to try and sacrifice himself, and then there’s defeat and hope from Martin because he knew Jon would try but clings to the hope that maybe everything will be okay. Ah onto MAG 200 the one that proceeds to hurt us all, again there’s the acceptance from Jon but also fear and determination to ‘win’ over the fears no matter what it costs him. Martins a mix of betrayal, anger, sadness, fear because well the promise was broken and he was going to be alone again. But it’s the final moments, there’s fear but they still cling to hope that they will be together no matter what happens.

[rockinlibrarian]

37 and 47 for the get to know the fic writer ask

Thanks for asking! Anyone else is welcome to ask from here!

37. How do you choose where to end a chapter?

I like my chapters to have a complete arc, beginning middle and end, where you can clearly say "This is the chapter where--" or "This is the chapter about--". It's, gasp, ALMOST like an outline. Don't tell me of ten years ago I've started almost-outlining! But yeah, if I know I'm writing something multichapter (and the times I didn't and I ended UP with something multichapter, the first chapter WOULD have been a complete story in and of itself already!), I'll have like a Scrivener page for each beat of the complete story, so I go in, like, "This is the 'Do Re Mi' section," and then I focus on getting that part of the story out-- so if Maria is going to start teaching music to the Hargreeves children, I need to use the beginning of the chapter to show the status quo, then show how Maria starts to play with that status quo by bringing music in, then show her efforts fully taking off and transforming the children's training and lives. What happens next is Sir Reginald's reaction to these events, but that opens up a whole new can of worms, which is why HIS reaction begins the NEXT chapter, which then becomes the chapter about Maria proving the success of her methods to him, ie "'The Lonely Goatherd' Section, In Which The Children Put on a Show." Maybe I'm cheating with this example since I'm using the beats from a movie somebody else wrote first, rather than coming up with these beats myself.

So let's look at "Exploration of the Astral Plane" instead, which has chapters helpfully titled things like "In Which Oliver Goes Dreamwalking and Gets Lost." Originally "In Which the Summerlanders Try to Host an Intervention" and "In Which Astral Walking Is the Only Solution" were supposed to be the same chapter-- In Which Oliver's Friends Know His Astral Walking Is Getting Out of Hand But They Can't Stop Him-- that wasn't the title, it was going to be the Hosting an Intervention Part-- but the story was getting too complicated as I wrote, so it became one mini-arc about them confronting Oliver and (briefly) succeeding, then a SECOND min-arc about how that brief reprieve ended.

Anyway, I'm not sure I actually answered the question. The actual END of each chapter, while completing the mini arc of the chapter, might just hint at things to come-- some foreshadowing of mood, so you get the Intervention chapter ending with Oliver sighing and saying "If only to prove to you that you’re overreacting..." so you get the sense that this really ISN'T the end. Or the Do-Re-Mi chapter, rather than hinting at anything, ends with a somewhat surprising reveal, so it's more like a punchline than foreshadowing, not in a joke way but in an adding some PUNCH way.

I don't do many straight-up cliffhangers. I guess because I like having the chapters self-contained that way.

But yeah, I've spent too long on one question, on to the next!

47. How many times do you usually revise your fic/chapter before posting?

Eh, I'm one of those people who revise as they go. I can't decide if this is a Bad Habit that keeps me from JUST FINISHING or if it's just the Way I Work. I lean on the former when I find myself just rereading and rereading and not writing anything new! But I also really like revising, it's really just a part of writing, so maybe that's why I do it the whole time.

I do have at least two separate drafts usually, though. When I have MOST of the chapter/story drafted-- there are usually SOME gaps, but I know basically what needs to happen in each of them-- I print it out. Then I can do a sentence-by-sentence close revision-- the change in format helps me see things I didn't before, and often helps me fill those gaps, too. After that revision gets transferred back to the computer file (sometimes with re-revisions added in process), I'm usually ready to post. But there will be additional drafts if I use a beta, which I do usually only when I'm not sure if things are flowing or fitting together properly and need an outside set of eyes to make sure it actually makes sense. (Shouting out to @steeple-sinderby and @versaphile for performing these vital functions in the past!).

So right. I'm a little verbose when I answer ask questions. But don't let that stop you asking me!

[tordenvejr]

if i can ask for an opinion. i really want to trust the universe and all that, but. lately i stopped having my usual firm grip/control over my life. and something happened for the first fucking time in which i wasn't looking. I'm trying to get out of self-blame, but the fact that it was not in my control/i couldn't have predicted it is exactly the problem. why am i so divinely unprotected? why does it require me setting an intention to have that?I'd love for the world to not be in difficult mode

when there's an absence of trust in ourselves and our lives it's difficult to extend that sense of trust to the divine - because it isn't there in the first place.

and when we're engaged in unhealthy or dangerous patterns, relations, dynamics or behaviors it's not the solution to surrender to life as it is - to say i trust these elements of my life that are fundamentally unsafe, to be safe through my act of trust.

often a transformational surrender and trust means surrendering to change and putting patterns, relations, dynamics or behaviors to rest.

if you are in a place that you need to leave whether it be a state of being or an environment, what is needed likely isn't ceasing your defenses, instead it might be shielding properly and taking the necessary steps to ensure your survival.

divine protection may be able to step in at the very last minute as intervention, but if you aren't listening to the path of protection you won't be finding yourself on it.

this is to say, and this is a condensed version, in real life there's a lot of nuance and i understand this, but; if something hurts, if someone hurts, the solution isn't to pray for it or them not to, it is to say no and goodbye.

it's important to heal whatever might obscure the connection we have to the divine. and beliefs such as the ones you're illustrating might very well qualify as that. a need for control always points to a lack of trust, lack of trust comes from pain and fear. urgency to predict and to know what is coming also points to hyper vigilance; and we have to look at this, we have to tend to the roots before we can stretch into the sky. nothing we receive is totally clear if our lens is distorted and nothing creates distortion and chaos like an unclosed, untended to wound.

projecting our wounds onto the divine isn't helpful, it amplifies our pain, sense of abandonment and confusion. when we think we're divinely unprotected, it often is just that we have picked up unhealthy patterns and you are in an unsafe environment - and we are attributing the pain that this is causing us to the divine not protecting us from the things that are not yet healed.

it doesn't require intention or prayer to be divinely protected, our souls, guides and source is there - and our souls, guides and source are more powerful and entirely and completely more sovereign than anything we as humans might think we need protection from.

with that said you are a team, when you ask protection you are giving those you ask it permission to intervene and support. if you choose not to utilize your ability to ask for help, then spirit respects your freedom and choice

[drnishargpatel]

How to Alleviate Indigestion and Bloating During Pregnancy

Pregnancy is an exciting journey, but it comes with its share of challenges, particularly when it comes to digestive health. Indigestion and bloating are common discomforts many expectant mothers experience as their bodies adjust to the growing baby. These issues can be frustrating, but there are ways to manage them effectively and enjoy a smoother pregnancy. If you're dealing with these symptoms, seeking advice from a specialist in Gastroenterology in Surat can provide you with personalized solutions to ease your discomfort.

Understanding Indigestion and Bloating During Pregnancy

Indigestion, also known as dyspepsia, is a common issue during pregnancy. It can cause symptoms such as a burning sensation in the chest (heartburn), discomfort in the upper abdomen, and nausea. Bloating, on the other hand, is a sensation of fullness and tightness in the abdomen that is frequently accompanied by excess gas. These conditions are primarily caused by hormonal changes, such as increased progesterone, which relaxes the muscles of the digestive tract, slowing down digestion.

How to Deal with Stomach Issues During Pregnancy - Dealing with indigestion and bloating during pregnancy requires a combination of dietary adjustments, lifestyle changes, and, sometimes, medical intervention. Understanding the root causes of these issues can help you take the necessary steps to alleviate them.

Effective Tips to Alleviate Indigestion and Bloating

Eat Smaller, Frequent Meals

Instead of consuming three large meals, aim for smaller, more frequent meals throughout the day. This approach can prevent your stomach from becoming too full and reduce the likelihood of pregnancy-related indigestion.

Choose Foods Wisely

Some foods are more prone to cause indigestion and bloating. Avoid spicy, fried, and fatty foods as they can worsen symptoms. Instead, opt for bland, easy-to-digest foods like bananas, rice, applesauce, and toast.

Stay Hydrated

Drinking plenty of water is essential, but avoid gulping down large amounts at once, as this can contribute to bloating. To stay hydrated without going overboard, take little sips of water throughout the day.

Avoid Carbonated Beverages

Carbonated drinks can increase bloating by introducing excess gas into your digestive system. It’s best to steer clear of soda and sparkling water during pregnancy.

Practice Mindful Eating

Eating slowly and chewing your food thoroughly can help your digestive system function more efficiently. Mindful eating also reduces the risk of swallowing air, which can contribute to bloating.

Elevate Your Upper Body While Sleeping

Indigestion often worsens at night. Try raising the head of your bed or propping yourself up with additional pillows to avoid heartburn. This position helps keep stomach acid from rising into your esophagus.

Incorporate Gentle Exercise

Light exercise, such as walking after meals, can aid digestion and reduce bloating. However, always consult your healthcare provider before starting any new exercise routine during pregnancy.

Consider Probiotics

Probiotics can promote a healthy balance of gut bacteria, potentially reducing bloating and improving digestion. Foods like yogurt, kefir, and fermented vegetables are excellent sources of natural probiotics.

When to Seek Medical Help

While indigestion and bloating are usually manageable, there are times when you should seek medical advice. If your symptoms are severe, persistent, or accompanied by other concerning issues such as vomiting, weight loss, or difficulty swallowing, it’s crucial to consult with a healthcare provider. 

A specialist in gastroenterology in Surat can assess your condition and provide guidance tailored to your specific needs. They may recommend antacids or other medications that are safe to use during pregnancy if lifestyle changes aren’t enough to manage your symptoms.

Additional Tips for Managing Indigestion and Bloating

Wear Comfortable Clothing

Tight clothing can put additional pressure on your stomach, worsening bloating and discomfort. Opt for loose, comfortable clothing that allows your body to breathe.

Monitor Your Fiber Intake

Fiber helps with digestion, but consuming too much of it too soon can lead to bloating. Gradually increase your fiber intake, and pair it with plenty of water to help your digestive system adjust.

Avoid Lying Down Immediately After Eating

Give your body time to digest by staying upright for at least an hour after eating. Quickly lying down may cause heartburn and indigestion.

Chew Gum with Caution

Bloating can result from swallowing too much air when chewing gum. If you need something to freshen your breath, consider sucking on a mint instead.

Keep a Food DiaryTracking what you eat and how you feel afterward can help you identify and avoid foods that trigger indigestion or bloating.

Consider Herbal Teas

Certain herbal teas, such as ginger or peppermint tea, may help soothe your digestive system and relieve bloating. Always check with your healthcare provider before trying herbal remedies during pregnancy.

The Importance of a Balanced Diet

Maintaining a balanced diet rich in fruits, vegetables, whole grains, and lean proteins is crucial for managing indigestion during pregnancy. These foods provide the necessary nutrients for both you and your baby while also supporting healthy digestion. Avoid skipping meals, as this can lead to overeating later, which may worsen indigestion and bloating.

Conclusion

During pregnancy, bloating and indigestion are common but treatable problems. By making simple dietary and lifestyle changes, you can alleviate these discomforts and enjoy a healthier, more comfortable pregnancy. Keep in mind that every pregnancy is unique, so what suits one woman might not suit another. If you find that your symptoms persist or worsen, don’t hesitate to consult with a specialist in gastroenterology in Surat for expert guidance.

Taking proactive steps to manage indigestion and bloating will help you focus on the joys of pregnancy rather than the discomforts. You may go through this exciting adventure with more ease and confidence if you use the right strategy.

[xtruss]

Get Your Goat: Italian Island Overrun By The Animals Offers To Give Them Away

Mayor Makes Offer After Number of Goats on Alicudi Reaches Six Times Human Population

— Rome, Italy 🇮🇹 | Angela Giuffrida | Thursday 4 April 2024

The number of goats has grown so rapidly in recent years that they started to gravitate to inhabited areas, causing havoc in gardens and even wandering into people’s homes. Photograph: Digital Zoo/Getty Images

The mayor of a remote Italian island overrun by wild goats has offered to give the animals away to anyone willing to take one in.

Riccardo Gullo came up with the novel idea after a recent census estimated the number of goats on the five-square kilometre Alicudi, the smallest of Sicily’s Aeolian archipelago, was six times the island’s year-round population of 100.

The animals, adept at navigating Alicudi’s steep cliffs, once lived harmoniously alongside the human inhabitants and became as much of a tourist attraction as its dormant volcano.

But their number has grown so rapidly in recent years that they started to gravitate from their usual abode at the top of the island towards the inhabited area, damaging lush green vegetation, causing havoc in gardens and allotments, knocking away portions of stone walls and even wandering into people’s homes, prompting demands for a solution.

Alicudi, which is a two to three-hour boat ride from mainland Sicily, falls under the administration of the larger island of Lipari.

The “adopt a goat” initiative was deemed to be the best way of managing the issue in the most compassionate way.

“We absolutely do not want to even consider culling the animals, so we are encouraging the idea of giving them away,” said Gullo. “Anyone can make a request for a goat, it doesn’t have to be a farmer, and there are no restrictions on numbers.”

People have until 10 April to make their request. “We have already had several phone calls, including from a farmer on Vulcano island who would like to take several goats as, among other things, he produces a ricotta cheese which is much appreciated,” added Gullo. “If someone has the capacity to domesticate a goat, it could be a beautiful and more humane way to control the issue.”

Goats were first brought to Alicudi 20 years ago by, it is believed, someone who intended to breed the animals. But the plan fell by the wayside and the goats were left to their own devices. The problems caused by their growing population were first highlighted by Paolo Lo Cascio, a former councillor, in 2008.

“There needs to be a solution as the threat to the island’s vegetation is serious,” said Lo Cascio, who estimates the goat population at 800 rather than 600. “But Alicudi is a very complicated island, first you have to access it and then try to capture all the goats. There should have been an intervention 10 years ago.”

Gloria, who owns Golden Cafe Noir at Alicudi’s port, said the animals had become “unmanageable”. “They move around in packs and cause damage, there are just too many of them.” One used to come and sit under the table in her bar. “It was a bit of an attraction, but then you worried whether it might bite someone.” While she welcomed the initiative, she questioned its feasibility. Reaching the top of Alicudi, where the village is, involves a steep climb. “How will they bring the goats back down? Perhaps they would need a helicopter to transfer two or three at a time. It’s a nice proposal, but there is no logistical solution yet.”

[pesterloglog]

Dave Strider, Dirk Strider, Jake English

Meat, page 5

DAVE: bro im watching you on the tube and i gotta say

DAVE: while the beatdown you just received was as thorough as it was humiliating im afraid as usual the solution to this problem should probably not involve your decapitation

DAVE: you fucking drama queen

DIRK: Damn.

DIRK: Are you sure?

DAVE: yeah

DAVE: jake just kicked your ass

DAVE: thats really all there is to say on the matter

DIRK: You’re probably right.

DIRK: But still not entirely sure we should be so quick to rule out my beheading as a catchall solution to any given problem.

DIRK: It really could save us all a lot of trouble in the future. Especially me.

DAVE: its really amazing how this meme we have going here continues to be exactly as funny as the day it was established

DIRK: Isn’t it always though?

DAVE: yeah

DAVE: by the way

DAVE: how DID you get your ass kicked so bad

DAVE: jake sucks and his raps are fucking awful

DAVE: please tell me this garbage show is as rigged as it looks

DIRK: Dave, there’s such a thing as showmanship.

DIRK: I’m sure I don’t need to explain this to you, of all people.

DAVE: ok cool its fake just making sure

DIRK: Sigh.

DIRK: We really don’t like to use that word.

DAVE: lmao ok

DIRK: Holding back a little to achieve certain results doesn’t necessarily mean you’re participating in a farce or rigging the event.

DIRK: We do this all the time. We hold back our thoughts, our true feelings, our full potential. We disguise how much we know about what and when, for many purposes. To ease relations, to let others behave naturally and make up their minds without undue intervention. To wait for the right moments to show our hands, to pick our battles.

DIRK: In life, there are many reasons to show restraint, which would never be regarded as an attempt to rig reality.

DAVE: oof

DAVE: my dog you are full of some SHIT today arent you

DIRK: Absolutely.

DIRK: And when it comes to theater, there are just as many reasons for restraint. To build tension. To set the stage. To give the people someone to root against.

DAVE: is that what youre doing now

DAVE: making people root against you

DIRK: What, by losing a round? No, man. That’s just standard pacing stuff when it comes to battlecraft.

DAVE: no i mean by holding up the whole fight by talking to me

DAVE: i can see you on tv

DAVE: theyre booing you dude

DIRK: Oh.

DIRK: Then yes, I guess that is what I’m doing.

JAKE: Dirk are you going to be much longer with your telephone call?

JAKE: The crowd is getting feisty... you didnt get too badly winded from our last scrum did you dirk?

DIRK: Haha, no Jake. I’m fine. I’ll just be a minute.

JAKE: What about the agitated rabble? Theyre starting to throw things.

DIRK: I don’t know. Do a dance or something. Sing a song.

DIRK: They love anything you do.

JAKE: Ummm.

JAKE: Ok sounds stupid but ill try.

DAVE: why do you want people to hate you so much

DAVE: its fucked up

DIRK: You’re reading way too much into it.

DIRK: If I wanted another round of embarrassingly indulgent and mutually masturbatory psychoanalysis, I would have called my daughter instead.

DAVE: hm

DAVE: do i need to point out how fucking weird what you just said was or can that start going without saying at this point

DIRK: I think it can go without saying.

DAVE: nice

DIRK: The point is, playing myself up as a villain figure in this hacky rap pageant has nothing to do with getting people to dislike me. Besides, everyone loves a good villain. When they boo, they don’t really mean it.

DIRK: I think you’d be surprised by how popular I actually am.

DAVE: i dunno man

DAVE: did...

DAVE: did someone just throw a diaper at you

DIRK: There’s gonna be some diapers, yeah.

DAVE: sounds bad

DIRK: The point is, this is much less about me, and more about providing a foil for Jake’s heroism and charisma.

DIRK: It’s very important that his popularity continues to be cultivated, to maximize his political capital.

DAVE: political capital

DAVE: what the fuck are...

DAVE: ok how long have you known about the jane thing

DAVE: i mean is this something you have been planning for like

DAVE: a long time or

DIRK: Planning is such an intense word.

DAVE: god damn it

DIRK: Look, let’s just say there have been some conversations.

DIRK: Does that meet with your approval?

DAVE: jane is a shitty candidate dude

DAVE: shes going to be so shitty

DIRK: I thought you’d feel that way.

DIRK: I respectfully disagree.

DAVE: i get shes a good friend of yours and all but even you have to admit how far up her own ass she is

DIRK: Of course. I consider it to be among her best qualifications for the job.

DAVE: christ

DAVE: ok if nothing else have you at least taken into account the DEVASTATION to the economy this will cause???

DIRK: You know perfectly well how much we differ on fiscal policy.

DIRK: Maybe this isn’t the best time for one of our epic debates on the subject?

DAVE: yeah what was i thinking

DAVE: wasting the time of the dude currently holding up a televised rap contest so bad hes gettin diapers thrown at him

DIRK: Dave, I think if you search your soul, you’ll come to the same conclusion I have. Jane is just what this planet needs.

DIRK: We’ve all had our fun here, but it’s easy to overlook the fact that civilization on Earth C is hardly a sustainable proposition.

DIRK: Just beneath the surface, it’s quite a dangerous and unstable place.

DAVE: i know that

DAVE: which is why actually i think it would be cool to have a president that is good instead of bad

DIRK: He’s not as great as you think.

DAVE: what

DAVE: who

DAVE: obama??

DAVE: how dare you

DIRK: No, fool.

DIRK: Karkat.

DAVE: oh

DIRK: I think your heart is in the right place, but the dude is a complete amateur.

DIRK: He’ll get eaten alive. I also have a hard time imagining he even wants the job.

DIRK: Really, it’s an awful idea for him to even run. Think about how much it’s going to inflame the interspecies tensions on this planet. Is that what you want?

DIRK: I’m happy for both of you, really. It’s nice that you encourage and support each other in this way. But you’re sending him on a fool’s errand which can only end badly.

DAVE: wait

DAVE: how do you even know hes entering the race

DAVE: we like just decided this

DIRK: A competent political operative has his ways.

DIRK: Besides, it was always pretty obvious to me you’d react this way the moment the announcement was made.

DAVE: ok thats kinda creepy i guess but it doesnt change anything

DAVE: hes running for president and hes going to fuckin win end of story

DIRK: Fair enough.

DAVE: though now im wondering

DAVE: since you and jane have been planning this for a while how many key endorsements have you locked up

DAVE: cause if youve already got jake on your side then i guess we might as well just fucking quit

DIRK: I wouldn’t worry about that.

DIRK: He and I don’t quite have the rapport we once did.

DIRK: He’s “over me” and doesn’t spare opportunities to make ostentatious demonstration of this claim.

DAVE: um

DIRK: Basically he doesn’t like being told what to do. Especially not by me.

DIRK: So it’s fair to say as of now, he’s still fully in play.

DIRK: Not that I should be encouraging you, really.

DAVE: you are one doubletalking son of a bitch you know that

DAVE: i cant tell if you dont want us to run or are reverse psychology mindfucking us into running

DIRK: Does it matter?

DAVE: i guess not

DAVE: not like i can just stand around and wait for president crocker to like

DAVE: write fucking grammar laws into the constitution

DIRK: Good.

DIRK: That’s a heroic attitude to have, which I’m pleased to hear. Even if your plan is stupid, which it is, and even if Karkat would be an atrocious president, which he would.

DAVE: nuh uh

DIRK: Sorry to cut this short, but diapers are starting to come down pretty hard right now, and some of them haven’t even had their babies removed.

DAVE: what

DIRK: That was a joke.

DIRK: Goodbye, Dave.

DIRK: Sorry for the momentary diversion, Jake. Now where were we?

JAKE: Momentary??? Gadzooks man you were on the phone for half a friggin hour!

JAKE: I know you like to get the crowd all hot and bothered but we are supposed to be professionals here!

DIRK: You’re right, my bad. Won’t happen again.

DIRK: How about you kick off the next round?

DIRK: I bet this crowd will settle its shit right down the moment you drop the latest rhymes you’ve been tinkering with.

DIRK: You know the ones.

JAKE: Gasp.

JAKE: You dont mean...

DIRK: Oh. But I DO.

JAKE: Tally ho its me, jake mcgee!

JAKE: Popping my pistols off, two shots and a kiss

JAKE: My aim is tops, i never miss

JAKE: One shot to the heart and the other to your lips

JAKE: Im heedless

JAKE: You cant impede this

JAKE: While these cads are all hat and very little cattle

JAKE: Cattle so weak one fears they might be feedless!

JAKE: As i prattle and digress you try to make your egress

JAKE: In the middle of the battle, but surely ye jest?

JAKE: FIDDLE FADDLE!

JAKE: My rhymes are known to bring the rattle

JAKE: I rattle those bones right down to the bit

JAKE: Im a mellifluous old chap who knows how to take a hit

JAKE: Im the tip...

JAKE: Tip top of the morning!

JAKE: A rip roaring halt to your snoring

JAKE: Like pouring butter on bacon

JAKE: Their hunger awakens!

JAKE: All the rascally scalawags

JAKE: And dastardly jackanapes

JAKE: Always ask of me, mate what is shaking?

JAKE: With golden gas pipes such as jake-eng’s

JAKE: Im dodging their shade and ducking their jape-slings

JAKE: While my rump stokes a thirst that my rhymes have been slaking!

JAKE: When the splendid lads and ladies ask me “how do you do?” i -

DIRK: Whoops. Jake, sorry to cut you off...

DIRK: Looks like I’m getting another call. Really need to take this one.

DIRK: Gonna have to wrap this battle up sooner than scheduled.

DIRK: Yo Rose, what’s up?

[robininthelabyrinth]

Prompt: NMJ gets caught in a time loop that makes him repeatedly relive the day Meng Yao leaves for Langya, until he realizes that it's a bad idea and stops him from going?

Time Loop - ao3

Nie Mingjue opened his eyes in the morning and sat up with a yawn, mind already racing ahead to his tasks for the day: getting in some morning saber practice, working on a giant pile of sect business and even more giant pile of work related to the war, making time to write a letter scolding Nie Huaisang (for what, yet to be determined, but inevitable – if he didn’t, Nie Huaisang would complain of neglect), trying to find a replacement deputy (or seven) to do the work Meng Yao did now that he’d headed off to the Jin sect…

There was a lot to do, and even less time to do it in – and moping about it would only make it build up even more. Nie Mingjue sighed and swung his legs to the side, intending to get up and get started right away.

He stopped as soon as he saw the calendar on his desk.

It was the wrong date.

Now, there were two possible reasons for this. The first was, of course, that he’d simply forgotten to mark the day as completed on his calendar yesterday evening, even though that was generally the very last thing he did before bed and longstanding habit had trained him to have trouble falling asleep if he didn’t do it.

They said forgetfulness was one of the first signs of mental decline.

Easy enough to check, though.

He got up and walked to the tent door, cracking it open. “Hey, you,” Nie Mingjue said to one of the guards going by on patrol. “Where’s Meng Yao?”

“I believe at this hour, Viceroy Meng would be checking over the supplies,” the guard said. “Would you like me to call him?”

“Mm,” Nie Mingjue said, because that wasn’t definitive; the guard didn’t know for certain, and he might just be making an assumption based on past precedent. “What about Lan Xichen?”

“Sect Leader Lan hasn’t yet arrived – I believe he’s due in for later today, closer to noon. Did you want –”

“No, I don’t want anything,” Nie Mingjue said, deeply relieved to have identified that he had not, in fact, forgotten to fill out his calendar. “I’m stuck in a time loop.”

“…ah,” the guard said, looking taken aback – he must be new to Qinghe, like many of the cultivators in the army. Like Meng Yao, for that matter. “Is that…bad?”

“No, it’s fantastic. I’m going back to sleep. No one is to bother me all day.”

“But – Sect Leader Lan –”

“Meng Yao can host him,” Nie Mingjue decided. He’d write out Meng Yao’s recommendation letter, put a big red mark on the calendar right now just to make sure he didn’t forget, and go back to sleep for the entire day like he hadn’t done in what must be literal years. “Like I said: don’t bother me.”

-

Nie Mingjue opened his eyes in the morning and sat up with a yawn. He looked at his calendar.

No big red mark.

“Fantastic,” he said, and went back to bed.

-

He slept for four days.

-

“Sect Leader Nie?” Meng Yao said, poking his head in. “Sect Leader Lan is – I’m sorry, are you painting?”

“I haven’t had time for it in ages,” Nie Mingjue said, scowling at the paper. “You know, I thought he was just trying to get out of practice, but actually Huaisang’s right. It really does require quite a lot of dexterity.”

Meng Yao opened his mouth, then closed it again.

After a few more moments, he asked, voice very cautious, “Are you painting a battlefield map?”

Nie Mingjue stopped, appalled. “Is that what it looks like?” he asked. “I was trying for a beaver. You know, the small furry swimming mammal from Xinjiang.”

“No, it looks like a beaver,” Meng Yao said, though now Nie Mingjue wasn’t sure if he believed him or not. “I just thought it might be some sort of – code. Maybe.”

Nie Mingjue conceded that this made sense, given what he was normally like. “No, no code,” he said. “Just a beaver. Thought it’d make for a funny fan painting to give to Huaisang.”

“I see,” Meng Yao said, and seemed to struggle internally for a moment.

“Is this about Xichen’s visit?” Nie Mingjue asked. “You can just show him around yourself if you like. I’ll see him tomorrow, should it ever come.”

“…right,” Meng Yao said. “I’ll – do that.”

“If you want a recommendation to leave to join the Jin sect, you can pick it up on the desk on your way out,” Nie Mingjue said, already turning back to his painting. “Have fun, good luck, kill Wen-dogs. The usual.”

Meng Yao didn’t say anything, just bowed. His expression was very strange.

-

Turned out that painting was a lot harder to accomplish when your supposed ‘friends’ kept trying to spring unwanted and unnecessary medical interventions on you.

Ugh.

-

Actually, that Song of Clarity shit from round 13 seemed really helpful? He’d have to look more into that.

-

Apparently, reading novels was even more concerning than painting.

What, like he wasn’t allowed to have hobbies? What else were time loops for if not to catch a break, damnit?

-

“Oh all right,” Nie Mingjue said, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’ll fix the time loop.”

“You’d better,” Nie Huaisang said, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “What in the world did you do to freak them out at the crack of dawn such that they flew all the way to get me and back before it reset?”

“Uh,” Nie Mingjue said. “Nothing.”

“Did it involve sex?”

“No comment.”

“Did you forget that they’d reset when you woke up?”

“No comment.”

“Just fix the damn time loop, da-ge.”

“That sounds like someone who is not getting a beaver fan.”

“…beaver? Fan? For me? Wait, did you paint it? Da-ge! I want it! No, don’t go to sleep, I want to keep -”

-

“Please sit down,” Nie Mingjue said to Lan Xichen and Meng Yao. “I’m going to need your help on a strategic question of great importance.”

“Anything we can do to help, of course,” Lan Xichen said, and Meng Yao nodded.

“I’m always at your service, Sect Leader,” he said.

“Good,” Nie Mingjue said. “Now – what do you know about time loops?”

-

It took about five days, but he finally managed to figure out how to word the explanation so that it only took as long as a cup of tea to explain and got them to believe him without immediately deciding that he was insane. At that point, they were able to finally start seriously brainstorming solutions.

“We just need to figure out what it is that went wrong and fix it?” Meng Yao asked, sounding dubious. “What is considered ‘wrong’ in this context?”

“Things resulting in massive amounts of death, usually? Sometimes your own.” Nie Mingjue shrugged. “It’s a matter of fate, a natural opportunity to avert disaster; you only encounter one when you’re very lucky. Otherwise do you think my father would’ve died the way he did?”

“…an excellent point,” Lan Xichen said, grimacing. “Very well, let’s make a list of all the things you did, play out the possible consequences to see which ones could potentially result in disaster, and then you can try to change them one at a time.”

“Worth a shot,” Nie Mingjue said.

-

“Good morning, Sect Leader,” Meng Yao said, saluting. “What do you need me for this early? Sect Leader Lan has not yet arrived.”

“I need to talk to you about your future,” Nie Mingjue said. “And what you hope to get out of it.”

Meng Yao straightened his back and blinked owlishly, looking wary. “What do you mean, Sect Leader?”

“You want to go rejoin the Jin sect, don’t you? To earn a position with your father?”

Meng Yao blanched. “Sect Leader –”

“It’s a perfectly reasonable ambition to have,” Nie Mingjue assured him. “Unfortunately, I don’t think a letter of recommendation from me will cut it. I’m too young, and one of his rivals; Jin Guangshan doesn’t give me face – and what will you do if he sidelines you and puts you under someone awful to suppress all your achievements? Wouldn’t it be as good as throwing away your life, ruining your best chance for success?”

Meng Yao frowned. Nie Mingjue was pleased to see it was having an impact: he’d consulted Meng Yao the day before on precisely what wording to use, since his own versions were having no luck.

“I have no objection to your ultimate goal,” Nie Mingjue said. “But we’re going to need to be a bit more clever about it. When Xichen gets here, we’ll put our heads together and think about what we can do to make it impossible for your father to reject you. How does that sound?”

Meng Yao swallowed. “Thank you, Sect Leader,” he said, his voice low and sounding, if anything, a little touched. “I – appreciate it.”

“Good,” Nie Mingjue said, and put a red mark on his calendar. “Also, there’s another issue to discuss involving yourself and Xichen –”

-

Nie Mingjue opened his eyes in the morning and sat up with a yawn. He looked at his calendar.

There was a big red mark.

“Oh good,” he said, and turned around and laid back down.

“What’s good?” Lan Xichen muttered into his collarbone. “Mmm, A-Jue, no, don’t lie down. It’s time to get up.”

“It is not,” Meng Yao said from the other side. “It’s time to sleep in.”

“Listen to Meng Yao,” Nie Mingjue said, settling his arms around him. “The world can wait a little more.”

“It really can’t, though,” Meng Yao said with a sigh, rubbing his eyes and starting to sit up, which was obviously the wrong move. “We’re in the middle of a war, and we all have important things to do today.”

“That’s true,” Nie Mingjue said, a little reluctantly. “I owe Huaisang a beaver.”

Meng Yao blinked.

Lan Xichen blinked.

“…it’s a long story.”

[fluffbyday-smutbynight]

Way Too Deep (TAB rewatch)

Going back to The Abominable Bride? What is this madness?

Do not fear, I won't even dwell on the hidden meanings of the whole parallel reality set in 1895. Instead, this will be the beginning of my modest attempt (read: slightly disfunctional coping method) at making some sort of sense out of S4. I could read all the meta, and agree with it even, but at the end of the day I just have to take the raw data and digest it on my own.

Why start from TAB? If I recall correctly, it wasn't originally conceived as a bridge between the two seasons – and yet, it has such a peculiar structure that I can't justify it being just a coincidence. If you will, I'll look at the frame rather than the picture.

TL; DR: what if Sherlock overdosed on the tarmac plane... and never came back?

So, let's begin well into the third act (1 hour or so into the episode):

MORIARTY: Because it’s not the fall that kills you, Sherlock. Of all people, you should know that. It’s not the fall. It’s never the fall...It’s the landing.

Sherlock wakes up on the plane and the narrative trick gets exposed: the Victorian adventures were a creation of Sherlock's drug-fueled mind.

Sherlock's usage is not exactly news to us - hello, heartbroken Shezza in a crack den - but this time it feels different. It's not just escapism or the siren's call of addiction; he doesn't look high, not even to John Watson MD, which by the way has already seen him under the effect. This is the very intentional treading the fine line between sanity and delirium, between life and death:

JOHN: For God’s sake! This could kill you! You could die!

SHERLOCK: Controlled usage is not usually fatal, and abstinence is not immortality.

...all for the sake of "solving a case" or, should we put it in plain words, going deep and deeper into his own mind.

Strap yourselves in, 'cause we're going for a ride. From this moment on, we'll bounce back and forth between reality and hallucination, the two separated by a boundary so unstable that we won't even see it.

Notice how heavily drugged-Sherlock sounds fairly coherent so far – and yet, when Mycroft speaks:

MYCROFT: A week in a prison cell. I should have realised [...] that in your case, solitary confinement is locking you up with your worst enemy.

...his mind palace fabrication unexpectedly bleeds into reality:

JOHN (offscreen): Morphine or cocaine?

SHERLOCK: What did you say?

JOHN: I didn’t say anything.

SHERLOCK: No, you did. You said ...

(As he says the next sentence, it’s Sherlock’s lips moving but we hear John’s voice.)

SHERLOCK/JOHN: Which is it today – morphine or cocaine?

What did spur this abrupt transition? What is Sherlock's worst enemy? Himself, his addiction or... Moriarty, though a figment of his imagination, trapped in his mind palace?

Victorian Sherlock goes on with his investigation, which ends with the crypt scene. Sudden plot twist: under the bride's veil there's not Mrs. Carmichael, but... Moriarty again.

MORIARTY: Is this silly enough for you yet? Gothic enough? Mad enough, even for you? It doesn’t make sense, Sherlock, because it’s not real. None of it. [...] This is all in your mind. [...] You’re dreaming.

Cue another transition to a hospital room, which looks just a bit surreal. What's up with the red blanket and the carpeted floor? Why is Sherlock just lying there in his suit?

Doesn't look very much like an overdose intervention... because it isn't. This is not reality.

In fact, Sherlock goes on all jolly to unbury Emelia's corpse (let me be pedant: just like a recent overdose patient should do), and we're given a couple lines that reinforce how much of a pressing matter all this is to him:

SHERLOCK: It’s why we came here! I need to know.

JOHN (turning away): Spoken like an addict.

SHERLOCK (straightening up to look at him): This is important to me!

Sherlock and Lestrade dig, Mycroft supervises (lazy sod, eheh), until the casket is unearthed – pay attention to what Mycroft says here:

MYCROFT: We do have slightly more pressing matters to hand, little brother. Moriarty, back from the dead?

And yes, immediately after Moriarty is mentioned, another turn into surreality takes place; the skeleton moves on its own, a spectral voice calls, and Sherlock is back to his mind palace.

VOICE (rhythmically, as if reciting lyrics to a song): Do not forget me.

... and Holmes starts violently and wakes up to find himself lying on his side on a narrow rocky ledge. Water is pouring over him as if it is raining heavily.

HOLMES : Oh, I see. Still not awake, am I?

"Still not awake" - what a peculiar choice of words. The line between reality and hallucination is feeble because it's not there; the plane, the hospital, the cemetery? All fabrications of his own mind.

Look, even Moriarty must be tired of beating around the bush, 'cause he doesn't talk in riddles anymore. He just lays it out:

MORIARTY: Too deep, Sherlock. Way too deep. Congratulations. You’ll be the first man in history to be buried in his own Mind Palace.

MORIARTY: I am your WEAKNESS!

MORIARTY: I keep you DOWN!

MORIARTY: Every time you STUMBLE, every time you FAIL, when you’re WEAK...

MORIARTY: I... AM... THERE!

MORIARTY: No. Don’t try to fight it. LIE BACK AND LOSE!

So, not only Sherlock has gone deep into his mind palace, he never got out of it and he literally can't.

John coming to the rescue must represent Sherlock finally waking up... or does it?

WATSON: So, how do you plan to wake up?

HOLMES: Between you and me, John, I always survive a fall.

In fact, Sherlock jumps and falls deeper down and while we're told he always survives the fall, we're never told about the landing. We're circling back to what Moriarty said.

At this point, is Sherlock waking up on the plane again even real? Do overdosed people just wake up like that, and go on with their day like nothing's happened?

Furthermore, if Sherlock really woke up on the plane, this should be where the episode ends.

Why, instead, go back again to 1895?

HOLMES: It was simply my conjecture of what a future world might look like, and how you and I might fit inside it.

HOLMES: From a drop of water, a logician should be able to infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara.

Where is this happening? What's the "Atlantic" (or Niagara, or Reichenbach) we should be able to infer?

The structure of TAB – the back and forth between past and present, fiction and reality - reminded me of this zen koan:

"Once upon a time, I, Zhuangzi, dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware that I was Zhuangzi. Soon I awakened, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man. Between a man and a butterfly there is necessarily a distinction. The transition is called the transformation of material things."

As you may know, a koan is a paradox: for instance, you can't be both man and butterfly, but at the same time you can't be definitively sure about one or the other. This is where we're left at the end of the episode – hanging on the doubt that what we've seen so far has been imagination disguised as reality: Sherlock can't be both in present time (having woken up on the plane) and in the Victorian setting we've just seen.

So we should infer that he is still stuck in his mind palace, and his hallucination is not only about the 1895 timeline, but comprises all the scenes set in present time, too -"It was simply my conjecture of what a future world might look like"; also, he might have overindulged with his drugs, to the point of never coming back to consciousness.

WATSON: As for your own tale, are you sure it’s still just a seven percent solution that you take? I think you may have increased the dosage.

Notice how the overdosing incident will never be mentioned again, which makes sense if we assume that it's a point stuck in time with no foreseeable resolution – an idea which is supported by Mycroft's notebook, in the form of the Minkowski Metric we can see there:

a formula referring to special relativity, more specifically "the spacetime interval between any two events is independent of the inertial frame of reference in which they are recorded" (x)

All this, in the perspective of interpreting S4, makes for an interesting premise... but we'll look into it another time.

_____

Dialogue transcript source: Ariane DeVere

[lunar-wandering]

Impersonate - Chapter 2

i did not expect you guys to jump on this AU like this but. your energy gives me energy so. here’s chapter 2 for the Doppelganger AU fanfic.

read on ao3

-

MK, surprisingly, was the first person awake in the morning. He could tell he was the first one awake mainly by the fact that he couldn't hear anybody else moving around, Pigsy would always start making breakfast, Sandy would make tea, so on and so forth. The silence meant he was the only one awake.

Usually, MK would just go back to sleep, and wake up again later, once everyone else was awake.

One glance at the clock showed that it would be pointless for him to do that anyways, Pigsy or Sandy would probably be awake soon, so it didn't matter.

MK figured he might as well head out into the kitchen to wait, instead of sit in his room with nothing to do.

...Which was how he found Macaque, sound asleep, head resting on the kitchen table.

For a moment MK paused, unsure of how to proceed. He still didn't exactly trust Macaque, though the shadow monkey had yet to do anything other than pretend to be Wukong.

....MK was going to opt to just ignore him, when he suddenly heard movement coming from one of the other rooms.

This, of course, typically wouldn't be a problem, it meant that somebody else was awake, and that MK would soon have somebody to talk to. However, Macaque was asleep. Which meant his glamors where down, very much revealing him to not be the Monkey King.

MK had promised that he wouldn't let the others find out, and he wasn't exactly one for breaking promises.

One of Macaque's ears twitched, (and MK mentally noted that- he was absolutely going to bring up the real six ears thing later-), and for a moment MK hoped that the sound of someone moving had been enough to wake him up.

But other than the ear twitch, Macaque didn't move, and no glamors went up.

...Shit. Looks like MK was on his own for this one then.

He debated whether or not he should just wake Macaque up himself, but he knew, for a fact, that Macaque hadn't been sleeping well. He was using a glamor to hide it, but MK recognized the tired motions, as much as Macaque had tried to cover it up. (The reason MK could recognize it at all is because he'd gone through some sleepless nights himself, but that was a problem for a later date.)

MK couldn't find it in himself to interrupt Macaque's rest.

But he was going to come up with a solution quick, as he could hear a door slide open.

MK did the first thing he could think of and grabbed a nearby blanket, throwing it over top of Macaque, effectively hiding him from view.

Just in time for Sandy to walk into the kitchen.

"Ah, MK, normally don't see you up this early. Everything okay?" He asked, and upon receiving a hurried nod in response, turned his attention to the other person in the room. "..Who's under the blanket?"

"Ma- Monkey King is!" MK hastily corrected himself, "I think he uh. Must've stayed up all night or something."

-

Macaque had, in fact, stayed up all night.

He'd been restless, MK knew now, he had no idea what the kid would do with that knowledge, in fact, it had been rather stupid and careless for Macaque to have volunteer the information so freely. But Macaque had been, well, slightly sleep deprived for a while, so maybe a few slips made sense-

But still. He had no idea if MK would actually hold true to his word on not telling anyone else. He was sure the kid had a rule about promises, most hero-types tended to after all, but did that rule extend to villains?

Macaque wasn't sure.

He had no idea he had even fallen asleep until he'd woken up. At first he panicked, wanting to shoot upright, but held back upon sensing something over top of his head. For a moment, in his half awake state, he wondered if he'd been captured again- but then his senses came back to him, and he realized that it was just a blanket. A very soft blanket at that, and Macaque almost wanted to fall back asleep-

"Who's under the blanket?"

Macaque tensed. In his brief panic, he had completely forgotten that something must've woken him up.

"Ma- Monkey King is!"

Oh wow was the kid bad at lying. He'd have to give Wukong a piece of his mind the next time he saw him, really, not even teaching the kid the most basic of basics- being able to fool your opponent could be a life saver in the right situation.

....He could teach the kid himself-

Macaque squashed that thought before it could even fully form.

As it was though. MK and Sandy were obviously both in the kitchen. A quick check and he could hear Pigsy, Tang, and Mei still in their rooms, sleeping peacefully.

He tuned back in to Sandy and MK, and found that MK was rambling, stumbling over his words, trying to explain why 'Sun Wukong' was sleeping at the kitchen table, with a blanket covering him. It was starting to get to the point where it just sounded ridiculous, and Macaque sighed. He'd have to take this into his own hands apparently.

Casting an glamor over his head, (he was too tired to do his whole body, besides, the blanket would cover most of him so long as he was careful), Macaque sat up.

"...Shut up." He muttered, effectively quieting the kid. "It's far too early for this."

Not exactly a lie, he was tired.

"Ah, sorry, did we wake you up?" Sandy asked.

"Yes." Macaque hissed, before catching himself. "Uh, I mean, it's fine. Doesn't matter. I would've woken up soon anyways."

That was a lie, with the way he was feeling right now, he probably would've slept through the whole day without intervention.

Sandy hummed in response, setting a kettle onto the stove, and pulling some tea and coffee out of the cupboard.

"How do you like your coffee, Macaque?" He asked.

"Black- wait." Macaque paused, as the whole sentence registered in his head, and he could hear MK quietly gasp. "Wait. How did you-"

"It wasn't all that hard." Sandy said, sitting down across from him at the table. "Unlike the others, I do know Monkey King."

"No no no, I need, I need you to tell me where I slipped up, how I made it obvious-" Macaque vaguely was aware he was rambling, but he felt the situation warranted it. "Seriously, tell me right now so I can fix it right now, I can't let anyone else find out- it's bad enough that I told MK-"

"Should I be offended by that?" MK asked, interrupting Macaque's rambling. "I feel like I should be offended by that."

"Shush, kid, the ancient demons are talking." Macaque said, which turned out to be a mistake.

"Ancient demo- what do you mean 'ancient demons'?" MK asked, turning to look at Sandy. "What- what does he mean by ancient demons???"

Sandy said nothing, whistling innocently, and Macaque sighed, letting his glamor fall down, (although he kept the one on his ears and his scar),  as he rested his head on the table.

Fuck, he was too tired for this.

"He's Sha Wujing." Macaque mumbled, "Wukong's brother."

"What?!"

Macaque tuned out MK and Sandy's conversation from there, he honestly didn't really care about it.

What he was more concerned about was the fact that Sandy had figured him out. If he had figured him out, did that mean the others had too? What where they going to do about it? Where they just waiting for him to slip up again, so that they would have an excuse to kick him out? He didn't quite fancy being on his own when the Lady Bone Demon was out there, still doing her creepy thing. He wasn't exactly keen on getting captured again.

Macaque was brought out of his thoughts when a cup of coffee was carefully set down beside him.

"You don't need to worry about it, by the way." Sandy said, when he saw the look Macaque was giving him. "I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who figured it out, and that's just because I know Monkey King. I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to."

"....Okay. But you're the last person that's going to know about this, okay?" Macaque said, glancing between MK and Sandy. "No one else can know."

-

A few sips of coffee was all Macaque truly needed to perk right back up. Sure, he was still very sleep deprived, but at least now it wasn't going to be as obvious. It gave him enough of a boost to be able to throw on the Wukong glamor entirely.

The others were all awake now, and were, for the most part, ignoring him, just pausing to say hello, as usual, and the way Macaque would like it to stay. Sandy and MK had already found out, he couldn't risk getting too close to the others and slipping up.

"...Weird." He heard Mei's voice say from behind him. "MK, didn't you say that Monkey King didn't like bitter things?"

"Yeah?" MK said, "He doesn't, why are you-"

"Well then why is he drinking black coffee?"

Macaque choked on said black coffee, barely stopping himself from whipping his head around to look at her, his shoulders tensing. Fuck, he hadn't thought of that, he knew for a fact that Wukong liked sweet stuff, how could he have been so stupid-

"Ah, um. I lied about him liking sweet things?" MK said nervously, and okay, Macaque was once again considering actually giving the kid lying lessons.

"No, no, he didn't lie-" Macaque said, turning around in order to face Mei. "-I just recently started drinking it. I don't actually like it, it just gives my morning a bit more of a kick."

As he said this, he took another sip of his coffee, fake-cringing as he did so. Mei raised an eyebrow.

"Suspicious." She muttered.

"No- it's not!" Macaque replied, and Mei shrugged, seemingly moving on.

...Macaque had a feeling this would come back to bite him later.

-

Macaque hid down behind a bush, MK close beside him, sneakingly peaking over top at the scene before them.

The Lady Bone Demon was there.

Or, well, she wasn't there specifically, really, there was just an illusion of her.

But there was a demon, someone Lady Bone Demon had probably turned into her lackey, there. Macaque and MK couldn't afford to be seen.

It was just their luck that they'd run into something like this now.

MK had, earlier, spotted some fruit trees on the ground they were flying over, and had insisted on going to pick some. Recognizing it'd probably strange if Wukong didn't want to go get fruit, Macaque had gone with him.

He was kind of regretting that decision.

"I'm sorry my lady." The demon said, "I can't find him anywhere."

Him? So they were just looking for one person then, but who-

"I still don't understand how you were able to let the Macaque escape." The Lady Bone Demon hissed and oh.

Oh.

Oh no.

Macaque turned to look at MK, who was glancing at him in confusion, before the pieces clicked together in his mind as well. The kid immediately smiled giddily, bouncing a little-

Macaque quickly put a hand on top of MK's head, pushing him down and quickly putting a stop to that.

"Keep your head down." He hissed, "You can be excited later, right now we need to keep from getting ourselves attacked."

So they sat there for a few more moments, and Macaque pointedly pushed all his thoughts on the fact that Wukong had escaped to the back of his mind for now. He could think about that later, right now what was important was getting himself and MK back to the ship safely.

As soon as the demon turned and began to walk in a slightly different direction, Macaque took the chance. He picked MK up, throwing him as well as the fruit they'd gathered over his shoulder, and ran back to the ship, occasionally using the shadows to speed himself up.

He paused before jumping up to the ship, double checking to make sure his Wukong glamour was still on and fully intact. Nothing had happened that would make it break but.... well. Macaque wouldn't exactly say he was never paranoid.

Macaque jumped up onto the ship, setting MK and the fruit down beside him.

Sandy was the only one there to greet them.

"...Where are the others?" Macaque asked.

"Tang said he saw a village that way." Sandy said, pointing in the direction opposite of the one Macaque and MK had just come from. "They went to see if they could get any supplies. You...do remember you don't need to use the Wukong glamour around the two of us right? We already know so-"

"We should probably check in on them soon." Macaque said, purposefully ignoring Sandy's question. "The Lady Bone Demon's lackey is walking around the woods. Wouldn't want them to encounter each other."

"Oh- are you two okay-"

"Monkey King escaped!" MK cheered, and Macaque barely kept himself from startling at the sheer volume of it, covering his ears.

"Oh! Well that's good news then, isn't it?" Sandy said, and MK nodded, jumping up and down.

"....Not necessarily." Macaque muttered, "We still haven't found him yet. You'd think that, if he's free, he would've met up with us, right?"

"Well, the demon was searching around here, so that probably means Monkey King was also around here-" MK started.

"But if he's around here, then why hasn't he come to the ship?" Macaque asked, "I don't know, it seems a bit strange to me."

"You sure you're not just scared of how Monkey King will react when he finds out you're pretending to be him?" MK asked, and Macaque glared at him.

"No, I just. Think it's odd, that's all-" He said, crossing his arms. Sandy lightly patted him on the back, making him stumble.

"Hey, it's okay- maybe he just got a bit lost!" Sandy said, MK nodding along with him in agreement.

"Yeah! And besides, I'm sure he won't react too badly to the fact you're impersonating him, since he did rescue you- and you rescued me." MK said, slinging an arm over Macaque's shoulder. Macaque didn't hesitate to push him off.

"Impersonating implies that I'm enjoying this experience, which I'll have you know I'm not." He said, "Besides, Wukong isn't exactly one to get lost-"

"Oh, I'm sure he's fine, he is the Monkey King after all." Sandy reassured, "Either way, I'm sure we'll find him eventually."

As it would turn out, Wukong would end up finding them first.

[mitigatedchaos]

On Having “Whiteness”

(~2,200 words, 11 minutes)

Summary: A metaphysics of “Whiteness” has overtaken actual sociology in the Democrats’ popular consciousness - blinding them to racial interventions that might actually work and taking them off the table of political discussion.

-★★★-

Donald Moss - On Having Whiteness, Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Association (emphasis mine)

Whiteness is a condition one first acquires and then one has—a malignant, parasitic-like condition to which “white” people have a particular susceptibility. The condition is foundational, generating characteristic ways of being in one’s body, in one’s mind, and in one’s world. Parasitic Whiteness renders its hosts’ appetites voracious, insatiable, and perverse. These deformed appetites particularly target nonwhite peoples. Once established, these appetites are nearly impossible to eliminate. Effective treatment consists of a combination of psychic and social-historical interventions. Such interventions can reasonably aim only to reshape Whiteness’s infiltrated appetites—to reduce their intensity, redistribute their aims, and occasionally turn those aims toward the work of reparation. When remembered and represented, the ravages wreaked by the chronic condition can function either as warning (“never again”) or as temptation (“great again”). Memorialization alone, therefore, is no guarantee against regression. There is not yet a permanent cure.

So both @arcticdementor [here] and @samueldays have linked me to this allegedly “peer-reviewed” article.  The Federalist has a bit more context, but it doesn’t really make the situation better.

Race Theory Problems

Obviously, this is a work of sloppy thinking.  The categorization of “white supremacy culture” or “whiteness” used by people like this is vague handwaving that describes being bad at management as “white supremacy culture,” and which in general labels universal human problems, like organizations being resource-constrained, or people being impatient, as somehow uniquely “white.” 

But this sort of article is really what I mean when I say that social justice’s approach to “whiteness” is about “spiritual contamination.” 

Samueldays called it “the ‘I’m not touching you’ of inciting race war,” and I may cover more of his response to it later.  Suffice it to say, it has the same general kind of problems as “stolen land” arguments (where an entire present population’s living area becomes undefined), unbounded “reparations” arguments where no amount of transfers by the designated oppressor are considered to clear the debt, and so on.

This is exactly the sort of material that conservatives are seeking to remove government funding for and prohibit from use in employment training.  This is the kind of material that the Trump Anti-CRT executive order prohibiting racial scapegoating was meant to cover.

Race Theory Definitions

This kind of stuff is, of course, not really defensible, so usually at this point people will argue that 1), “that’s not real critical race theory,” and then 2), “it’s just a few weirdos.”  For those, I would say...

1) If it’s not real “Critical Race Theory,” then what is it?

We can’t measure or disprove Moss’s proposed “Whiteness,” and this malevolent psychic entity said to “deform” white people obviously isn’t based on a comparison with other human populations or historical periods.  When it comes to “insatiable” appetites, one study argued that the Mongol invasions killed so many people that it showed up in the carbon record.

At best, it’s sloppy race science as practiced by an amateur, like twitter users idly speculating whether whites have ‘oppressor epigenetics’ - but with the veneer of official status.  And it has similar risks to proposing that there is such a thing as biologically-inherited class enemy status, and other collective intergenerational justice logic.

Presumably, the Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Association is intended as a journal of science, or at least serious scholarship, and not of bad racist poetry with no rhyme or meter.

Moss provides a relatively pure example of whatever-this-is. I need to know what it’s called, so we can get rid of it.

Race Theory Prohibitions

2) If it’s just the product of a few race-obssessed weirdos, then it won’t hurt to get rid of it.  So get rid of it.

The actual text [PDF] of the Trump Anti-CRT order does not ban teaching about the Trail of Tears, or Jim Crow, and so on, and both of those topics were taught in school before this recent wave of whatever-this-is was popularized.

Trump’s order banned teaching that any race is inherently guilty or evil due to the actions of their ancestors, and the level of resistance to this has been bizarre.

These teachings don’t seem to provide gains in relatively objective metrics like underrepresented minority test scores (or at least that’s not something I’ve seen - and the continued opposition to standardized tests suggests proponents do not expect it to), so it’s unclear just what of value is going to be lost here. 

Collateral Damage

Samueldays wrote,

Because right now the conservatives talking about "critical race theory" as they fire in the direction of Moss et al. are very important in preventing another race war and you have a moral duty to help them aim, not throw smoke for Moss.

Right now Conservatives are assessing just how much stuff they’re going to have to rip out to make “standardized tests are racist” and “it’s impossible to be racist to white people” stop.  While this may not be the message that Liberals are intending to send, it is the message that many people are receiving.  (I discuss problems with both, and some alternatives to handle them better, in another post.)

Liberals need to get out in front of this.  Sooner is better.

If Conservatives think that they have to gut hostile work environment law in order to avoid their children being taught that they’re permanently morally contaminated by their race, and Liberals have no means to actually close race gaps within a 4-8 year period (and right now it’s slim pickings on that front), Conservatives are just going to gut hostile work environment law.

Aether

From their perspective, why not? 

Everything in the world is only six degrees of separation from something racist.  Anything in the world can be tied to something racist.  (So can anyone.)

But nowhere in this pervasive atmosphere of tying things to racism are there solutions.  There are guesses based on correlations.  Proposals.  But usually when you reach out to grab them, to really get a grip on whether it’s correlation or causation, they dissolve in your hands.  The few that do have any solidity to them are moderate in their success (such as Heckman’s involvement in the Reach Up & Learn study in Jamaica) - and don’t appear to be based on the same style of thinking as shown by Moss and others.

It isn’t just that trying to turn combating an invisible, non-measurable, unfalsifiable, parasitic psychic force into an actual political program would inevitably be oppressive and totalitarian.  It isn’t just that articles like Moss’s are an in-kind donation to the 2024 DeSantis Presidential campaign for that very reason.

It isn’t just that unfalsifiable Metaphysics of Whiteness content like White Privilege Theory has been found to lower sympathy for the poor, and that present diversity training doesn’t work...

Race Content Crowding

This stuff is crowding out legitimate scholarship.  I don’t just mean in terms of funding, tenure track positions, or high-flying magazine coverage - all limited by their nature.  I mean among the base.  I have been interrogating Democrats on Twitter for months, and not a single one has been able to cite a strongly-demonstrated intervention that’s being held back, or even a past one that was conclusively demonstrated to be effective.  They can often recite a list of racial grievances on cue.

Tucker Carlson could run boomer_update.exe on a list of every educational failure since the 1970s, and they would be reduced to sputtering accusations of racism against people who increasingly don’t care.  He could do this tomorrow.  The only thing that prevents this is Tucker Carlson’s conscience.

I discovered the Reach Up & Learn program through Glenn Loury - described as a ‘conservative.’ Scott Alexander, attacked by the New York Times crew, brought some success with multivitamins to my attention.  When I first heard about the Perry Preschool program, I believe it was from someone well to the right of him.

About the only one brought to my attention by the Democratic establishment constellation proper was lead removal, and the gains on that are probably getting tapped out.  The frame it was proposed in was not Critical Race Theorist, as this was likely in 2012. 

As it stands, I’m more likely to find something that works from someone the New York Times would disapprove of than someone they wouldn’t.  Or, as Wesley Yang wrote,

Reality has been contrarian for a while.

Succeed Early

Even if we suppose that Conservatives are inherently racist, Liberals have a duty to support interventions that work.  In fact, the more that Conservatives are a seething, undifferentiated mass of uniform racial hatred, the more important it is that Liberals stick to racial interventions that work, because nobody else is going to fix the problem if Liberals get it wrong.

It isn’t just a matter of resources per year.  It’s also a matter of time.

From Heckman’s website,

Although Perry did not produce long-run gains in IQ, it did create lasting improvements in character skills [...] which consequently improved a number of labor market outcomes and health behaviors as well as reduced criminal activity.

Even if we propose an unlimited amount of funding (which is not the case), people and politicians only have a limited amount of time and attention each year.  Newspapers only publish so many issues with so many pages each week.  Television programs only cover so many hours for so many viewers each day.  Even the dedicated can only read so many books in a year.

Even though the Perry intervention was imperfect, and the sample size was not as large as desirable, every second Democrat I talked to should have been able to answer the question “can you name an effective intervention?” with “what about Perry Preschool?”

Every year that we have entire cottage industries working on and popularizing contentious, ineffective, and backlash-provoking Metaphysics of Whiteness content, based on oversimplified oppressor/oppressed binaries, or theories in which power is held collectively by races as monolithic blobs (rather than modelling power as a network of relations between individuals, in which an individual of any background might be destroyed by the racialized relations in their environment), is another year we haven’t spent that energy on finding or implementing something that actually works.

This isn’t just an individual failure by Democrat voters, who typically have day jobs to focus on - it is a failure by the institutions who are supposed to inform and guide them.  This institutional failure likely contributed to the popularization of Metaphysics of Whiteness content in the first place.

Okay, now what?

Donald Moss is a crackpot.  Metaphysics of Whiteness content is unfalsifiable.  The idea that there is a psychic parasite of “Whiteness” is not a legitimate field of study; it’s parasociology.  The idea that “a sense of urgency” is “white supremacy culture” isn’t much better. [1]

We already tried isolating this content to obscure corners of academia, where individuals with high racial attachment could write about it.  It leaked out. 

We need to get this stuff out of the popular consciousness to make room for stuff that might actually work.  The best way to do that may be to cut off the source.  Since Donald Moss is a crackpot, perhaps it’s time we started treating him, and everyone else like him, as what they are.

People involved in Metaphysics of Whiteness content, like Donald Moss, need to be (figuratively) grabbed by the shoulder, and firmly, but politely, told to stop.  Society has been recklessly handing out race-colored glasses to the general population since around 2014, resulting in a rise in amateur race science, of which both right-wing Twitter users memeing about Italians and Metaphysics of Whiteness participants like Moss are examples.  If they do not stop, they must be stripped of institutional authority.  Metaphysics of Whiteness content is unfalsifiable and we should not be certifying it.

If institutions refuse to reduce the authority of Metaphysics of Whiteness practitioners, those institutions must have their accreditation penalized, and their government funding reduced or eliminated, just as if they insisted on producing study after study on magic or ESP which failed to yield results.  If they do not comply, they must be replaced.

It’s possible that Metaphysics of Whiteness content might have had some obscure, niche function in terms of the exploration of the idea space. 

However, as it has displaced popular knowledge of interventions that might work, and the attention given to them in the political system, Liberals should seek to surgically remove it, at the very least until some more effective interventions see the political light of day.

If not, Conservatives will attempt to remove it with a bludgeon.  "They described an entire race as ‘voracious, insatiable, and perverse,’ and here’s the citation for the exact page where they did that,” is perfect material with which to abolish entire departments.

-★★★-

[1] If we go a bit farther out, scholars of “Decolonization” argue that the field is wholly unconcerned with “settler futurity,” a phrase not much less ominous than describing “whiteness” as “incurable.”  It seems that their entire job should be to answer the very difficult questions they have decided not to.

[tarhalindur]

Hurr durr.  I have been a fool.

So, I was thinking through a “how to fix Sotsu” post, and noting that unlike some people I didn’t exactly mind the Gou episode 17 reveal because I got the impression that my old “the biggest deception in Gou is that it’s a mystery to be solved at all” take is correct and the core arc of Sotsugou is something other than a mystery.

And then it hit me: I’ve seen this kind of arc before, and I should have realized this quite a bit earlier than I did considering where I’ve seen it.

Satokowashi-hen and Sotsu don’t follow the structure of an OG Higurashi arc.  They might follow the structure of a broader Umineko character arc - my only partial familiarity with Seacats is showing.  But what Satokowashi-hen and Sotsu definitely follow is the structure of a *PMMM* arc.  That is to say, Sotsugou isn’t a mystery - rather, it is a *tragedy*.

(Sotsugou is nowhere near as good at it as PMMM is, mind you.  Gen “Urobutcher” Urobutchi might seriously be the best tragedy writer in at least a century, and while I can’t speak to Umineko Ryukishi07′s attempt at a tragic character arc in OG Higurashi might well be my pick for the single weakest element of the original - it’s a rather typical kind of bad, too, reminds me very much of Elfen Lied (and I’ve seen similar criticisms leveled at a couple of MagiReco character backstories).  But the core structure is the same, and honestly I can see a pretty solid argument that the core arc is better-executed than the relevant OG Higurashi element and the issues come from Sotsugou’s execution more generally.)

Spoilery explanation (for both franchises) under the cut:

A character runs into an unpleasant situation that’s ultimately quite minor in the grand scheme of things (something that happens to actual people all the time), is unable to really cope with it due to untreated mental illness, and this is then escalated into a larger catastrophe due to the intervention of an outside being offering a deal that ultimately results in the character becoming a Witch?  That’s a pretty fair summation of Satoko’s Sotsugou arc (where the untreated mental illness is ADHD plus social anxiety - we know she’s been diagnosed with the latter, courtesy of Dr. Irie in Minagoroshi-hen).  It is also a precise summation of Sayaka’s character arc in main series PMMM (where the mental illness is depression), and if you expand the terms a little (moderately less common situation with more supernatural influence courtesy of first timeline Madoka, majo -> akuma) and include Rebellion Homura’s character arc pretty much fits the description as well (not sure about ADHD, but I’d be shocked if Homura isn’t on the autism spectrum and suffering from Rejection-Sensitive Dysphoria herself).  (Half the reason I’m facepalming is because I’ve only been making “Higurashi no Naku Koro Ni: The Rebellion Story” not-actually-jokes-anymore for almost a year now, and I raised the Eua-Kyubey comparison during Satokowashi-hen to boot.)  Honestly, if this is right then one of the single biggest Sotsugou mistakes is never using the resident author avatar (just to be clear, that’s spelled “Eua”) to explicitly point this out because we’re all so used to mystery mode that we weren’t going to switch gears without prompting..

It would also neatly explain parts of Sotsu’s structure.  At some level the answer to every murder mystery’s whydunnit is a tragedy, the explanation of exactly what drove a character to the unspeakable (see also: Othello).  If Sotsugou is in fact supposed to be a tragedy disguised as a mystery, then conceptually the framework they built the structure on makes sense: reveal the culprit at the point when the show fully transitions into a PMMM-style tragedy, then frame the tragic arc as an extended whydunnit.  Fair enough.

(Aside: ... Uh, hmm.  My brain spit out another idea: is part of the reason for the sheer amount of repetition in Sotsu that it’s inspired by how Madoka changes on a rewatch (the signature Madoka rewatch experience: shouting “YOU CHEEKY MOTHERFUCKERS” at the screen as you notice yet another piece of blatant foreshadowing hiding in plain sight)?  I wouldn’t put it past Ryukishi07, though if so either he or someone at Passione seriously botched the execution.  Oh wait, that’s basically Sotsugou’s tagline as a whole, so...)

(You could also argue that Sotsugou is using a Butch Gen plot as well more than a Ryukishi07 one; refusal to compromise leading to disastrous consequences is another Urobutcher thing.)

Now, if this is actually the intent then they fucked it up.  First, as mentioned above the extant fanbase was primed to view Sotsugou’s structure as the traditional When They Cry arc structure - question arcs setting up the mystery, followed by answer arcs gradually narrowing down the solution space until the truth is revealed.  If you’re going to break from that and want your existing fans to follow along, you need a signal that the rules have changed, and they didn’t give a good enough one.  (Or Ryukishi07 was intentionally trying to pull one over on the fans, but that only works if the fans notice.)  Second. they chased two rabbits and lost them both by trying to bring in other Umineko concepts at the same time (mostly the poorly set-up illusions to illusions solve for Tataridamashi-hen); on a related note, if the plan after Nekodamashi-hen was actually a tragedy then they really needed to focus on Satoko even more than they did.  Third, the characterizations of the most important characters feel off; Satoko goes off the deep end too quickly for a proper tragic arc, Rika has a major disjoint with her OG characterization (manga Nekodamashi-hen fixes this to some extent, so this may be an anime staff issue).  One of Butch Gen’s core themes as a writer is hamartia, tragedy driven by the flaws of the characters, and these issues with characterization put a major damper on any attempt on Sotsugou’s part to replicate that.  Relatedly and compounding this, as I have noted before it sure does feel like part of Ryukishi07's thought process  when writing Lambdatoko was looking at Homura’s detractors and going “let me show you what a character this actually applies to looks like” (which would also play into Ryukishi07′s usual “even the worst monsters can be redeemed” theme), but this works at cross purposes with the tragic arc (I don’t think it theoretically *has* to, but making it work would take much better execution than Sotsugou has).  Fourth and finally, they forgot the Endless Eight lesson when writing the Sotsu answer arcs.  (If Sotsugou does end next week without any sign of another season or movie then add 5) they made the redemption a little too cheap.  Again.  OG had the same issue, after all.  When They Cry themes as a solution to PMMM’s questions makes a ton of sense - there’s a reason I got the idea for that crossover, and it wasn’t just both casts yelling at me to make it - but there needs to be actual work for it.)

That said... if this is right, then the base idea is solid.  It *could* have worked.  It just didn’t.

[goodomensblog]

A Love Like Moonlight

The Sequel to A Touch Like Sunlight. Though you don’t need to have read A Touch Like Sunlight to understand everything that’s happening here.

Warnings: violence, blood and injuries

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Faced with Gabriel, and Michael, and the inconceivable notion - the thought of his angel’s destruction at their cruel, merciless hands, the Hellfire coursing through his veins ceases it’s singing.

Instead, it screams.

The flame is stirring, climbing, filling him. Burning - it roars, demanding air, freedom, destruction.

Crowley gives it what it desires.

His dark wings unfurl. Beneath black feathers, hellfire crackles and glows. His wings arc back, and molten sparks erupt from the dark plumage. In the dark desert, they fall like rain.

Crowley can feel the glorious bite of fire - in his fingers, his arms, his mouth and throat. And when he turns to look upon Gabriel, Hellfire’s liquid heat flickers and pours like molten gold from his yellow eyes.

“You wanted justice, archangel?” Crowley spits, flames licking at his throat. When he smiles, they flicker, dancing between sharp, white teeth. “Shall we see if the fires of Hell can wipe the sins from your immortal soul?”

Or - the fic where Crowley fights a couple of Archangels 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A Love Like Moonlight

After the apoca-wasn’t, time carries on - as time does. Days bleed into months, and months into years.

And through it all, Heaven and Hell remain unnervingly silent.

Crowley and Aziraphale sometimes catch sight of them - angels more often than demons. Not because the demons are any better at sneaking about; there are simply less of them sneaking (between the two, Heaven’s always been the more vengeful). But their watchers - whether angel or demon - don’t go so far as to speak. Rather, they observe - usually from some distance, dark gazes following. Watching.

Crowley and Aziraphale try not to think about them overmuch. After all, the body-swap should have convinced their respective sides of the angel and demon’s invulnerability to the two most deadly weapons in Heaven and Hell’s arsenals.

“Maybe we’re forgiven,” Aziraphale muses as he lifts a spoonful of fudge drenched sundae to his lips. He doesn’t sound as though he believes it.

Crowley definitely doesn’t believe it.

For a start, he’s a demon; Aziraphale’s about the only celestial being who seems interested in forgiving him that deficiency.

And as for Aziraphale - well, the archangels hadn’t seemed all that keen on forgiving or forgetting Aziraphale’s indiscretions when they’d, with tight lips and dark looks, released a disguised Crowley after Hellfire had failed to burn him.

“I certainly don’t relish the thought of real confrontation with them,” Aziraphale says, shifting in the restaurant’s cushioned seat.

“Who’s them?”

“Oh, I meant Heaven. Though I suppose-”

Taking a sip of dark, steaming coffee, Crowley waves. “Nah. I’m not worried about Hell. It’ll take them a few centuries at least to get that ball rolling. Took ‘em so long to kick off the whole Antichrist shindig, I’d begun to think it they’d changed their minds.”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale muses, and a spoonful of sundae disappears.

“And as for Heaven - well, maybe it won’t come to that. You never know.”

“...perhaps,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley can almost see the angel’s willful optimism warring with his intimate knowledge of archangels’ particular breed of wrath.

Sighing, Aziraphale taps a finger along the spoon’s edge before setting it and the half-eaten sundae aside.

Crowley’s sharp gaze follows the abandoned sundae as it’s pushed across the table. Aziraphale has laced his fingers together, and is staring ponderously down at the bleached white tablecloth.

“I don’t…” Aziraphale starts, and Crowley leans in.

“...enjoy confrontation,” the angel finishes with a twist of his lips.

“Well that’s fine,” Crowley says, and shifts his hand so that their fingers are touching.

Aziraphale’s fingers twitch and his gaze flicks appreciatively up.

“But I’d fight,” Aziraphale says, and his hands slide across the table, knuckles bumping Crowley’s as he twists their fingers together. “If I had to. To protect us. The life we’ve made here.”

This, Crowley knows. It makes something in the depths of his very being burn; and it’s warm, flickering, and fragile.

The angel had, in the end, been willing to kill a child to rid the world of the Antichrist after all. He’d been ready to accept that black mark on his soul - being - whatever, to save Crowley, humanity, the world.

It was only Madame Tracy’s last second intervention which had spared him that.

Crowley regrets not taking up the gun on that rain soaked runway. Six thousand years spent rescuing Aziraphale from difficult choices - from sending a French executioner to his own beheading to bloodying his hands with the deaths of Nazi scum - and after all that he’d gone and asked Aziraphale to complete the darkest task of them all.

His angel won’t be put in that position again. Not if Crowley can help it.

“Don’t worry about all that, angel.”

“Well of course I worry,” Aziraphale says, giving him an affronted look.

“You’ve got me,” Crowley says, because he does, and Crowley likes to remind him of it.

His stiff posture softens. Squeezing Crowley’s hands, Aziraphale glances up. “I do. And you’ve got me. Always.”

Overcome, Crowley lifts Aziraphale’s hands, pressing his lips to soft knuckles. When Aziraphale sighs and smiles, Crowley feels alight, effervescent, and disentangles a single hand to press the sundae back toward the angel.

“Go on then. Finish your ice cream.”

“Well. If you insist,” Aziraphale says, eyes flashing in quiet mirth, and picks up the spoon with a little twirl. Scooping a melting spoonful, he swallows it with a contented hum.

Chin perched on a fist, Crowley watches him, taking easy joy in the angel’s delight.

Nightingales stretch their wings and ready to fly south as soon as leaves fade from green to yellow - not knowing, nor particularly caring to understand the interminable feeling in their tiny fluttering hearts which commands them. In much the same way, Crowley doesn’t think overmuch about protecting Aziraphale from facing a choice like the one at Tadfield again. Nightingales fly south in the autumn, and Crowley will do near anything to keep Aziraphale from anguish.

If Gabriel - or any of the other archangels make a move against them, Aziraphale will not be forced to bear the burden of taking up arms against a fellow angel. Not if Crowley has anything to say about it.

Because he’s got a plan. A decently good one too, he likes to think.

They’re on their own now - isolated from both Heaven and Hell, but that doesn’t mean Crowley doesn’t occasionally keep in touch. He has a contact or two, under-the-table type connections, of course. But it’s enough for him to keep an ear to the ground with regard to what Hell is up to, and sometimes, by association - Heaven.

It’s how he hears, three days after his and Aziraphale’s lunch date, about the knife.

The London Natural History Museum is busy this time of year.

Crowley slips through the crowd, shoes squeaking on polished marble.

The lesser demon is nearby - Crowley can sense him. When Crowley finds him, it’s in the Rocks and Minerals wing, and he’s hunched, squinting down at a display.

“What have you got for me?” Crowley says, glancing around at the milling crowd.

“Did you know there’s islands of rocks that float?” Daeval says, pressing his spindly fingers over a black and white picture.

Sparing the demon a single, withering look, Crowley pulls him away from the display.

“You called me. What information do you have?”

The demon, a scrawny thing with bony shoulders and a head just slightly too large for its body, looks somewhat like a human child - at least on this plane. And as Crowley drags him away from the display, he whines.

“Oh for - you’re not actually a child!” Crowley hisses, dragging the demon outside.

Outside, Daeval recoils, squinting at the light.

“Spill. Now,” He says, stepping in, crowding the little bastard.

Spindly hands lift and the demon is snarling. “Give me a chance to get a word out!”

“I’m waiting.”

Flicking a rude gesture, the demon begins. “I hear that the angels are looking for something.”

“For what?”

“From what I hear, it’s a knife.”

“A knife?”

What would an angel want with a knife?

“Not just any knife. An ancient one. Way, way back, an angel gave it to some poor sod. Apparently, the knife got a bit tainted, you see, with a touch of murderous intent. Then it slipped down to our end for a while, and was eventually lost.”

“And?”

“See, it’s an angelic blade that went a bit dark. It’s, uh, well they say it can kill both demons and angels.”

Crowley stills. He doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t blink. His heartbeat silences so that he might better think.

“It can do what.”

“Kill angels. Kill demons. Stab ‘em and-” he flings out his hands, making a dramatic whooshing noise. “Gone. Permanent like.”

Crowley braces a hand against the closest wall. When his fingers tremble, he grinds them into the stucco until they still.

“This knife. Where is it?”

“Dunno. Just heard that some angels were looking for it. Asking around. Probably don’t want us demons getting our hands on it again, is my guess.”

“I don’t pay you to guess.”

“Don’t pay me much at all actually…”

“Yeah, just shh-” Crowley waves the demon silent. Pressing a fist to his lips, he paces in a tight circle.

It could be nothing, he thinks. Maybe the angel’s are simply interested in keeping it out of Hell’s grasp. But he knows Heaven, and he knows the kind of angels which preside there. And they’re the type that won’t stand to leave things unfinished. Not after Aziraphale’s slight.

Divine justice is swift. And it is unyielding.

And there apparently exists a knife to do it’s bidding.

The angels believe Aziraphale is immune to Hellfire.

This knife would be the perfect solution.

“Have they found it?”

“Don’t know.”

The sky is cloudless, the sun is bright, and powerful archangels might have a knife capable of killing one of their own. Spitting a swear, Crowley closes his eyes. Fingers curling, he presses his hand over his face; his bruised knuckles press into the skin around his glasses.

Either they’ve found it - or they will soon.

Heaven is relentless in that way.

“Daeval. It’s time,” Crowley finally says. “See to the preparations. You have three days.”

“First of all, that’s a rush job. Are you gonna pay me-”

Snatching up the demon’s hand, Crowley squeezes. Power flows down his arm, tingling through his fingers and into the demon’s small hand.

“There,” Crowley mutters, “Enough for a few powerful miracles. Happy?”

The demon, drawing his hand back, flexes his fingers. He grins, sharp teeth gleaming. “Feels good.”

“Yeah, great. Awesome. Can you do it or not?”

“Oh I can do it. Might need to use up a couple of these demonic miracles to make it happen though.”

“Do the job and there’ll be more where that came from.”

“...probably don’t want to be giving too many of those away. Seeing as it sounds like you’re going to be squaring up with an angel.”

“I don’t pay you to speculate about my business either. Besides, you get me what I need and there won’t be any fighting.”

“Oh there’s always fighting.”

“We’ll see about that,” Crowley says and flicks a hand, “Get going.”

With a wink and a mocking salute, the lesser demon disappears.

Crowley sinks back, collapsing against the wall. Heaving a breath, he drags his fingers through his hair.

It’s a decent plan. Maybe even a good one.

It will work.

It has to.

The alternative is-

Well, the angels will likely have an angel and demon slaying weapon soon - if they don’t already.

The alternative doesn’t really bear thinking about.

Crowley goes home - and if he holds Aziraphale a little tighter when they curl together on Aziraphale’s old mattress, the angel doesn’t mention it.

- - -

Three days later, there is a soft rap upon Crowley’s apartment door.

He’d long ago moved his plants to Aziraphale’s shop. These days the apartment is mostly used for extra storage (not that they really need it) and an extra hide-out in case of emergencies. Recently however, Crowley has been using it as a private space to ready materials for the plan.

Strolling through the bleak, empty halls he closes his eyes, focusing on the presence outside the door.

A minor demon.

When he yanks it open, the Daeval looks up, his grimy boots shifting nervously over the floor. A dark sack dangles over his bony shoulder.

“You got it?”

The demon nods, and licking his lips, passes Crowley the bag.

It’s not heavy.

Pulling it open, he spares a glance inside.

“That’s it,” he breathes.

Looking up, he holds out a hand.

The demon, flexing his fingers, shifts on his feet. “...Crowley-”

Crowley’s hand curls closed. “What?”

The demon rubs a grimy hand over his face. Shaking his head, he says, “I think - I think Lord Beelzebub is supporting the angels? Somehow? It’s how I know, I mean - I heard talk. It was - um, I think it’s happening. Today.”

With a snap, Crowley is gone.

The bookshop materializes around him. Closing his eyes, Crowley spreads his awareness.

He feels Aziraphale - there, in the back.

No one else.

Crowley opens his eyes with a shaky breath.

He’s turning a cursory glance around the shop when he sees it.

The card, gold embossed and glittering, is on the floor below the mail slot.

Crowley bends.

A Heavenly summons; on it, is Aziraphale’s name, written in demanding, golden letters.

He thought they might try something like this. Aziraphale would be loathe to ignore a formal summons, Crowley knows. Even after all that’s happened.

Too forgiving for his own good.

Taking the summons, Crowley tucks it into his blazer.

“Crowley? Is that you?” Aziraphale calls from the back.

“Yeah,” Crowley says “Just had to stop back and grab something. Going now though.”

And then Aziraphale’s head is peering around the corner. “Where did you say you were going, dear?”

When the angel steps into the shop proper, he’s holding an open book in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. His round reading glasses have slipped down his nose.

“Just some errands,” Crowley shrugs, smiling through the bitter taste of the lie. “A few little temptations to keep the world out there properly interesting. Be back before you know it.”

“Please do keep them little. I know it’s not, technically speaking, my job any longer - but I still feel like I ought to bestow a blessing or two to balance it out.”

“Do my best, angel,” Crowley says, and turns, lifting the bag.

“What’s that?”

Crowley shrugs, every muscle in his body straining for nonchalance. “Just some goodies to, you know, help with the tempting. Harmless stuff.”

There is a soft click as the mug is set on Aziraphale’s desk. Crowley hears the book slide beside it.

“...Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice is careful, “What’s wrong?”

Crowley shakes his head, not daring to look over his shoulder.

“Nothing’s wrong, angel”

“You once told me that you’ve never lied - not to me,” Aziraphale halts and takes a breath. “Tell me that’s still true”

Crowley closes his eyes.

“What’s happened Crowley?”

Turning, Crowley sets the bag aside. He’s across the shop in three long strides. When he cups Aziraphale’s face, he feels Aziraphale’s hands sliding up his sides. And when he leans in, pressing their foreheads together, Aziraphale’s hands press over his chest, fingers twisting in the lapels of his blazer.

“Dear, your behavior is doing nothing to assuage my fears.”

“I know,” Crowley says, and bends, dragging an achingly slow kiss over the angel’s lips.

Aziraphale’s grip tightens, and Crowley presses him back.

When Aziraphale bumps against his desk, Crowley stops.

Stroking his thumbs over the angel’s cheeks, Crowley heaves a shuddering breath. And when he says, “Angel, you know I’d do anything for you; extinguish every star in the universe if you asked it of me,” it’s an attempt to convey to Aziraphale, some fraction of his feelings.

Aziraphale’s grip tightens on his coat.

“I’d never ask such a thing of you. I know how you love the stars.”

“I know.”

Crowley presses another slow, careful kiss against the angel’s lips, and as soon as the grip slackens on his blazer - steps back.

Aziraphale reaches out, stepping to follow - and jerks to a halt.

A preternatural stillness settles over the angel as, palm flat, he presses his hand to the invisible barrier between them.

“What is...Crowley-,” Aziraphale says, gaze flicking from Crowley, to the barrier - and then to the rug beneath his feet.

He kicks it back.

The circle had been neatly concealed. Now, the runes glow a deep, blackened red, and undulate, slithering round one another on the wood floor.

Aziraphale kneels, reaching a hand toward the runes. His knuckles bump against the barrier.

“These are...these are in blood,” Aziraphale looks up. He’s pale. “Demon blood. Crowley-”

“Yeah. It’s mine,” he says, and somehow, he didn’t quite imagine this part would hurt so much.

Aziraphale presses a bracing hand against the invisible wall between them, and Crowley can tell he’s realized. Aziraphale is smart. It won’t have taken him long to connect the dots.

“Crowley. Dear,” his voice is soft, forced calm. “Come now. Let me out. Whatever’s come up, we’ll deal with it. Together.”

“They mean to kill you angel.”

Aziraphale’s other hand is pressing against the barrier. “Yes, and if they mean to do that to me, what do you think they intend for you?”

“I’ve got a plan.”

“If it’s a plan that involves leaving me here, it cannot be any good!” Aziraphale says, voice lifting. His eyes are flickering a bright, painful blue. “Let me out, Crowley. Let me out right now.”

“Can’t do that,” Crowley says, his throat dry.

The air within the circle has begun to whine. Aziraphale’s hands are pressed against the barrier, pale fingers splayed. He closes his eyes.

Licking his lips, Crowley spares a short glance at the glowing ruins.

Should hold.

The room trembles. Books topple from shelves and somewhere in the back, a painting slips off the wall.

Through it all, the circle remains.

Spent, Aziraphale sags against the invisible wall. His voice has gone ragged, and he looks up, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Crowley, don’t you dare do this.”

Swallowing around the ache in his throat, Crowley grimaces and turns, reaching for the bag.

“Crowley - Crowley, come now. Darling, please.”

Crowley picks up the bag, and says, quiet. “Angels can’t leave the circle. And angels can’t enter. You’ll be safe inside.”

“Crowley-”

“The circle will fade in ten hours - just in case, uh - you know, I’m not back to let you out.”

“Crowley.”

And here the angel’s voice cracks, and it’s desperate, sharp as shattered glass.

This is a betrayal. That it’s done for the right reasons, doesn’t change the nature of the act. And Crowley can’t bring himself to look at the results of it. The sounds alone have nearly broken him.

Bracing the bag against his shoulder, Crowley stares - like the worst kind of coward - at the floor. “I do plan on surviving this and returning to you, angel,” he says, and swallows. “If you’ll still have me.”

“Crowley. Crowley,” the angel’s voice is a sharp, painful caress. “Look at me. Please, just stop this nonsense and look at me.”

“Sorry Aziraphale,” Crowley’s voice is a rasp.

Fingers clenching around the bag, he wrenches open the door.

He steps into the sunlight.

“Crowley-”

Window panes shudder as the door slams at his back.

He hardly needs to think of the place he needs. He thoroughly investigated it over a year ago and has been back several times since. A single blink and his shoes are crunching over arid dirt and sand.

Crowley turns, surveying the shrub dusted desert.

Transporting himself here is a costly miracle, but if Daeval is correct, then there is little time to spare.

The sun sinks low on the horizon, painting the sky in watercolor pastels as Crowley inspects the area.

Satisfied, he nods and opens the black bag. From it, he draws out a small, onyx vase. Dropping the bag, he lifts the vase - and with a twist, removes the stopper.

When the stream of orange, crackling flames burst from the top, Crowley flicks a hand, drawing them round his finger. The fire wraps, slithering like a snake around the skin of his wrist, then up his sleeve. It climbs, flames caressing his skin, over his shoulder and then up his neck. Closing his eyes, Crowley breathes them in.

Just as suddenly as they appeared, they are gone. Or - not gone, exactly. Crowley can feel the Hellfire, a delightful burn in his veins.

The thing about Hellfire is: much in the same way that angels can create holy water, demons can create Hellfire from your average everyday flames. But the act takes nothing short of a Herculean effort. And it’s much harder to do outside of Hell.

So if you happen to be stuck on the earthly plan, the best option by far is to have someone retrieve it for you.

Besides, even a little bit of Hellfire - so long as it’s in the hands of a talented demon, can go a very long way.

Rolling his shoulders, Crowley draws the gold embellished summons from his blazer. He’s begun drawing a roughly circular design in the sand when he remembers.

Right. Wouldn’t want to forget that.

With a snap and a wave, his form shifts. Black clothes give way to tans and whites. Crowley doesn’t need a mirror to know that his red hair his fading, and white curls are taking its place.

Another costly miracle.

But a crucial one.

Straightening Aziraphale’s jacket, Crowley nods.

“Right then.”

It’s not like he hasn’t performed this bit before.

Brandishing the summons with a flourish, he drops it at the center of the design he’s carved into the sand.

Sometimes these things can work in reverse. If you just -

He snaps and points.

And - nothing happens.

Grumbling, he toes the dirt, amending the designs. Then, bending, adjusts the summons.

Blowing a breath, he snaps again.

Bright light floods the earthen runes. And then, from the pastel sky, white light filters down to dry desert earth.

Folding his arms behind him, Crowley assumes Aziraphale’s straight-backed posture.

“Hello?” he calls, Aziraphale’s voice loud in the silent desert. “Anyone there?”

He waits a moment before circling the summons. Frowning, he studies the design.

All good there.

Completing the circle, he stops, hands on his hips.

“Excuse me-”

The circle ignites with a fwhoomp!

The Archangel Gabriel steps out from the light.

He’s wearing the same suit jacket, gray and pressed, that he was wearing when Crowley last had the displeasure of encountering him.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, lips curving in a thin, bitter smile. “It’s been a while.”

“Not long enough, I think,” Crowley answers, folding his hands in front of him as he’s seen Aziraphale do thousands of times before.

Gabriel huffs a breath. “No. I suppose not,” and lifting a brow, glances around. “Anyway, why are you here? We were expecting you to come to us.”

“Last time I visited Heaven, you forced me to walk into Hellfire,” Crowley replies, voice clipped.

Gabriel shrugs, tilting his head. “Fair.”

Adjusting his coat, the archangel steps out of the portal. “I thought you’d have your demon buddy with you. As backup, or something.” He glances around as he says it, as if he half expects Crowley to materialize from behind a shrub.

“I left him behind. In a safe place.” Licking his lips, Crowley purposefully hesitates, as if he’s reluctant to add, “I don’t trust you, Gabriel.”

He completes the act by shifting nervously, Aziraphale’s oxfords crunching over dry sand.

“Don’t trust me?” Gabriel says, tilting his head.

“Be honest. Please. Why are you here?”

“To enact divine justice.”

Stomach sick and sinking, Crowley closes his eyes. When he opens them, he holds Gabriel with a long, hard look.

“In this particular case, what does divine justice require?”

“Death,” is Gabriel’s quiet answer.

“Mine?”

“Yours, Aziraphale.”

Crowley shifts. Hellfire sings in his veins.

Not yet. Not yet, he commands it.

“Is this by God’s order? Or yours?”

Gabriel shrugs. “Does it matter? I’m an angel. I work for God. My justice is inherently divine.”

“You can’t kill me,” Crowley says, shaking his head.

And then Gabriel is chuckling. “We couldn’t. For quite a while. But things have changed.” Gabriel pulls a long, dark dagger from within his jacket.

The hilt looks to have been originally made of wood, though now it’s blackened and charred. The blade itself is a bright silver, but dark lines of corruption climb up the metal, like infection spreading from a wound.

Crowley watches the dagger as Gabriel passes it into his dominant hand.

“What do you hope to gain from this murder?”

“Not murder. My God!” He gapes, openly horrified. “Justice, Aziraphale. Come on, we’re not animals.”

“Right. Forgot.” Crowley can’t help the sneer.

“Now, how should we do this?”

“Please don’t,” Crowley says, pitching Aziraphale’s voice low.

“You made your choice, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, frowning. “These are the consequences.”

“Mercy,” Crowley whispers, and he hates how it sounds in Aziraphale’s voice. Swallowing, he forces out, “Gabriel, please.”

Gabriel stares, his purple gaze glowing bright enough to match the sky alight in dusk.

And then he’s blinking, grimacing as he shakes his head. “Ugh. Aziraphale. Don’t make me feel guilty about this. You betrayed Heaven. These are the rules.”

He flips the dagger in his hand.

It’s Crowley’s only warning.

White, radiant wings erupt from his back, and Gabriel pivots, his polished shoes sending sand flying as he surges forward, dagger lifted, poised to strike and -

He jerks to a stop.

He’s frozen, mid leap. He struggles to move, tendons bulging in his neck. His wide eyes turn on Crowley, and he bares his white, perfect teeth in an infuriated grimace.

“What is this?”

Crowley strolls toward him, Aziraphale’s features and clothes melting away.

“You failed the test, archangel,” Crowley says, taking no satisfaction in the sentence. Stepping around the demon, Crowley shifts a foot, dislodging sand. Dark designs catch the fading light.

They’d activated the second Gabriel stepped over them. When he’d chosen to kill Aziraphale.

“Release me, demon.”

Crowley is shaking his head, “If you’d forgiven him. If you’d just stopped this, I would have let you go.”

Solemn, Crowley unculrs his fingers. Hellfire ignites in his palm.

“Demon. Crowley - Crowley. Stay back!” Gabriel’s voice has turned high and panicked.

Crowley doesn’t like this. But he likes the idea of Aziraphale being harmed by Gabriel infinitely less.

He lifts his hand, Hellfire reflecting in his dark gaze. “You have your justice, archangel. I have mine.”

And then Gabriel is stuttering, “Michael! Michael!”

A flash of blindingly white light illuminates the desert; it’s immediately followed by the cacophonous crash of thunder.

The Archangel Michael stands at Crowley’s back, the ground smoking at her feet. Her hand is half lifted, poised to strike, and -

Frozen.

Her eyes flicker, looking desperately from Gabriel to Crowley as she strains to move.

Crowley tsks.

“Oh come on, you really thought I’d only lay one trap? I’ve had years Gabriel. This bloody desert is full of ‘em.”

Gabriel and Michael share a wide-eyed look.

“So you’re welcome to call as many angels as you want. They’ll all get stuck like flies on-”

Wait, what is it that flies get stuck on?

Crowley frowns, thinking. Hellfire flickers in his palm.

Gabriel grunts, straining in vain against the trap’s hold. When that doesn’t work, he starts to mutter.

“Hey. Hey. I could use some help here.”

Crowley turns toward the archangel, and when the Hellfire dances, eager, he soothes it with a breath.

Gabriel is groaning. “Don’t make me beg. Come on, you dick.” And then he’s deflating, closing his eyes. “Fine. Fine! Please help me!”

Michael is watching him with a sharp frown.

Crowley stares, “Who are you talking-”

A cold rumbling breaks the quiet night as dark mist gathers, pouring from beneath the earth.

“Oh fuck me,” Crowley manages, dragging his dark glasses off as the dry sand parts, and a dark-haired demon rises.

Lord Beelzebub sneers, turning a flat, disinterested look over the scene.

When their black gaze falls on Gabriel, they snap, “What.”

Gabriel’s eyes flick down. He meaningfully lifts his brows.

Beelzebub watches him with a blank stare.

“Break the damn trap!”

Crowley snaps a hand around his Hellfire, drawing it back as he rounds on Beelzebub. “Hey. Wait. No. No.”

Baring their teeth, Beelzebub snarls when Crowley takes a step too close. He instinctively hops back.

“We are not on the same side, Crowley. Not after what you did,” they hiss, and if eyes were capable of murder (There is actually a demon with that ability. Thankfully, it is not Beelzebub.), Crowley would surely be dead.

“Oh and you’re on what, the angel’s side now?”

“I’m on Hell’s side, you miserable excuse for a demon!”

“Alright. Good. Great,” Crowley says, “Then maybe you can, I don’t know, leave?”

Beelzebub frowns, looking from Crowley, to Michael, and then finally, Gabriel.

“I’ll owe you one?” Gabriel bares his teeth in a weak smile.

Pinching the bridge of their nose, Beelzebub heaves a deep sigh.

Crowley is shaking his head, the sharp burn of adrenaline already flooding his Earthly body. “Shit.”

Beelzebub spares Crowley a long, hard look. “There was a time when I would have mourned you, Crowley,” and then they’re turning, glaring at Gabriel. “You’ll owe me five. Asshole.” With a lazy flick, the traps surrounding them go up in smoke.

“Goodbye Crowley,” Beelzebub says without meeting his eyes.

Crowley watches, hands dangling at his sides, as the demon sinks smoothly back into the earth.

Polished leather shoes shift, crunching over dirt.

Crowley stills, tilting his head to observe Gabriel straightening up. The archangel rolls his neck as he adjusts his grip on the dagger.

At Crowley’s back, Michael roughly yanks her jacket into place. When she lifts a hand, a gleaming sword materializes in her open palm.

Crowley shifts so that he can watch them both as his mind furiously works to come up with something - anything to get him out of this mess.

Damn Beelzebub - again.

“Well,” Gabriel says, his voice flat. “That was a fun diversion, but I think it’s time we got on with our regularly scheduled programming. Don’t you think, Michael?”

“Yes. I want to leave.”

Gabriel nods, and turns to Crowley, gesturing with the dagger. “After we kill you - and make no mistake, we will kill you for this - we’re going to find Aziraphale and finish him. It’s important to me,” Gabriel says holding his gaze, “that you know this. I want you to die with the excruciating awareness of exactly how much you fucked up.”

The book shop is warded. And Aziraphale is still safe within the blood runes. He should be able to escape, even if the archangels are waiting for him. When the seal breaks, Aziraphale will have time enough for a quick miracle to get him far enough away to run.

But the image that follows, of Aziraphale fleeing - with no one and nothing in the wide globe willing - or powerful to help him (not nearly enough remains of Adam’s power to take on an archangel), is almost too painful to consider. And yet it’s impossible for Crowley not to picture those inevitable final moments, in which Aziraphale is eventually tracked down, surrounded by more angels than he can handle. When a dark, corrupted dagger of heaven’s own make is mercilessly driven into his kind, good heart.

Thinking about it makes Crowley burn.

Faced with Gabriel, and Michael, and the inconceivable notion - the thought of his angel’s destruction at their cruel, merciless hands, the Hellfire coursing through his veins ceases it’s singing.

Instead, it screams.

The flame is stirring, climbing, filling him. Burning - it roars, demanding air, freedom, destruction.

Crowley gives it what it desires.

His dark wings unfurl. Beneath black feathers, hellfire crackles and glows. His wings arc back, and molten sparks erupt from the dark plumage. In the dark desert, they fall like rain.

Crowley can feel the glorious bite of fire - in his fingers, his arms, his mouth and throat. And when he turns to look upon Gabriel, Hellfire’s liquid heat flickers and pours like molten gold from his yellow eyes.

“You wanted justice, archangel?” Crowley spits, flames licking at his throat. When he smiles, they flicker, dancing between sharp, white teeth. “Shall we see if the fires of Hell can wipe the sins from your immortal soul?”

And just like that - the archangels attack.

The bursts of Hellish flame can be seen for miles. And the air on the flat desert screams, rent by the merciless cut of archangels’ wings.

Dagger and sword flash, cruel steel catching and reflecting Hellfire’s impossibly bright flame. Forged in Heavenly flame and cooled in holy water, the weapons were made for carving demon flesh from bone.

Crowley fights. He fights for his life; for Aziraphale’s.

Flanked by archangel’s, he uses every demonic trick he’s ever known.

When he is shoved to the ground, pinned beneath Gabriel’s hard hand and Michael’s boot, both Archangel’s are blackened, and in places, fire has singed through skin. Michael wobbles, the sword dangling loose in her grasp. Her free hand presses against her side. Between her fingers, golden blood spills.

A long score of singed flesh mars Gabriel’s cheek, and he’s lost the use of his scorched right leg.

The archangel’s hand trembles as he shoves Crowley down. And the earth cracks and splinters beneath the demon’s still smoldering wings.

Crowley gasps, and he can feel his ribs cracking beneath the angel’s hand. Hellfire churns within - he can feel it in his mouth and throat, but he can’t draw a breath; his head is spinning. From a wound at the back of his skull, dark blood streams, feeding dry earth. There are cuts along his arms as well, and a particularly deep one in his side that Crowley has decided he’d better not think about for long.

When Gabriel draws the dagger, pressing it’s silver tip to Crowley’s heaving chest, Crowley draws an agonized breath. Fire flickers behind his teeth, licking at his bleeding lips, but he’s spent - can no longer command it.

“Just do it Gabriel,” Michael says, shuddering as she redoubles the pressure on her wound. “I’m fading.”

Crowley stares up at Gabriel - into those unblinking purple eyes. There is a flicker of emotion there. Guilt, maybe. Or perhaps it’s mere annoyance, because Crowley watches Gabriel steel himself; and then the tip of the dagger is piercing skin.

Agony.

His guttural shout pierces the arid desert air.

The dagger is corrupted, but there’s more than enough holiness left to sear as it digs into Crowley’s flesh.

The Hellfire is burning, wild. Crowley feels it expanding, consuming as Gabriel readies to shove the dagger between his ribs.

And as Crowley stares up, flames caressing his lips, he suddenly knows what he must do.

The Hellfire is raging, eager, hungry. It’s a task to control it. Even for a demon.

It’s easy, however, to give in.

The fire expands, growing - consuming. Crowley tilts his head back as flames spill from his lips, his nose, his eyes. Hacking a weak laugh, he bares his teeth at the angels above him.

“Together then,” he says as Hellfire crawls out of his mouth, down the skin of his throat.

He’s completely let go. No longer Crowley. No longer demon. But a molten, hungry bomb.

“Gabriel!” Michael commands, “Do it! Now!”

Gabriel twists the dagger and -

Lighting cracks through the sky. When the screaming bolt strikes earth, white electricity splinters out, carving sizzling pathways through sand.

White, crackling electricity lights the figure in a pale glow.

There, Aziraphale stands, his jacket billowing and hair windblown.

No.

Crowley looks upon his angel, dread sinking into his battered bones.

Not here. Let him be anywhere but here.

Especially now, when Hellfire is seconds from razing desert, brush, stone.

Chest heaving, he focuses, straining to draw the Hellfire back. It’s like trying to catch air in his fist. With a ragged gasp he manages to get a hold on it, barely; and the fire is nowhere near subdued.

The noise has Aziraphale turning.

Gabriel’s attention is on Aziraphale. His white knuckles wrap around the ancient blade, it’s holy edge digging half an inch into demon flesh. All he has to do is press.

And Crowley is burning - fading. Nearly overcome.

As Aziraphale twists around, his eyes desperately searching the dark desert, Crowley watches his wide blue gaze look from Gabriel, to the dagger and Crowley’s broken figure beneath, and finally, finally to Crowley’s inflamed eyes. Aziraphale’s chest heaves - and then Crowley is gasping, fire leaking from his battered lips,

“Angel, fly.”

But Aziraphale isn’t flying, or running, or anything of the like.

Aziraphale’s hands have closed into fists; they tremble as he stares, brows lifting, skin creasing between them, as though he can’t quite believe what he is seeing.

Crowley shudders, chest heaving. Dark blood pools around the dagger, trickling down his skin.

“Angel,” Crowley begs.

Run.

Fly.

Anything - so long as you go far away from here.

“Oh,” Aziraphale’s voice trembles, and the silence that follows is the hollow rush before a wave folds, crashing over sand; it is the cringing anticipation the millisecond before a dropped glass shatters; the heavy eternity after lighting flashes through the heavens, when one holds their breath and waits for thunder.

The angel blinks and looks down at his hand. The flaming sword is there, settled in his open palm.

“Now, Gabriel,” Michael hisses, shaking. “Do it or I will.”

Crowley can feel Gabriel turn back to him, but Crowley has eyes for Aziraphale only. His angel has begun to glow.

Wind picks up, stirring sand and tearing through shrubs. Aziraphale stands at its center, untouched, as his eyes flicker with terrible brightness.

“You will not.”

The voice is Aziraphale’s - and it’s not. It is simultaneously close and distant, and it resonates, expanding to fill the space around them.

Gabriel’s shoulders lift and he stills. He and Michael share a glance.

“We were warned of this,” Michael whispers, wincing as she sinks to a knee. “We were supposed to kill him right away, Gabriel.”

“Principality Aziraphale,” Gabriel calls, his voice low and commanding. “Remember yourself, angel!”

Aziraphale tilts his head. His wings slowly open, but there are more of them than there were before. And from the feathers, eyes blink. They are wide, and terrible, and stare out from infinite depths.

“Stand down, Aziraphale,” Gabriel calls. “Stand down and we will spare your demon.”

From Aziraphale’s eyes, blue light pours. And it’s expanding - filling his mouth, and rising - crackling and bright, it arcs through the air around him.

“You will spare him because it is right.”

Gabriel is shaking his head. “You don’t know that!”

“I know it,” Aziraphale says in that impossible voice.

He’s marvelous, and Crowley can’t look away.

The wind is howling and Aziraphale stands at its center, unmoved.

“We have to snap him out of this,” Michael says, and summoning strength, lifts her holy sword.

Crowley doesn’t realize she means to cleave his head from body until the flash of metal catches his eye.

The air screams, snapping as it is cut by too many angel wings.

A hand wraps around the blade, catching it before it can fall. From where Aziraphale’s fingers grip the gleaming metal, golden blood collects and drips. Crowley watches it stream down the angel’s arm. Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes - all of them - are focused on Michael, where she stands, straight backed and trembling, before him. His flaming sword is pointed at her chest.

“Go home Michael,” Aziraphale commands, terrible and impossible. Reality seems to bend, warping around him. “Go home, else I be forced to end you where you stand.”

Michael shakes her head. She’s staring at him, eyes wide. “You don’t have that power, angel.”

Aziraphale’s fingers release her blade. He stares, almost disinterested, at the golden blood pooling in his palm. His brows draw together, and he speaks slowly, as if trying out the words. “I think I do.”

Glowing eyes flick up, and Michael takes a step back. Swallowing, she makes a single, sharp gesture and transports away with a pop.

Crowley stares up at Aziraphale, and he’s expending every ounce of his energy holding the Hellfire at bay. Aziraphale is - he’s beautiful and dreadful, and he’s become something powerful, otherworldly. But even with unfiltered, wrathful power radiating from his earthly form, Crowley fears what an explosion of Hellfire would do to Aziraphale at such close range.

The knife is pressing down - perhaps an unconscious action on Gabriel’s part, and Crowley gasps as the searing pain redoubles.

Aziraphale is on the archangel before the sound has fully left Crowley’s throat.

Wings snapping, he shoves Gabriel up and off Crowley.

When Gabriel, re-gripping the dagger, slashes out at Aziraphale, the angel sends the dagger flying with a flick. The blade spins, sinking hilt deep in sand.

Aziraphale stands between Gabriel and Crowley, every one of his glowing eyes glaring with burning brightness at the archangel.

“Okay, what the fuck Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale blinks, and so too do the rest of the eyes.

“You mean to murder Crowley. And Aziraphale: Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”

“Third person, really?”

When Aziraphale steps toward him, Gabriel hops back, and his palms are raised, placating.

“Okay, no. Not murder. This was supposed to be justice Aziraphale. You betrayed Heaven!”

Aziraphale hesitates, the crackling energy around him intensifies. His wings shiver.

“No,” he finally answers, distant. “It’s not...justice.”

“And you would know?”

Slowly, Aziraphale looks from Gabriel, then back to Crowley. Golden, ethereal blood drips, like tears from his eyes.

“Yes. I can hear Her.”

Gabriel physically staggers.

“No. No. That can’t - No one’s actually heard Her voice. Not since-”

“I hear Her now, Gabriel.” Aziraphale says, in that somber, distant tone, as though a part of his mind resides elsewhere. Liquid gold streams over Aziraphale’s jaw and down the curve of his neck.

Crowley has the horrified thought that this might be killing him.

“Aziraphale,” he rasps, hopelessly reaching. “Whatever it is you’re doing - you can stop now, angel. Rest.”

“Not yet,” Aziraphale says, looking to Gabriel.

When he lifts a hand, the archangel flinches, stepping into a fighting stance.

“You’re to be confined. Here. On Earth, Archangel Gabriel. Powerless. Like a human.”

“What?” Gabriel snaps.

“And here you will remain. Until you learn one very important lesson. The most important of them all.”

“What? No. What?”

“You, Archangel Gabriel, must learn true, selfless love.”

Gabriel gapes. “Oh come on! You can’t honestly expect me to believe-”

Aziraphale lifts a hand. A wide, impassive eye blinks upon his palm. Aziraphale flicks his wrist, and Gabriel is gone.

“I agree,” Aziraphale says, answering an unheard voice. “Los Angeles is a suitable punishment, I think.”

A fresh stream of angelic blood rolls down Aziraphale’s neck. This time, from his ears.

Crowley is sweating, unconstrained Hellfire burning him from the inside out. Groaning, he struggles to rise.

“Angel. Aziraphale. You’ve got to break the connection, love. Hang up,” Crowley coughs, gasping. “It’s hurting you.”

Aziraphale’s brows draw together and he touches a hand to his neck. He blinks, staring blankly down at the blood.

“Oh.”

And he tilts his head, listening.

“Love? What about it? I don’t understand.”

And then the angel is staggering back, the glow around him slowly fading.

When Aziraphale turns, the light in his gaze has dimmed enough for Crowley to once again see his eyes. Gone is the aloof distance. And when Aziraphale looks to Crowley, his emotions flicker, devastatingly open across his face.

“Oh. Oh - Crowley!”

Aziraphale is dropping beside him, hands fluttering, as if afraid of harming Crowley further with his touch. The extra wings are still there. So are the eyes. And they all watch Crowley, Aziraphale’s agony mirrored in their inhuman stares.

When Aziraphale cradles his face, cool fingers gently brushing his bruised cheeks, Crowley sinks into the touch, closing his eyes.

But the Hellfire is pressing up. Impatient. Eager.

Eyes snapping open, Crowley presses a hand to Aziraphale’s chest.

“Angel,” he says, stiffening in pain. “Angel, you need to leave. Hurry.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice is sharp, afraid. “What’s happening to you?”

“Hellfire,” Crowley manages to gasp.

“But it’s - that - it can’t hurt you!”

Crowley heaves a deep breath and then another. He can’t seem to get enough air.

“I...did a bad thing angel. Unleashed the monster, if you will. Now...it won’t stand to be leashed again. Hellfire’s tricky that way.”

Aziraphale stares at him, horrified. “What?”

“It wants out. And it’s gonna go through my very being to get there.”

“Crowley. There has to be - I mean, there must be something-”

Crowley, shaking with the effort, grabs a fistful of Aziraphale’s shirt. “Don’t even know how you got here, but you need to leave. Now. I am not,” Crowley roughly shakes him, “going to let you burn with me.”

When Aziraphale doesn’t move, Crowley’s chest heaves.

“Angel please-”

“You left me behind,” Aziraphale hisses, cutting him off. “And now you expect me to leave you. Here? Like this?” His voice breaks.

Hearing it hurts - more than Crowley had previously thought possible.

Crowley slowly, agonizingly lifts a shaking hand. Gritting his teeth, he presses it against Aziraphale cheek, still damp with angelic blood.

“Angel. Angel. I’m so sorry.”

Eyes fluttering closed, Aziraphale leans into the touch.

“If - If we could do it over again, I wouldn’t change a thing, not a moment- save admitting my love for you sooner. What I wouldn’t give for more-”.

Aziraphale’s eyes snap open. All of them.

“Love,” Aziraphale breathes.

“Yes?”

And then Aziraphale is shaking his head, “No. It’s love. The thing that Gabriel needs to learn. What allowed me to hear the Almighty today. Love, Crowley.”

Crowley is trying to concentrate, he really is - but it’s taking nearly everything to hold the damned Hellfire back. And it’s a fight he’s rapidly losing.

“Aziraphale. Stop. Just listen,” he says, screwing his eyes closed. “You’ve got to go. I’m begging you.”

When Aziraphale’s soft fingers brush his face, Crowley flinches back.

“Angel-”

“We are going to discuss my anger at the dismal way you handled this situation later.”

Crowley swallows around the fire in his throat.

“There is no later, Aziraphale-”

When Aziraphale sets a finger against his lips, Crowley presses them desperately closed.

“Maybe there can be,” Aziraphale murmurs, kneeling over him. “At the very least, I’ve got to try.”

And then Aziraphale’s hands are cradling his jaw, thumbs stroking battered skin. One of his hands shifts back, gently lifting Crowley’s head.

When his fingers touch the wound there, Crowley’s lips part in an involuntary hiss. Molten fire spills down his jaw. Though it passes centimeters from Aziraphale’s skin, the angel doesn’t shift his hand.

Crowley stares at Aziraphale, horrified. “Angel - what’re you-”

Aziraphale’s fingers press beneath Crowley’s jaw, tilting his head up.

Blue eyes glowing impossibly bright, Aziraphale says, “I love you. Wholly. Fully. Purely. With all of my being,” and presses his lips to Crowley’s.

Crowley jerks back, white hot panic roaring through him.

Flames are in Crowley’s throat, his mouth, his nose, his eyes.

Aziraphale’s flesh will burn. And then he’ll swallow the flame himself. Be consumed from the inside out.

But Aziraphale has a hand at the back of his head. His other grips Crowley’s jaw, and as Crowley gasps, too weak to shove him back, Aziraphale closes his eyes and deepens the kiss.

Crowley closes his eyes. Cowardly though it may be, he can’t bear to watch.

Aziraphale’s thumb is stroking a fumbling path over his cheek, and as Crowley shudders, Aziraphale kisses him again and again, deeply and unflinchingly.

Gasping, Aziraphale whispers, strained against his lips. “I love you. I love you with all of my being. I love you and nothing - no part of you - would ever harm me.” Another kiss, and he starts the mantra again.

This goes on, and Crowley can’t bear it because he’s waiting for Aziraphale’s voice to hitch, for his angel to begin to tremble as he’s devoured by hungry Hellfire. Crowley is so entirely, soul-consumingly destroyed by the idea of it, that it takes him a long moment to realize his cheeks are no longer hot, but wet.

It’s no longer Hellfire, but tears spilling from his eyes.

Blinking wet lashes, Crowley stares.

Before him, Aziraphale kneels. The glow in his blue eyes has faded, both the extra wings and the otherworldly eyes are gone, and the angel’s soft skin, lit by the pale moonlight, is unmarred. Gentle fingers brush the tears from Crowley’s cheeks, and the angel’s lips part in a wobbly smile.

“What - how - angel, what did you do?” Crowley sits up, and is amazed to find his body only protests with a dull ache. He glances down to see the lacerations in his skin have faded.

“I took the Hellfire.”

“You what?”

Aziraphale’s eyes flick down, and he presses his lips together. “I love you. More than anything,” he says, glancing up. “You love me too, and I told myself that no part of you - nothing from you, could ever hurt me.”

Crowley is reaching up, cradling Aziraphale’s face in his hands before the angel has even finished speaking. “Simple as that?”

Aziraphale shrugs, pressing his hands over Crowley’s. “Love is the simplest thing there is.”

At that, Crowley’s throat aches, and he feels uncomfortably like he might once again start crying. Dragging the angel closer, he presses his face into his shoulder. “M’really glad you’re okay.”

Aziraphale’s arms encircle him, and then his hands are clutching at the scorched shirt on Crowley’s back. “I’m glad you’re okay! Oh, Crowley, when you left and I was alone, there in the shop-”

Squeezing his eyes closed, Crowley draws his arms tighter around Aziraphale. “Angel, I - forgive me. I was only trying to-”

“Oh hush. It’s - well I can’t say it’s okay. I’m awfully angry about it still,” Aziraphale says, face pressed into Crowley’s neck. “But let’s discuss it later. Please.”

“Of course, angel. Anything,” Crowley says, leaning back to brush a kiss against his ear, then his jaw and his cheek.

Stroking a hand down Aziraphale’s neck, he wipes at the damp blood.

“Aziraphale - did you know you could talk to God?”

“Oh no, I had no idea! Though,” he hesitates, “I did do it once, I suppose. It was quite a while back, and I just assumed she occasionally had little chats with everyone.”

“She doesn’t.”

“Yes, well I know that now.”

“Well,” Crowley says, using his sleeve to wipe up the last of the blood. “That was a day. You ready to go home?”

“Oh yes please.”

Hand in hand they rise, stumbling to their feet.

“Should we fly?” Crowley asks, looking around at the empty desert. “I could miracle us, but I’ll need a moment to recharge.”

“I’m spent too, actually. I’m not sure I’ve even got the energy to fly, frankly.”

Lifting his wrist, Crowley squints down at his watch. “I think, ehhh - about 15 minutes should do. Until then, care for a moonlight walk?” He nods in a generally Easterly direction. “Home’s that way. Wouldn’t hurt to walk a bit of it.”

Smiling, Aziraphale takes his arm. “A walk sounds lovely.”

As they pass the dagger, Crowley gives it a kick. The blackened hilt skitters across the sand. The blade has disintegrated.

“You do that?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Possibly.”

Crowley nods and they continue on.

The broken, blackened hilt is an inanimate object, and so it cannot think, touch, smell, or hear, and it certainly cannot watch the angel and demon, walking arm-in-arm away from the battle scorched earth. If it could however, this is what it would have observed:

As they walk together, distance making them grow small, Crowley turns a sudden sharp look at the angel. “How did you get out from the circle, by the way?”

“Oh that? Your little demon friend stopped by looking for you. Apparently you owe him some demonic miracles? Anyway, I convinced him to wipe away a few runes.”

“My - wait - Daeval let you out?”

“He’s quite pleasant,” Aziraphale says, as they stroll away, their voices growing all the more quiet.

“He’s a little shit! I told him he was never to come to the bookshop.”

“I’ve already invited him to tea next Tuesday.”

“Angel, no.”

“Oh! And you can make those spinach-pastries. The ones I like so much. You will, won’t you?”

A long pause. Somewhere, an owl hoots in the darkness.

“...Fine. Okay, yes.”

“Oh lovely!”

The moon illuminates their figures - one light, the other dark, as they walk, leaning toward one another as if drawn by gravity. And when the one in black turns, replying with hushed words and a contented smile, distance and the sleeping desert at long last swallow their contented voices.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

I’m thinking I might write an epilogue :)

Some of you asked to be tagged! I’m 100% positive I’ve missed some of you. If you were forgotten, sorry!

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[cadence-talle]

Teach The Torches To Burn Bright

Pairing: Fitz Vacker/Dex Dizznee

Wordcount: 2,212

Summary: “You’re a coward.”

“Correct,” Fitz responded. His sister fixed him with a determined look.

“You’re a coward, but you’re also my brother and I want you to be happy.” She leaned forward, sucking the dregs of her milkshake with a loud slurp. “So we’re gonna get you a date with that boy. Come hell or high water.”

(Or, a theater AU, feat fake understudies, many milkshakes, and fundamentally misunderstanding Romeo & Juliet.) 

Other notes: for @molly-sencen! I’m sorry this took so long and I love you so much, Molly. 

Taglist: @everyonehasthoughts, @clearlykeefitz, @loverofallthingssmart, @a-lonely-tatertot, @enbies-and-felonies, @molly-sencen, @lemontarto, @appalyneinstitute1, @ruewen-and-rising, @silver-snow, @linhamon-roll, @hyperlollypop, @never-ever-too-many-fandoms, @keeper-of-the-lost-queers, @impostertamsong, @vibing-in-the-void, @yeetersofthelostcities, @mistythegirlfluxmess, @diamond-dreamerr, @we-have-no-bananas-today

“Look, I’m just saying, Romeo and Juliet is overrated.”

“Romeo and Juliet is one of the greatest plays of all time. Just because you hated your eighth-grade English teacher doesn’t mean it’s bad.”

“They’re absolute idiots. Who falls in love in a single night? How do you do that? Who pretends they’re dead without making sure the other person knows it’s all fake? Death is a stupid solution.”

“Okay, I don’t understand them either, but-”

“Not to mention it’s literally a love story between a fourteen-year-old and a sixteen-year-old in which they meet, fall in ‘love’, and then get married in the span of three days. Tell me that sounds like a healthy relationship.”

Fitz sighs, pushing open the auditorium doors as he glares at his sister. “It’s not supposed to be a healthy relationship. It’s supposed to show the folly of falling in love too fast and how there needs to be a delicate balance between love and hate.”

Biana arches an eyebrow at him. “Did you really just use the word folly unironically? In the twenty-first century?”

Fitz picks up his pace, walking faster down towards the stage. “Shut up.”

“No, no! Tell me more about the follies in Shakespeare’s writings!” Biana calls behind him, smirk evident in her voice. Giving a small groan- she’s never letting him live this one down- Fitz turns to move up the stairs on either side of the stage and runs straight into someone. 

“Oh, sorry,” he says, stumbling back. “I didn’t see you-”

It’s Dex Dizznee. Of course it’s Dex Dizznee. Fitz should have known he’d be in the theater today; he’s been halfway stalking the guy for a month. 

(“Just ask him out already,” Biana had said, chewing on her milkshake straw. “You’re, like, the most popular person in school.”

“I can’t do that!” Fitz protested. Biana frowned. 

“What’s stopping you?”

Fitz laid his head on the cold metal of the ice cream shop table. “He’s too pretty,” he said mournfully. Biana rolled her eyes and kicked him. 

“You’re a coward.”

“Correct,” Fitz responded. His sister fixed him with a determined look. 

“You’re a coward, but you’re also my brother and I want you to be happy.” She leaned forward, sucking the dregs of her milkshake with a loud slurp. “So we’re gonna get you a date with that boy. Come hell or high water.”) 

Now that he thinks about it, Biana probably orchestrated this. He wouldn’t put it past her. 

“Sorry,” Fitz says again. Dex grins, waving a hand in the air. 

“Not a problem,” he responds. “I was probably in the way, actually. We’re trying to get these new speakers set up,” he gestures to the huge speaker at his feet, tangled in a pile of electrical wires, “and it’s… harder than it looks.”

“I’ll bet.” Fitz nods, pretending he knows anything about technology or what it takes to install a speaker. “Well, we’ll get out of your way. I’m just here to grab an extra script-”

“Actually,” Biana says, appearing next to him. “I think now would be a great time for you to try on that tunic I restitched last week. We need to make sure it fits.” She smiles at him. Fitz glares back. 

“Sure,” he says through gritted teeth, moving up the stage stairs. Dex smiles, touching Fitz’s shoulder lightly as he passes. 

“See you later.”

“Uh.” Fitz says. “Yeah, you too, Deck.”

He staggers backstage and falls face-first onto a prop couch. Biana makes a noise of agreement. 

“Deck?” Fitz says, his voice muffled by the couch cushions. “Deck?”

“I’m sure he didn’t notice,” Biana pats his head. “You do need to try on the tunic, though. We have like ten more costumes to get through and the show’s in a week and a half.”

“That sounds like bad planning on your part,” Fitz observes, taking the offered shirt and pulling it on. “How does it look?”

Biana considers him, head tilted to one side. She smiles. “You’re going to be the best-dressed Romeo on this side of Eternalia. Sophie’ll love it.”

“Sophie is gay,” Fitz points out, “and has a girlfriend. You should know that- you got them together in the first place.”

“Mmm,” Biana agrees, “The great Sopherella Caper. Those were the days.”

“’Those days’ were last month.”

Biana waves a hand in the air. “Irrelevant. Okay, take the tunic off and I’ll make the final adjustments.”

“Great. See you at home?” Fitz scoops his bag up off of the floor as Biana nods, heading out towards the theater doors again. Dex holds up a hand in a little half-wave. 

“Have a good day, Ditz.” he calls. 

Suddenly, Fitz thinks he understands Romeo and Juliet’s ‘poison’ idea a little bit better. 

-/-

“You know, I think this is good, actually.” Biana says the next day. The five of them- Fitz, Biana, Linh, Tam and Keefe- are crammed into a booth at the ice cream shop, sipping milkshakes. (It’s far too early in the day for ice cream, but Fitz isn’t going to argue. The mint chocolate chip ones here are to die for.) 

“Explain,” Fitz responds. He doesn’t see how any of this- the fiasco with Dex, being brought to the ice cream shop in what he’s pretty sure is some sort of intervention, the fact that his milkshake has notably less mint in it than usual- is good. Biana shrugs. 

“Well, from what you said, it sounds more like he was teasing you than actually being mean. And teasing is good. It’s very close to flirting.”

“And if he was flirting with you,” Linh adds, “then that’s great!”

“And if he wasn’t?” Fitz asks, because he’s pessimistic like that. Tam raises an eyebrow, setting his milkshake on the table with a thunk. 

“Then you’ve completely embarrassed yourself and you can never talk to him again,” he deadpans. Fitz nods slowly. 

“I’m sure that won’t happen, though,” Linh says hurriedly, shooting her twin an annoyed look. Tam gives her an angelic smile. 

“Seriously, dude,” Keefe says, turning to Fitz. “You’re the only one here who’s still single. I wanna go couple’s bowling!”

Fitz holds up two fingers, ticking them off as he speaks. “One, ‘couple’s bowling’? Not a thing. Two, aren’t you single?”

Keefe stares at him. “What?”

“You do realize we’ve been dating for four months now,” Tam says. Fitz blinks. 

“I… did not realize that, no.”

“Wait, really?” Biana interjects, giving Fitz a puzzled look. “You were there when Keefe did his promposal.” 

“I thought it was a joke! Who orders goats for an actual promposal?”

Keefe frowns, looking vaguely insulted. “I do. Anyone who wants to do a promposal right orders goats.”

“Forget about the goats,” Linh interrupts, “forget about Keefe and Tam. We’re here to help you.”

All four heads turn towards him in eerie unison. Fitz swallows and Biana smiles sharply, pulling out her planner and flipping to May 13th. 

“Okay. We don’t know when Dex will be in the theater- he keeps really weird hours. What we do know, though, is that he’ll be here next Friday. Opening night.”

“So after the show, we shove Fitz in the soundbooth until he asks Dex out,” Keefe says, nodding. Linh shakes her head. 

“Let’s call that a Plan B. Fitz would actually murder us.”

“True.”

“You guys do realize I’m sitting here, right?” Fitz asks. They ignore him, instead gathering around Biana and her schedule. Silently, Fitz slips from the booth and moves towards the shop door.

This show is going to be a disaster. 

-/-

The theater is packed, people whispering and chatting in the dim light. Fitz should be backstage, getting the last parts of his costume on, but instead he’s in the near-empty hall alongside the auditorium. 

He always does this before a show- takes a moment to catch his breath, lean against the cold blue tile of the wall. A moment of peace before the craziness that is a Foxfire High theater production. 

Or, relative peace. There’s a banging coming from somewhere behind him- one of the doors that line the hallway. Fitz is pretty sure the one the noise is emitting from is a janitor’s closet.

He approaches the door, wary of whatever’s inside. Once, a junior found a raccoon in her locker. Fitz really doesn’t want a repeat of that. 

Instead of a raccoon, though, Sophie falls out when he opens the door. Fitz stares as she stumbles, almost falling, before getting her balance. 

“Why were you locked in the janitor’s closet?” Fitz asks. Sophie rolls her eyes as they head towards the backstage entrance. She’s in costume already, thank goodness. 

“Ask Keefe and Linh,” she grunts. “They’re the ones who stuck me in there.”

Fitz steps through the door, almost running into Dex for the second time in as many weeks. The taller boy has a confused expression on his face.

“Do you know why Biana was just trying to convince me I was the Juliet understudy?” He inquires. “I told her I can’t act, but she didn’t appear to want to listen.” 

Fitz sighs, aware of the flush creeping up his cheeks. “I might have some idea,” he admits. “I’ll talk to you after the show?”

“Sure. I need to get to the sound booth anyway.” Dex gives him a thumbs up and moves away. “See you, Fitz.”

He knows my name. 

Sophie has a dangerous smirk on her face when Fitz turns back in her direction, and he immediately glares at her. 

“Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything,” She hums. “Just… I’m glad you’re happy, ‘kay?”

Fitz smiles at her. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Sophie punches his arm lightly. “Now come on, Romeo. We’ve got a show to steal.” 

-/-

The curtain has just closed, and everyone is screaming. 

To be fair, the show did go well- no one messed up their lines, and the kiss scene (which was, in rehearsal, simply nicknamed Awkward™) actually didn’t crash and burn. 

So Fitz supposes he can’t blame them for screaming, despite the damage it’s doing to his eardrums. (Someone is also playing Let It Go at an obscene volume. Fitz will never understand the theater kid obsession with Let It Go.) 

Biana and Linh come up behind him, hugging him from both sides as they shout. Fitz can’t quite hear them, but he hugs back. 

“I’m going to go talk to Dex,” he shouts, pointing towards the soundbooth. Biana and Linh give him matching grins and Linh yells something that might be go get it! and might be turn away and slam the door. Fitz can’t tell. 

He makes his way through the crowds and up the steps to the back of the theater, keeping his head down so no one will recognize him. The attention can be nice, but he doesn’t exactly fancy getting stuck signing autographs right now.

“Hey!” Dex says as Fitz moves into the sound booth, leaning against the door. They’re the only two still here; whoever was operating the lighting board must have gone home. Now is probably the perfect time to talk to him.

Fitz opens his mouth to say something- even he’s not sure what- when he hears an ominous clicking noise in the door behind him. He spins, trying the handle. Locked.

Sophie’s words echo in his head. Ask Keefe and Linh. They’re the ones who stuck me in there.

“Did someone… lock the door from the outside?” Dex asks, coming over and crouching down next to the lock. “That’s weird.”

Fitz sighs, shaking his head. “Not for my friends.”

“Your friends did this? Why?”

Studiously, Fitz stares at the floor. Then the ceiling. Then the soundboard. Anything but Dex, really.

“Do you remember,” he says slowly, “when I called you Deck?”

Dex raises an eyebrow. “Yep,” he answers, popping the ‘p’. “Not the worst thing I’ve been called, honestly.”

“I- I wasn’t trying to insult you,” Fitz manages. “I just- well. I got nervous.”

Dex wrinkles his nose. It’s kind of adorable. “Nervous? Why?”

Fitz shrugs one shoulder.

“I don’t know. You’re just… you’re pretty.”

“Pretty,” Dex echoes. Fitz nods, taking a deep breath. He’s in too deep to back out now.

“Yeah. And smart, and cool, and…” he trails off. “You’re amazing. And I was- I am- kind of in awe of you.”

“Oh.” Dex steps forward, reaching out. Blinking, Fitz takes his hand. “Well, what if I told you that the first time I saw you on stage, I almost fainted?”

Fitz’s throat goes dry. “You did?”

“Uh-huh. And whenever you were rehearsing and I was doing lighting, I couldn’t stop looking at you.” Dex smiles sheepishly, his cheeks tinged pink. “Because you were awesome, and beautiful, and I really, really liked you.”

“I- I like you too,” Fitz squeaks out. Dex grins, stepping a tiny bit closer. 

“Can I…”

“Yes.”

They stay there for a while, trading kisses back and forth, and something Biana had said a few weeks before floats into Fitz’s head. 

“Who falls in love in a single night? How do you do that?”

Like this, Fitz thinks. Like this.

He’s not in love, not yet, but Fitz still feels closer to Romeo and Juliet than he ever has before. 

(Hopefully without the death part, though. In that case, they really are idiots.)