#i just really feel very strongly that Aziraphale has lived in intense fear of crowley being destroyed by hell like the anxiety is off

[ineffable-endearments]

Waking up in July

(Rating: G. Approx. 1917 words.)

July 1, 2020.

On reaching for the snooze, Crowley discovers an envelope he definitely didn’t leave on top of his phone. (Mail doesn’t usually get delivered to his bedside, of course, but given the handwriting on the front, Crowley has the impression divine intervention was involved this time.)

Dear Crowley,

I am writing to you in frustration. Not with you, you must understand, but with myself. There are a few things I do believe need clarifying.

Given everything that’s happened, I feel strongly that I ought to be behaving in solidarity with the guidelines the people of London have set for themselves. I must admit, it was a surprise to hear you express the same sentiment. I’ve always known you aren’t cruel enough to want to see innocent people fall ill (don’t you roll your eyes at this letter; you said it yourself), but I thought surely you would have your own ways of getting around the lockdown, carrying on outside the rules and indulging in mischief as you always do. Were this the case, it would only be responsible to invite you over here, to decrease your bad influence.

And yet, this was not the case. Still, after declining your offer when we spoke, I felt somehow unsatisfied, or perhaps at loose ends. It would have been very nice to share my baking with someone who is not attempting to steal my cashbox.

If you read this letter before July, do know you’re encouraged to reach out. We could at least speak telephonically. And if you don’t read this before July, know I will be immensely happy to meet with you again as soon as you awaken.

(There’s a long gap between the end of the paragraph and the end of the letter itself.)

Crowley...I suppose the truth is I miss you very much.

Yours, always,

Aziraphale

“Sentimental old sap,” Crowley says out loud. How else is he going to dislodge the painfully fond lump in his throat? “Right. Time to see what’s going on, then.”

=

Continue below or read the rest on AO3

One rushed mobile search and five minutes later, Crowley has an approximate idea of where the humans stand. They haven’t done the greatest job of getting the virus under control, but they seem to have made...progress? Arguably? Ugh, they could have done better. At any rate, if he and Aziraphale want to see each other, they’re going to have to form a...a “support bubble.”

The notion of asking Aziraphale out loud if he would like to be in something called a “support bubble” together almost makes Crowley want to turn around and go back to sleep.

On second thought, the angel would probably get a kick out of it, and the awful naming scheme would give Crowley something to gripe about, so all’s well that ends well, really.

The bookshop phone barely rings before Aziraphale’s voice is on the line. “Hello. I’m afraid we’re closing early--”

“Good,” Crowley says. “I’m not calling you to buy books.”

“Crowley!”

Oh, that’s a familiar delight in his voice. That’s rescuing-from-the-Bastille, cleaning-paint-off-his-coat, showing-up-for-Armageddon-in-a-flaming-car delight.

“Good morning, angel.”

“So very much has happened. I’d like to fill you in, but oh, I don’t even know where to begin...”

Crowley frowns at his phone, worried. “A lot has happened? What, at the shop?”

“No, no, I mean in the world.”

“All right. Well. Just start in...I dunno, start off from our last conversation, I fell asleep pretty much right away--”

“Come to the shop,” Aziraphale blurts. “You have to wear a mask, and-- and don’t go anywhere else, but it’s allowed. It...it’s okay now.”

“I’ll be there in five,” Crowley says, grinning, ready to ignore any admonishments about speed limits.

“Wait! Crowley?”

“Hmm?”

“Actually. If you come see me before July 4, we...we have to be in, ah. A support bubble.” There it is. “Have you heard about that yet?”

“Sure I have.” Crowley does his best to sound gruff and unaffected.

“You couldn’t be in anyone’s place but mine, you know. And even after the fourth, you couldn’t...get closer than two metres to anyone but me, even though you could visit--”

“Aside from the fact that all this is totally for show anyway, stop worrying, it’s fine,” Crowley insists. He miracles himself the least-ugly mask he can contemplate and bustles out the door, hurrying irritatedly back a minute later to grab the “something drinkable” he forgot.

They don’t even sit down right away, much less get within the 2 metres of each other. Aziraphale does, however, give Crowley a long, pleasantly intense look (it appears to be a proper drinking-in) when he enters the shop.

“Did you, ah,” Aziraphale clasps his hands together. “Did you get my letter?”

“I did,” Crowley says. “Got a bit bored, did you?”

Aziraphale sighs, impatient. “I suppose you could put it that way.”

“I’d have come over, you know,” Crowley says softly, just loud enough for Aziraphale to hear. “You could have called. Had my phone right by the bed.”

“I know,” Aziraphale responds, not any louder. He looks away to the table next to him, makes a show of studying a book that wouldn’t have moved from the shelf since 1949 if it weren’t for Adam’s reorganization. “But if you’d...stayed here, wouldn’t you have been bored?”

Crowley shrugs. “Maybe. I’m sure being bored here wouldn’t be worse than being bored at home.”

“If you were here, hunkering down as you put it, we might have got in each other’s way. I’m sure it would have been lovely for a while, but what about after a day or two? Or after a week? A month?”

“You have always liked being left alone with your work,” Crowley muses. “I could have gone to sleep here, too, though. I know you’ve got that little flat with the single bed you haven’t used since 1993 upstairs.”

At this, something in Aziraphale’s face loosens, and he looks almost as if he might smile. “Oh, now what kind of host banishes his guest upstairs for bedtime?”

“You absolutely would. Or I could just come visit and leave. Rules only apply to us if we decide they should, right?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Aziraphale says. “I was stuck. It seems silly, I know, I know, but it’s such a strange time, everyone out there struggling - I would have felt terrible for choosing not to align with the humans’ rules myself. I was hoping…”

“That I’d help you get around them,” Crowley finishes.

“As you always have,” Aziraphale admits. That confession alone pushes the air out of Crowley’s lungs, a surprising sensation even considering his breath is optional.

“Those were...stupid rules. Dangerous for an angel to break. I felt like I was sort of doing you favors while also being a proper demon when I did that. This isn’t quite the same.”

Aziraphale nods. “No. Perhaps it’s not.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, urgently needing eye contact. Aziraphale cooperates, drifting even a little closer as he does. Not quite 2 metres away now. “This is our side.” Crowley gestures vaguely at Aziraphale and everything around them. “I can sneak around other people’s rules all you want, but I’m not gonna force my way around yours.”

“I don’t know what’s right,” Aziraphale says, plaintive. “People aren’t supposed to be seeing each other, so if we’re going to live here, neither should we. I missed you every day, though, Crowley. Isn’t that strange? We don’t even meet every day under normal circumstances, but something about being forced to stay apart reminded me so much of old times - bad old times…”

The angel is getting himself worked up. “No point worrying about it now,” Crowley interjects. “We’re a...we’re a ‘bubble,’ aren’t we? We’re following the rules just fine and I’m even allowed to come and go. Problems solved.”

Aziraphale purses his lips. “For now,” he agrees, smiling in earnest this time. “It did get me thinking about an awful lot of things, though.”

“And none of them have to be resolved this second,” Crowley reassures. “Would you like to talk over wine? I’ve been thinking about this bottle since April.”

“Certainly, yes.” Aziraphale waves his hand. “One more thing before we do, though. You know, it’s alright for people in a bubble to get close to each other.”

“You sure?” Crowley asks, not because he doesn’t know the rule, but because he doesn’t know what Aziraphale’s rule is going to be.

“Yes. I was actually hoping you might - and you can refuse, Crowley, really, it’s a bizarre request - but I was hoping you might allow me to hug you.”

Crowley feels a big, undignified grin breaking out on his face. He schools it into the best semblance of a smirk he can manage, but he’s definitely not going to fool Aziraphale. That’s fine. “All right,” he says. “If it makes you happy.”

There is a different sort of delight on Aziraphale’s face as he sidles nervously up to Crowley. It’s not as blatant as what he’d sounded like on the phone. It’s quieter, but deeper. It’s rescued-books-after-a-fallen-bomb delight.

“Come here,” Crowley murmurs, pulling his very favorite fusspot into a hug. Upon resting his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, breathing in that cologne and the scent of various baking experiments, soaking in Aziraphale’s warmth like a...well, like a serpent in the sun, Crowley realizes this is as much for him as it is for Aziraphale.

And he doesn’t want to stop. Sod the wine; let this take hours.

“Do you still get the feeling we’re not supposed to be doing this, no matter how safe it is?” Aziraphale asks, voice muffled. He’s sort of talking into Crowley’s jacket.

“Not really the same for me,” Crowley says. “My lot weren’t big on guilt. Fear, more like. Terror, yes. Not guilt.” He lifts his head so he can rest his cheek against the angel’s ridiculous fluffy hair.

“Oh. Yes, that makes sense. Sorry.” Aziraphale presses his head into Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley rolls his eyes, knowing Aziraphale won’t see it, more attempting to reassure himself that he hasn’t gone completely, entirely soft. “Let’s take it one moral crisis at a time,” he whispers, stroking Aziraphale’s back. Aziraphale shifts and breathes out, snorting very lightly (although he’d never, ever allow it to be called a ‘snort’ out loud) in a way that indicates he’s trying not to giggle.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, apparently regaining his composure, “they might tighten restrictions again.”

“It’s possible. It might be the smartest option,” Crowley agrees.

“We should consider what we’re going to do if that happens.” Aziraphale has not removed himself from Crowley’s grip. “If you’re really sure you wouldn’t mind…”

Crowley finds himself chuckling, progressing to a full-throated laugh. “What, sleeping upstairs?”

“Well, no--”

“We’ll cross that bridge if we get to it, but if there’s one thing I can guarantee, it’s that I wouldn’t want to sit around and chatter 24/7. You’d have your reading time.”

Aziraphale sighs. “And wouldn’t you miss your things?”

“Sure, possibly. Not like I was using them when I was sleeping the months away, though, was I?”

“All right.” Aziraphale pulls away enough to gesture toward the sofa, leaving Crowley wanting more. Days. Days more. Aziraphale is beaming, though, and Crowley might be, too, and Aziraphale doesn’t end the hold entirely because now their hands are clasped. “Now, bring the wine over here and let’s go sample the desserts. I’m especially interested to hear what you think of the devil’s food cake.���

#good omens #ineffable partners #good omens lockdown #ineffable husbands #ineffable spouses #covid19 cw #coronavirus cw #alcohol cw

[diaphanedreams]

Wasn't there supposed to be an essay around here?

I decided to throw this up top as I has managed to bury it under an ocean of reblogs. Stop being so talented, people! And funny and poignant and exciting, etc.

Well, yeah. But the threads tangle in the tapestry. Here are some little chunks, at least. Yes, I know it sounds like it's been written by a seventh grader; but take pity. Girl with the head Injury, remember?

(Parenthetically, I call this style a Conversational Essay)

Introduction

So yes, I'm obsessed with Good Omens right now. Remember in Inside Out, how Joy fights to save Riley from depression by using a stack of her imaginary boyfriends to reach the Control Room? Yeah, it's exactly like that.

"So then why, AziraShell", you groan, "are you taking this very silly and delightful comedy and wringing every last emotional and thematic drop from its freshly withered corpse?"

Because, my children, it's what I do. Read on..

So there.

The longer they live around people, their feelings unconsciously take on more and more human dimensions: friendship, tenderness, and something close to (or perhaps more than) romantic love. Definition really ought to feel constricting; but giving shape (if not precisely names) to their feelings actually enhances their ability to express them. In a SOMETHING way they end up as they started: completely enchanted with one other.

Ironically, there does seem to be a human concept that can be named, but not yet fully understood. (Does that make it... ineffable?) Hunger. This evolving idea of hunger is overpowering, surprisingly physical (not necessarily sexual, but we can always hope), intimate. A hunger that seeks to embrace, not ravage or devour. (An appalled Screwtape actually would be sending a strongly worded note.)

It's the Universe Crowley doesn't trust.

Because hunger has introduced another new emotion: Fear. Crowley has known Terror through Divine and Infernal punishments; he is no stranger to Grief or Despair, either. But Terror is a thing for what is happening; Fear is for what might.

*******************

I interpret this moment as a reminder of the intensity of Crowley's feelings, while the more sophisticated essay girl (I have gotten way more mindful about noting sources since this. Please help. I Needs my attribution hit!) sees a reminder of the intensity of his pain. Maybe you could call it a juxtaposition of 'Don't even go there' and 'May I remind you why we don't?'

It's a reminder for us too, that Crowley has, in fact, Fallen. He is not just a snarky, loveable prankster; there is an uncrossable gulf that keeps both his God and his beloved heartbreakingly beyond his reach.

But despite everything, Crowley appears to still retain his faith; in the personal and intimate way he seems to have always done. ("I only ever asked questions!"). Everyone else makes phone calls. Crowley is the only one who prays; for mercy, not on humanity, but for Humans. Like his buddy Shakespeare, he loves them; loves them Because he sees them clearly.

"Don't test them to destruction"

The greatest fucking irony though is that Humans 'pass the test'. They respond to the nuclear crisis with communication, cooperation, and trust. Madame Tracy literally wrestles with an Angel to save the life of a little boy (suck it, Jacob); the Them face both their nightmares and the futures they will create with calm bravery and decisive beliefs.

THIS is the Humanity that Crowley intercedes for: the beings that imagined and built enough weapons of destruction to lay waste to an entire planet; the beings that, through empathy and cooperation, work together to stop the impending cataclysm.

As Crowley cherishes humanity, Aziraphale is in love with the world itself: the pleasures, the beauty, the new magics every day. In love with Crowley. I don't think it's more selfish; it is another one of their beautiful complements: each together encompasses the whole.

They are perfect complements in heaven as on earth. Aziraphale's faith is simple, childlike, and trusting (nothing wrong with that); but as it conflicts more and more with his innate goodness and kindness, it flickers. [Ahem?]

How can Right be wrong?

When Aziraphale says those horrible, ugly things about being holy, it's yet again about reinforcing himself (and the need to be a 'good' kid, not just a kid who does good). Battling his own demons; he completely loses sight of the one in front of him.

This time, Crowley, wholly rejected and actively demeaned, loses his cool. For the first time in their history together, for the first time in history, Crowley's gentle challenging becomes something like an assault; his undulating snake charm is now a cobra ready to strike. Hissing his last words, he storms off: 1862 in a funhouse mirror.

Aziraphale calls him back. In the Last Temptation of Crowley, he seduces, exploits, and challenges in earnest. But Aziraphale suddenly recognizes this Temptation for what it is. And he strikes back hard.

This is the moment where Aziraphale (obliquely) admits that he has lied to and betrayed Crowley. Angel and Snake have swapped places. And so the truth bombs start to fall, with all the precision of...an air strike during the Blitz.

*1862:

Ah, 1862 is coming together a bit for me. Aziraphale not only mischaracterizes their romance, he reframes their relationship for the past 60-67ish years. He is not only undoing Now; he has left Crowley feeling very lost and alone, a beach in a very sudden and very confusing low tide. He gapes silently But we are in love! We were in love! Aren't we still? We were! We...were. (At the heart of it, at least. Up top, he's too busy shooting the angel who out drew him.) The desire to strike back would have been the waves rushing back. Though I'm wondering if even an overt declaration would have even flipped the script after all. Aziraphale looks so pompous and distant. [Well, except Aziraphale rushes to his date in that cut scene. It IS directly on the way to 1862 park] And the riptides drown so mercilessly. Crowley curls up in bed and sleeps for decades.

#ineffable husbands