Rebel Pencils

And then Crowley will do something like start humming. He’s wandering around the bookshop, idly rearranging things. Aziraphale doesn’t have his books arranged by the alphabet or Dewey Decimal–no silly human classification. He’s not an animal, he has a system, it’s just that only he knows what it is. And Crowley, maybe. He seems to have figured it out, or otherwise is using his demonic instincts, because he’s putting the books he plucks from the shelves in exactly the worst place he could put them. Aziraphale would be mad, but it gives him something to look busy doing when customers come in asking questions. 

He can’t place the tune. It’s familiar, so familiar, but he can’t place it. He doesn’t realize at first that he’s been following Crowley around the shop, brows furrowed, following the sound like a bee tracking pollen. 

Crowley finally notices him, but doesn’t stop, making contact through his glasses as he reshelves a book. The humming gets a little louder, a little more pointed and teasing. 

“What is that tune?” Aziraphale finally asks. “It’s driving me mad.” 

Crowley quirks a grin, taking a moment before he stops to respond. “Willard Bourke. Pianist. We saw him play in the 70s, in that little tavern, you remember. You thought he was handsome.” 

Aziraphale blushes, but, yes, he does remember now. They’d been there for a drink, and Aziraphale had been mesmerized by the man’s deft fingers. “Ah.” Aziraphale clears his throat. Crowley says the 70s, like there’d been only one of them, but it had in fact been the 1770s when they’d heard him play. “I do remember, yes. I thought he’d be famous. Pity no one remembers.” 

“We do,” Crowley says, and goes back to humming. 

Or that time he stops by Crowley’s flat, just for some tea, just for a chat. He finds Crowley in the middle of cooking, cursing quietly to himself. The demon looks frustrated. He’s positively glowering when Aziraphale enters. 

Aziraphale surveys his ingredients, face screwing in confusion. “Whatever are you cooking?” 

“Stew,” Crowley responds glumly. “Or, at least, I’m trying to. I can’t get it right.” 

“Part of the joy of stew is that you don’t have to get it right.” He waves his hands. “The pot does most of the work.” 

Crowley hisses, raising his fingers to rub against his eyes. “No, it’s … It’s a specific stew. I’ve been craving it for ages, but no one makes it anymore. It came with these little roasted dill seed bread balls and …” He cuts himself off. 

“Crowley–” Aziraphale squints suspiciously. “How old is this recipe, exactly?” 

Crowley sighs, already defeated. “Mesopotamia?” he ekes out, abashed. 

Aziraphale laughs. “Oh, good! It’ll be a challenge, then.” He pulls the spoon from Crowley’s hand, taking a sip. “Juniper berries,” he decides. “You need juniper berries.” 

Or when Warlock is young, maybe 6, not more than 7, though Aziraphale finds it so hard to keep track. He and Nanny Ashtoreth are sitting in the garden, drawing. It’s one of the rare moments when they’re both calm, worn out from a long day of chasing and yelling and plotting. 

Aziraphale pretends to mind his rosebushes, but he’s been watching them for some time. Finally, he breaks and walks over. 

“Ah, young master Warlock,” he says, peering over their shoulders. “What a wonderful drawing you’ve done. You like dinosaurs, hmm?” 

Warlock looks up, colored pencil held tight in his fist. “Nanny is teaching me about extinct animals. Like dinosaurs and thylacines and unicorns.” 

Aziraphale shoots Nanny Ashtoreth a look. She doesn’t look back. 

Warlock pipes up again. “Nanny invented dinosaurs, did you know?” 

“Did she now?” Aziraphale asks. It’s hard to keep his voice straight, because he knows this to be a fact. Crowley had been quite drunk at the time, but he thought it would be hilarious. “Big ‘ol lizards,” he’d said, “just huge, you know. Like a dragon, but they’ll think they’re real, see. Biggest things ever. ‘ould barely fit in the garden, them. Big buggers.” 

Warlock nods. “My favorite is the T-Rex. Nanny says it would eat you in one bite.” 

Aziraphale hums, discontented, as Nanny Ashtoreth quirks a grin. He spares a glance at what she’s drawing, and stops. It’s the most beautiful drawing of a passenger pigeon he’s ever seen. The reds and blues of it, every detail in its feathers. They’d seen them together, before, before they’d all gotten hunted out. 

“It’s a lovely drawing, Nanny,” he says, voice a little more earnest than he means it to be. 

The pencil stops, then keeps going. 

Warlock looks up at him again. “Nanny says she ate the last one.” 

“I did,” Nanny Ashtoreth responds. “And don’t you forget it.” 

It’s the little things, the things that, by himself, Aziraphale might not remember. It’s the feel of the earliest silk, the thrill of his first moving picture, the clamor of a Roman marketplace on a hot day. Aziraphale is good at the experiencing, but Crowley has always been one for the remembering. Things stick with him. Things that, otherwise, would have been lost to time. 

They’re curled up in bed, two commas together, and it’s been one of those days. Every shine is the glint of a sword, every wayward noise a battle cry, and Aziraphale can’t seem to stop remembering. He remembers the mess and the horror of it, he remembers the loss. All six-thousand years of loss. 

Aziraphale swallows, and he hates how thick his throat feels. “Tell me good things,” he asks, meek, tired, and Crowley hums and presses a kiss into his shoulder. 

Do you remember? Crowley asks, and keeps going. Do you remember, do you remember?

Yes, Aziraphale responds. Yes, yes, I do now. 

They lay there, and remember together, six-thousand years of good and light, and fun and joy, and it’s easier. It doesn’t take away all the bad that he’s seen, but it’s easier. He remembers the food and the smells and the heavy cotton, and the music and the laughter and his first taste of wine. The bad isn’t gone, but there’s good, too, pushing it’s way in to make room. 

Do you remember when we met? Crowley whispers, their hands linking. 

Aziraphale pulls them up to place a kiss against his knuckles. It was so long ago, a lifetime, but yes, he does. 

Crowley is marveling at the sight before him, a mother duck carefully guding her ducklings whom are following close behind. The mother puts herself infront of her children, but she cannot help constantly looking back at her own creations. They are flowing aimlessly in the vast body of water. One with nature. Basking in what it really means to just live.

Aziraphale on the other hand, has his eyes trained on another wonder of the world.

A young girl sits on a nearby bench, though she carries herself as if life has placed burdens upon her far heavier than her years should allow. There's another girl next to her, it's a friend, prehaps? She wraps her arms around the troubled one and holds her close, offering the comfort of her presence while the other feels whatever she needs to feel.

The wind blows softly, stirring loose strands of hair and carrying with it the distant sounds of laughter, birdsong, and the gentle lapping of water against the shore. Neither girl seems to notice. For this brief moment, the rest of the world has faded into the background.

Aziraphale sighs softly, "Extraordinary, isn't it?"

Crowley follows his gaze, his sunglasses reflecting the image of the two girls sitting together.

"Yeah," he says quietly, a softness creeping into his voice. "Funny thing is, they probably don't even realize they're doing it."

"Doing what?"

Crowley looks back toward the lake, where the mother duck nudges a wandering duckling back toward the group, "Saving each other."

The angel smiles softly at that, scotting closer to Crowley.

"Well, it's a beautiful sight to see indeed," he let's out a breath he has been holding for far too long, "but it wouldn't be as beautiful without you by my side."

Crowley sits with those words quietly. He slowly puts an arm around the angel.

"I mean, ducks are nice and all. Tiny feathery weirdos." He gestures vaguely toward the lake, "But I've seen ducks before."

Aziraphale looks at him, utterly perplexed.

"My dear, what on Earth are you talking about?"

Crowley snorts.

"I'm getting there."

"Getting where?"

"Angel."

"No, really, you've lost me."

Crowley shakes his head fondly before looking back out at the lake.

"I've seen sunsets. Meteor showers. Nebulas. Mountains. Oceans." He glances at him, "The thing that makes them worth remembering is having someone to turn to afterward."

Aziraphale's breath catches.

Crowley shrugs, as though he hasn't just said something monumental.

"And I have to say..." A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, "If there's one thing I could spend an eternity marveling at, it's you."

Aziraphale is stunned to silence. Not an uncomforble one, the opposite actually. The kind of silence that is at art galleries, where people gaze at something beautiful and find that words would only diminish it.

Crowley shifts slightly under the angel's gaze.

"Oh, don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Look at me like that."

Aziraphale's smile is small and impossibly fond.

"How am I looking at you?"

Crowley opens his mouth, then closes it again. Because he doesn't have a name for it.

Above them, the branches sway gently in the afternoon light. Around them, life continues in all its strange, fragile beauty.

A child happily screams somewhere in the distance, the sound carrying across the park as they race through the grass.

The girl who had been crying earlier is no longer hiding behind her hands. She sits a little straighter now, a small smile breaking through as her friend says something that sends them both into laughter. Whatever burden she had been carrying has not vanished, but for the moment, she does not carry it alone.

The ducklings continue to swim along. The breeze carries the scent of grass and warm earth.

It's all terribly ordinary, really. And yet, these were the very things Aziraphale and Crowley had spent six thousand years fighting for.

Aziraphale leans into Crowley, his face only inches away.

"I love you so," he breathes. Then, he closes the distance between them.

The kiss is soft, tender.

Crowley smiles against it, one hand coming up to cup Aziraphale's cheek. He leans in without hesitation, knowing exactly where he belongs.

The world continues to turn around them. You can hear faint noise in the background. Laughs shared. The rustling of leaves. Somewhere nearby, a dog barks, and a child answers with a delighted squeal.

Then, without warning, a raindrop lands on Crowley's nose.

He blinks.

A second follows, splashing against Aziraphale's coat.

Then a third.

The sky opens.

Within seconds, rain begins to pour over the park, sending people running for cover and prompting a chorus of surprised laughter from every direction.

The girls on the bench scramble to gather their things, one of them grabbing the other's hand as they attempt to dash toward the nearest shelter.

The ducklings, meanwhile, seem entirely unbothered by the development.

Crowley looks up at the sky.

"Really?"

The rain answers by becoming even heavier.

Beside him, Aziraphale laughs.

"Well," he says, beaming, "I suppose that's one way to cool off a warm afternoon."

Crowley stares at him.

"Angel."

"Yes?"

"We are getting soaked."

"I had noticed."

"And you're smiling."

"Of course I am."

Crowley shakes his head, utterly helpless against his own fondness.

"I think this is a sign to head back to our bookshop. Warm up with some hot cocoa before dining at the Ritz?"

Aziraphale's eyes brighten at the sound of that.

Before answering, his gaze drifts across the park.

The two girls from earlier are huddled together beneath a tree, trying and failing to shield themselves from the rain. They're laughing now, but neither seems particularly successful at staying dry.

With a subtle flick of his fingers, Aziraphale performs a small miracle.

A large umbrella suddenly appears over their heads.

The girls blink in surprise.

One looks up at the umbrella.

The other looks around in confusion.

Then, deciding not to question their good fortune, they scoot closer together beneath it and continue talking.

Aziraphale watches them for a moment, satisfied.

Only then does he turn back to Crowley.

"That sounds lovely," he says warmly. "Though I think perhaps a pot of cocoa. One mug hardly seems sufficient."

Crowley snorts.

"Naturally."

"And perhaps a few pastries?"

"Of course."

"And then the Ritz."

"Obviously."

The rain continues to fall around them, drumming softly against the lake. the water nurturing the trees around them.

Crowley rises from the bench and offers his hand, "Come on, angel."

Aziraphale takes it without hesitation.

Together, they start toward the bookshop, leaving behind the ducks, the lake, and the rain-soaked park.

Behind them, the girls sit beneath their mysterious umbrella, laughing.

Ahead of them waits a warm bookshop, hot cocoa, and a dinner neither of them will ever admit they had been planning all along.

The afternoon had been beautiful. The evening promised to be even better. And tomorrow would be just as lovely.

Ordinary days.

The sort of days that, when strung together, become a life.

As they disappeared down the rain-slicked street, hand in hand, neither Heaven nor Hell watched from above, no prophecies awaited them.

Just tomorrow. And the world. The same world they had chosen, time and time again.

A world of shifting weather, of second chances. A world where ducklings finding their way home. A world were people hold each other when life became too heavy to bear alone. A world where tears give way to laughter, where old wounds heal slowly, and where kindness survives despite everything.

.......

The Aziraphale and Crowley I know would've never given up on humanity, or on the humanity that lives within them. Crowley would fight for Aziraphale the same way Aziraphale would fight for Crowley.

Yes, David said this at a fan meeting. Anyways here's the video of him saying it. Man he read the finale to filth with only like, four sentences.

AND HE'S RIGHT OF COURSE !! Crowley's goal has always been deeply intimate, he just wanted to enjoy the simple pleasures that Earth has to offer alongside Aziraphale.

I cannot even imagine David's frustration after putting so much passion and care into understanding Crowley, only for his ending to be the antithesis of what he stands for.

Of course I cannot persume how Michael Sheen feels about the ending, but given how deeply he seems to understand Aziraphale and his relationship with Crowley, I find it difficult not to wonder whether he had similar thoughts.

If we as fans feel disappointed with the ending after following these characters for years, imagine what it must be like for the actors who dedicated a significant portion of their lives to bringing them to life. They spent years thinking about who Crowley and Aziraphale are, what they want, how they grow, and they seemed to really enjoy to watch how their relationship in the show resonates with so many people.

And then there are the dedicated artists who worked tirelessly to bring Good Omens to life behind the scenes. The writers, designers, costumers, makeup artists, set builders, editors, composers, visual effects artists, and countless others who poured their creativity into this world because they believed in the story they were helping tell.

Their work helped create something that touched millions of people, inspired countless fanworks, and gave audiences a relationship that felt deeply meaningful.

Which is why I'm sure many of the people involved in this project ended up asking themselves:

What do you mean that a story about two people choosing each other, choosing Earth, and choosing humanity over the systems that sought to control them ultimately concludes that the world they spent six thousand years protecting is not worth saving?

This story seemed to celebrate the idea that love matters. That the small things matter. That an afternoon at a bookshop, a shared meal, a favorite song or a life built together could be more important than any grand cosmic plan.

it's heartbreaking to know that the ending affected some of the very people who helped bring this world to life. The actors, artists, and crew members who spent years nurturing these characters, thinking deeply about who they were and what they stood for.

And well...this hurts us too.

It's hard not to feel a sense of sadness that the ending has left such a significant portion of the fandom grieving what could have been rather than celebrating what was.

I want to thank the creatives who did care about the story Good Omens was meant to tell. To Michael and David, who poured so much love, thought, and humanity into their characters getting to the point that Crowley and Aziraphale felt real to millions of people.

Most importantly, to the late Terry Pratchett, thank you for helping create a story that celebrated humanity. Thank you for giving us characters who questioned authority and found something worth protecting in an imperfect world.

And of course, to the Good Omen's fandom who just like Aziraphale and Crowley, questioned the message they were given and chose love over cynicism. Thank you for your art, your discussions, the fanfictions, and the community you built around these characters.

Long after the final credits roll, it is your stories and shared love for these characters that ensure they continue to exist in people's hearts.

We can't let them take away our joy and connection to these characters. The ending may belong to the creators, but the comfort and meaning we found in Good Omens belongs to us.

No finale can erase the years we spent laughing with these characters, crying with them, growing alongside them, and finding pieces of ourselves in their story.

So let's keep creating !! Let's keep sharing our art, our stories, and our interpretations. Let's keep celebrating the parts of this world that meant something to us.

After all, if Crowley and Aziraphale taught us anything, it's that sometimes the most meaningful thing you can do is choose love anyway.

The nightingale still sings in Berkeley Square. And as long as we keep choosing love, I think it always will.

This is my canon ending. I decided so.

👋 Bye!

Let’s play the biggest game of kick the can on the internet.

Do you gender trans people correctly even when they're being absolutely terrible people? Do you refuse to use the r-slur against someone who suicide baited you but is neurodivergent? Do you refuse to snark at a mentally ill person who is being genuinely unpleasant, "go take your meds!"

Do you allow members of marginalized groups to be terrible people without judging their entire demographic for it? One of the most invisible yet vital forms of privilege is the right to be terrible people as an individual rather than as a group. Do you acknowledge that there are bad people in every group, that it doesn't make their group less worth fighting for? Or do you shake your head if you happen to get mistreated by some who belong to a group and insist the entire group is awful and not worth your allyship?

Once upon a time I felt I was a useless pit of a person who did not deserve to live. To fight this voice, I found the “””worst””” people I could and defended them in court regardless of what charge, what they could pay, who they were. I wanted to prove to myself that everyone is worth defending, because if everyone is worth it, so am I.

The 'Setting the Stage' S3 Teaser...

...and its flashforward ending.

Hey, so, remember the teaser for S3? The one that was all a pun on the phrase setting the stage, meaning to set up what is to come? And that ended with a redheaded girl of about twelve opening the bookshop?

In true Good Omens form, the S3 teaser Clues were given to us before the season started but it ties to the ending in ways that we wouldn't have been able to understand until we saw S3. It also then took us further into the future than the end of S3 by ending with a flashforward to give us a glimpse of the world Aziraphale and Crowley make for themselves in the wake of the nightmare.

Aziraphale says "you must have had records" and Nina, hypnotized, responds "yes, we were very good at keeping records". Keeping. What does Maggie's record shop notoriously not do? Sell records. She is the record-keeper.

The nuns' records at Tadfield were destroyed in a (hell-made) fire. When the world is remade to Adam's preference at the end of S1, he restores the records and puts them back. He just puts them back .. slightly differently. It's an 11 yo child's understanding of records, tucked back into reality safely, placed right back into a space that had been destroyed by a fire.

Aziraphale's bookshop.

Nina not having a job at the nunnery except to provide refreshments-- carries over too.

Anyway.