The Writer’s Notebook.

This, though, was something entirely else. To see Crowley so overcome was unheard of. It broke Aziraphale’s heart to watch.

“I’m here,” Aziraphale called.

Crowley looked up in disbelief. His tears made silver tracks down his gaunt face as he stared slack-jawed at Aziraphale, but he leaped to his feet and started running towards him nonetheless.

He seemed to take an age to close the distance. Long enough for the oozing rage in Aziraphale’s veins, momentarily dampened by seeing Crowley in pain, to grow hot once more. If Crowley had been so terrified for his safety, it was his own damn fault. He had withheld the information that would have prepared Aziraphale for the attack. They could have planned for it and Crowley would not have had to be scared, at least not alone. But Crowley had chosen to keep mum and let Aziraphale fumble in the dark.

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I wish I could give you a soft, romantic reunion, but unfortunately, Aziraphale is big mad.

New chapter go May You Be Forgiven (pt 2) is out now.

“Hello Nina, dear,” he said, sticking his head out the kitchen door into the dining room of the coffee shop. “I’ve returned.”

“And it one piece, I see. Well done, you,” she said over her shoulder. “Have you had tea, yet? Should I get you anything started?”

“Some tea would be lovely, my dear. And some of those lemon poppyseed scones. Although, that Bakewell tart looks scrumptious.”

“I’ll get you some of each. And it’ll all be waiting for you when you finish unloading the flowers.”

“Delightful!” Aziraphale wiggled at the prospect. “I’d best hop to it, then.”

He moseyed back to the van and pulled a crate of red geraniums towards him. It was a beautiful array of flowers, marred only by one wilted, browning blossom in the middle. Aziraphale inspected the dead flower for a moment before bending down to breathe life back into it.

The drying petals rustled feebly but remained otherwise unaffected. Aziraphale frowned at it and snapped his fingers, willing the flower back to life. Nothing happened.

“That’s odd,” He said with a deepening frown and took a step back. He waved a hand at the coffee shop door to close it. It remained open.

A horrible sense of deja vu crept over him like ivy on the walls of an old house. He waved his hand towards the door again and it didn’t so much as quiver, let alone close.

“Bugger.”

—————

Chapter 16 of May You Be Forgiven (pt 2) is up now.

Later dreams had been more wish fulfillment than echos of reality. After they had oysters in Rome, Crowley had dreamed of tasting the salt and brine again from his angel’s tongue. After the first time he’d taken Aziraphale to a Shakespeare play, Crowley had dreamed of whispering sweet nothings against his angel’s skin until Aziraphale gasped and sighed for his words as he’d done for the Bard’s. When they’d finished their crepes in Paris, Crowley had revisited the Bastille in his dreams and imagined an alternate version of events. One where Aziraphale had remained in his chains and Crowley pealed those pretty, ridiculous clothes off of him piece by piece until they were pressed against the wall, trembling and holding each other through the aftershocks. When he’d finally returned home after their candlelight dinner in 1941, he’d dreamed of telling Aziraphale all the feelings he’d held back for millennia, which he now suspected were reciprocated.

Of course, not all his dreams had been fantasies; there had been nightmares too. When they fought in 537 and 1862, those fights had haunted his dreams. He tried to rewrite them, to come up with cleverer arguments or more compelling reasons for Aziraphale to stay, but every time they had ended with Aziraphale storming off and leaving him alone exactly as he’d done in real life. His dreams had been plagued by the words “You go too fast for me, Crowley.” for a decade after Aziraphale said them in 1967. But the true nightmares had started when the world began to end. In the wake of delivering Adam to the nuns, Crowley had dreamed of every worst-case scenario, of Heaven winning, of Hell winning, of the whole universe being vaporized into nothingness. In every one of those nightmares, he and Aziraphale were irrevocably separated and the thought of losing him forever was enough to wake him.

After the bookshop fire, Crowley had dreamed of smoke and flames and a sense of loss so profound it was as if half his soul had been ripped from him. He dreamed of searching for ages and never finding what he was looking for, never truly knowing what he was looking for because he had forgotten the half of himself lost in the flames. Nothing could startle him awake from those dreams. He had to ride them out until he woke naturally, his nose full of phantom smoke and a gaping hole in his chest where Aziraphale used to be.

He thought the fire dreams were the worst of them. After all, what could be worse than dreaming of being trapped in a world with no Aziraphale, doomed to an eternity of futile searching for an angel he couldn’t remember, but knew he’d lost? But now, as his naked feet slapped against the cold floors of the shop, he knew those dreams had been nothing compared to the one he’d just had. After the fire dreams, he could at least wake up, drive to the bookshop, and reassure himself of Aziraphale’s continued existence. But now? Now he was sprinting through the dusty stacks of the shop, as he had done through the corridors of Hell in his mind, screaming for Aziraphale and coming up empty.

The shop was empty.

Aziraphale was gone.

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May You Be Forgiven (pt 2) was updated…. 2 weeks ago. There won’t be an update today because my grades are due. But, if you haven’t seen the last chapter, here it is.

“Yes, that’s why it’s fun,” Crowley smiled at them before sauntering up to the bar. “Barkeep! A round of whatever you think’s drinkable for all my friends.”

Crowley helped pass out pints of beer to everyone in his group and then milled about, showing a pair of demons how to shoot pool and a pair of angels how to throw darts. The barkeep dealt blackjack for a group sitting at the bar. Crowley was pleased to see that many of the angels and demons under his charge were sitting together and chatting in a way that, while not friendly, was at least not openly hostile. Smiling a little to himself, he took a seat alone at a table near the window to keep an eye on how the rest of the Faire was faring. 

Outside the window, other groups were milling about Whickbar Street. Crowley saw a group of angels and demons clustered around Nova’s flower stand in front of the bookshop. She was handing out long stemmed flowers to each of them, white roses and daisies, sunflowers and chrysanthemums. He had to chuckle a little at the different reactions the angels and demons had to the flowers. Several were smelling them, some smiling and others with looks of confusion or skepticism. Some were tucking the flowers into their hair and button holes. One confused-looking angel put their sunflower blossom side down on top of their head like a hat. Others were trading the flowers, trying to collect each variety. And one demon, whose mountain goat horns had been disguised with an elaborate beehive wig, ate theirs whole. 

Across the street from the flower stand, Aziraphale stood with his group sampling the drink Nina had prepared. Aziraphale chatted animatedly with a demon while sipping on what Crowley hoped was anything but an oat milk latte (He’d developed rather an aversion to those.) and nibbling on an Eccles cake. The sunlight made his hair glow like a halo and his eye crinkled as he smiled at the demon. He was lovely. The most beautiful being in all of creation. Crowley could look at him all day and not want for anything. But, seeing how his angel laughed with the other demon reminded Crowley that he was supposed to be mingling with his own group instead of skulking by the window. Being friendly did not come as naturally to him as it did to Aziraphale, but if their plan was to work, he needed to be personable.  

________________

The Whickber Street Cultural Exchange Faire is officially underway in the newest chapter of May You Be Forgiven (pt 2).

A restlessness had worked its way into him. The kind of nervous energy that accompanied high-stakes deadlines and made it impossible to sleep. He was not usually inclined to sleep, but tonight he longed for the sweet oblivion of dreams, to close his eyes and let the morning come without the agony of waiting for it. Of course, now that he was more desperate for a nap than he had ever been in his life, sleep would not come. 

Crowley seemed to have no trouble sleeping, judging from the soft snores that drifted from his side of the bed, but then again, Crowley never did have much trouble sleeping. 

Aziraphale rolled over, adjusted the covers, closed his eyes, and tried to think of sheep. But sheep reminded him of wool and wool reminded him of a very handsome damask rug he had seen on display in Brown’s World of Carpets, and Brown’s World of Carpets reminded him of Whickber Street and Whickber Street reminded him that the Whickber Street Cultural Exchange Faire started the day after tomorrow. 

The day after tomorrow. After months of planning and recruiting, second-guessing, and reevaluating it was finally here. There was no more to be done besides set up tomorrow, attend that first day of the faire the day after, and hope. Hope the angels and demons they invited showed up. Hope those angels and demons brought friends. Hope they ordered enough food to serve for brunch. Hope that no brawls broke out. And above all, hope that all this circus was enough to convince angels and demons to fight for Earth instead of against each other. Please, God, let it be enough. 

Aziraphale silently admonished himself. It was no use praying. He no longer believed she was listening.

__________

Chapter 12 of May You Be Forgiven (pt 2) is up now.

Roommate: Ah, yes. That timeless Christmas classic, Good Omens.

Me: Good Omens is Christmas-y. It’s about the birth of Jesus… sort of.

R: It’s about the birth of the Antichrist.

Me: Well, Jesus is in it.

R: He’s in one scene and he’s dying.

1. Crowley passive aggressively calling Aziraphale by his full name or “Supreme Archangel” at first.

2. Az being thoroughly and visibly upset by this. Like full on Destiny’s Child “Say My Name” levels of upset. But not saying anything about it because a. He has no room to complain and b. They’re still not talking about it.

3. Starting season 3 with The Fall. Season 1 started with Eden. Season 2 started with Creation. I want season 3 to start with The Fall.

4. The first time we see Az in present day, it’s a close up of his eyes. His Supreme Archangel violet eyes, and then it pans out and we see Az looking miserable in Heaven, probably dressed in a new Gabriel-esque suit.

5. Aziraphale looking at Crowley’s lips in every one of their interactions with an open and unabashed “do it again” expression.

6. Sad, wet, pathetic Crowley in the beginning. Drunk. Delirious. Disheveled. Probably rambling incoherently to his plants. I want that man to be an absolute mess.

7. Flashbacks from Crowley’s perspective. The flashbacks in season 2 were mostly from Aziraphale’s perspective and concerning Aziraphale’s growth. I want that for Crowley too.

8. Aziraphale rescuing Crowley. It’s always the other way around. I want Az to come through for Crowley for once.

9. Aziraphale initiating the second kiss between them. He gets tired of silently screaming “Do that again, right now, please!” And finally realizes that if he wants it, he has to reach out and take it.

10. Season 1 characters. I’d love for the Them, Anathema and Newt, Tracy and Shadwell, Hastur, and Sandalphon to make a reappearance.

11. For those two celestial idiots to sit the fuck down and have an actual adult conversation about their feelings.

Screaming. Crying. Throwing up.

That I imagined your kindness.

Fabricated your warmth.

If that man existed, he has been dead for decades.

Or maybe time made you bitter.

Twisted your kindness cruel.

Your self-imposed poison sapped your warmth like winter winds.

Drained you dry and hollow until only the whisper of your husk remained.

I heard the news of your decline, your perhaps impending demise

And it filled me with apathy.

I am sorry for all the things I do not feel.

But, if news of your end reached me tomorrow, I would not mourn.

I would not need to.

“That’s it,” Eric wheezed. “That has to be it because I think I might discorporate if it’s not.”

They stood in front of the large double doors catching their breath for a moment before they knocked. The knock echoed and reverberated, but went unanswered. They knocked again to similar results. 

“You’ve gotta be joking,” Eric muttered. “Did we get the wrong villa? Or is the bastard just not home?” 

“Maybe they’ve just--” The sound of a giggle that dissolved into a breathy moan floated over the garden wall to their left. “--stepped outside.” 

They approached the garden wall, straining their ears for more indications that the demon was on the other side.

“Oh, amore. The things you do to me,” said a voice, ragged and breathless. 

“What do I do to you? Tell me and be specific, like a good little demon,” said a second, equally wrecked voice. 

“Oh. They have company,” Eric jerked his ear away from the wall, looking wide-eyed and uncomfortable at Muriel.

“What are they doing?” she asked. 

Eric blushed furiously. “Us time.”

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New chapter of May You Be Forgiven (pt 2). Eric and Muriel are on a field trip, but who are they visiting?