Do you think about this Michael Sheen post as often as I do?
Cause...you can see what he meant here, right? Comparing Aziraphale (especially this Aziraphale, with this boa) to Miles Maitland. Comparing two Sheens with twenty years between them.
And it's not just a boa. They are so...them. Gayer than a treeful of monkeys on nitrous oxide. Dramatic. Flamboyant. You can see this similarity in their energy in these particular moments.
And yet...is it all? Or there is something else?
Spoilers for "Bright Young Things" under the cut. tw:homophobia, just in case.
You remember what happened to Miles in the end of his storyline? To sweet, frivolous, charming Miles?
The police got Miles' letters to his ex-lover. It was 1930s, and one piece of paper with love confessions inside could lead you to prison. So he had to leave for France to avoid arrest, without even really packing his things. And it's happened just before WW2, so his further fate in soon-to-be occupied France was...unclear, let's say that.
And you know what's happening to our angel here?
He's so silly and happy. He's spending the night with a demon he just recently realized to be madly in love with. Crowley trusts him - as he showed in another round of their peculiar roleplay. He was able to be a terrible magician for one evening. This is a perfect evening, right? He's happy and is ready to share this happiness with the whole world.
There is knock in the door. In this second Aziraphale is beaming and shouts "Enter!".
The next second the door will be opened. Hell is gonna come into the dressing room. Hell that has evidence of an impossible, criminal connection. Hell, ready to trample not only over this second joy, not just this evening - but all past and possible future evenings too. Ready to destroy all of Crowley, and with him, all of Aziraphale.
All thanks to one piece of paper.
……. It was good that Aziraphale knew that trick with the photograph, wasn't it? After all, he and Crowley have nowhere to run to within the confines of Earth - the jurisdiction of Heaven and Hell is somewhat wider than that of an English court.
Fit: She's legit, we can trust her. We can trust her.
Ramon: Would you rather a dad or a mom [for me?]
Fit: Uh- I- no one! No one. Let's- let's get over to Felps' Square, Ramon. [They head to the warp at Spawn, then Fit hesitates] Um, wait- Ramon. [He pauses, briefly looks at the camera, then says in a rush] If I had to choose between the two, it'd be a dad. Alright, let's go. Let's go, let's go.
Burning the midnight oil is all fun and good, but oil spills. Papers stain and skin sears as it pops and crackles and maybe you're fast enough to scramble and clean up the mess before any irreparable damage is done but it burns. It scars your skin in a way you can't forget even when the bandages come off and the burns heal.
Liquid fire is such a delicate balance. They always say don't play with fire, you'll get burnt. All work was okay once, to someone, somewhere, a curious mind, a pair of hands that couldn't keep still.
Or couldn't sleep.
Time that needed to be occupied and thoughts that needed to be stilled as they ran rampant under the shining moon, blaring down, searing and popping and staining an aching mind, aching hands, like oil burns on your thoughts.
Even when morning comes you can't quite shake it. Only ignore it until the next time you light that lovely little flame. Why are you awake?
Is it worth the burns?
The result may yield something better than intended, may leave you aching and exhausted in the days ahead, but the pride over achievement acts like a salve for those oil burns, doesn't it? Or maybe just a painkiller. The stars might see the light in your window and wonder why, oh, why you're shining beams of warmth on a cold midnight dew. Perhaps they are the very inspiration. Temptations, whispering along the frost-like winds that whistle through the curtains in that open window while you work and work and work.
So burn your midnight oil. Only tread lightly, step carefully. Because that oil may just burn you back.