i was thinking about how i wished leverage had a birthday episode for some of the characters cause that would be sweet, but then i realised something and basically…. okay here’s my thoughts in quotes form, just for fun
hardison: so when’s your birthday? i could plan something for us and the team to do and-
parker: i dont know
hardison: you don’t know… your own birthday?
parker: no, how would i know? pshh, cmon, you’re telling me you remember EXACTLY when you were born? watch this - hey, eliot, do you know your exact birth date?
eliot, innocently passing by, who was canonically anonymously dropped off at a hospital as an infant: no, how would i know?
parker: that’s what i said!
hardison: excuse me?? what is going on right now
sophie, walking into the apartment: whats wrong?
hardison: parker and eliot- well, okay, when’s your birthday? i just have to prove something.
sophie: …….july 12th
hardison: why did you pause? wait, is that your birthday or sophie devereaux’s birthday?
sophie: ………… (guilty silence)
parker: see, no one knows their real birthday! haha you’re so weird sometimes, hardison
hardison:
hardison: what the fuck guys
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bc i am in fact insane, i rewatched the 1967 scene and took notes only to prove my theory that one of them (crowley) tried to confess in 1941 and got rejected before they could even say a word.
now to the stuff i noticed or perhaps deluded myself into:
crowley actively goes out of his way to gain aziraphale's attention, i mean come on, robbing a CHURCH in SOHO for HOLY WATER?? he clearly wanted aziraphale to notice he was doing dumb shit and stop him
the only time aziraphale actually seeks out crowley, which obviously everyone noticed, but i'm thinking maybe crowley was afraid to seek him out bc he feared an another rejection and they obviously parted on shit terms given by the tension between them
"i needed a word with you" "a word?" the way crowley actually sounds afraid (OF ANOTHER REJECTION?!!!)
they clearly haven't spoken since '41 (again, that is obvious to everyone but it fits with my theory so i had to mention it)
crowley barely meets aziraphale's eyes, is constantly looking away, never fully turns to face him
"a 100 and 5 years ago" needed to emphasize that you remember the exact year, did you babe? he REMEMBERS everything that happened between them and he's not about to let aziraphale forget that
"after everything you said?" clearly he's not just talking about their argument in 1862 cause aziraphale barely said shit to him just stormed away so he could be referring to '41 where aziraphale not only rejects him but forbids him of ever speaking on his feelings
the nervousness/awkwardness that wasn't there before between them
"don't look so disappointed" girl??
–> processed to list romantic date ideas for them in the future, "when all of this is over" girl what are u talking about? perhaps mayhaps when heaven and hell are no longer on ur asses?? aziraphale what the fuck are u saying to this man don't get his hopes up now
"you go too fast for me crowley" = what i said in '41 still stands. i can't be with you in the way you want me to be. i'm too afraid. i don't want to be just something you speed over and throw away when you're bored. wait for me.
anyway add whatever u noticed that i didn't pls i would love if a smart person helped me out here
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Eddie flounders, arms flailing as his feet slip out from under him for the fourth time, and he lands chin first on the scuffed-up ice with a hard thud.
“Oww,” he moans miserably to himself as he sits up. He lifts a numb hand to his mouth to inspect the damage—fingerless gloves doing fuck-all to defend against the stinging cold—and the tips of his frozen fingers come back speckled with warm red from where he bit his tongue on the way down.
Fucking ice skating. Max better appreciate the effort he’s making.
He’s in the middle of a mostly empty rink (arms crossed over his chest, ass wet from the ice, fully pouting in public but who cares his tongue and chin fucking hurt), and he’s thinking about just staying there—sulking in place for the remainder of the open-skate session until a Zamboni comes to sweep him away—when an employee spots him and comes skating over to help.
The guy moves with a graceful, practiced ease, swift enough to send his honey brown hair flowing out behind him as he glides over the ice, and he stops neatly in front of Eddie with a tap of his toepick. “Need a hand?” he asks, offering his, and oh no he’s hot why does he have to be hot jesus christ
“‘M fine,” Eddie mumbles into his knees, face flaming. His eyes are wet, and his cheeks are all splotchy, and he’s being such a petulant, wounded little baby right now, but like.
If Hot Guy could kindly fuck off instead of witnessing this ridiculous behavior, that would be so cool and sexy of him.
“Hey,” Hot Guy says, voice gentle. His downturned puppy eyes go soft with concern when he spots the blood on Eddie’s lip, and he crouches down into a squat and rests a hand on Eddie’s knee.
The fingers of his other hand reach out, hesitant, hovering in the space between them like he wants to cup Eddie’s chin but doesn’t want to hurt his bruised skin. Eddie’s eyes widen at the gesture, kind of humiliatingly turned on by how tender it is, and his lip wobbles and oh God he is not about to cry in front Hot Guy he’s not doing it he’s not—
The guy offers him a reassuring pat. “Bit your tongue?”
Eddie nods. Hot Guy smiles sympathetically. “Yeah, that’ll do it. I bit the shit out of the inside of my cheek last week trying to race my coworker,” he tells Eddie, shaking his head with a little laugh. “Hurt so bad.”
Fuck, his laugh is pretty. Eddie can’t help but smile, too.
The guy claps Eddie’s knee again and shoves himself back up to standing. “Come on,” he says, offering a hand. “Let’s get you patched up.”
Eddie takes it this time.
He lets himself be hoisted to his feet, gripping the lapels of the other man’s jacket for dear life as he gets his balance. Hot Guy, bless him, just brackets Eddie’s waist between his hands, steadying him with warm, broad palms splayed beneath his ribs, and then they’re toe-to-toe, standing so close that their breaths fog into a mingled cloud.
H.G. flashes a brilliant smile. “I’m Steve, by the way.”
“Eddie.”
“Nice to meet you, Eddie,” he says sincerely. He slides his hands from Eddie’s waist to his elbows, trailing down to take both of his hands in a sure grip, and then he swivels his feet and starts slowly skating backwards across the rink, dragging Eddie along with him. “What are you doing out here by yourself?”
Eddie snorts, rolls his eyes at himself. Yes, what, indeed, he thinks, blowing a wild curl out of his face. “It’s a long story.”
Steve grins. “I have a long shift.”
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