levi alex crowley

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. 

cw: suicide

You know, Good Omens was an umbrella. It was a safe gathering space, a shelter and a haven for queer and traumatized and outcast folk for more than 30 years. Some of us are survivors of unspeakable horrors, and having to watch our comfort characters suicide onscreen with absolutely no warning, no toll free numbers and no consideration-- after a heavy barrage of seemingly intentional catfishing and misleading-to-outright-false advertisement from literally everyone involved in advance-- was simply devastating.

Coming up against smug, rude bullying, disdain and hate from long-beloved peers inside my own fandom for reacting emotionally to a trauma and continuing to struggle to reconcile the finale has been... fucking ass. Some of you are so nasty, so damn cruel. I'm thrilled it's just a show for you; my inbox is full of people who are having to go/back on psychiatric medications, triple booking therapy they can't afford, enduring fresh bouts of intrusive thoughts, suicidal ideation, and self-harm. Several people I know vomited at the end of go3 and were unable to keep food down for days after. I cannot say it strongly enough. It was a savagely cruel thing to endure for many, including those who have experienced loss of loved ones from suicide, for example, like myself.

These fresh-- and old, retraumatized-- wounds require airing out, at a minimum. And sometimes that's uncomfortable for those around us, I know. But for Christ's sake, could you take a swing at a little empathy for us? Block the tags and let us grieve. We have been brutalized newly in a place we believed we were safe, where we had been actively promised and previously shown we were safe-- a place we trusted.

I'm sorry our agony isn't moving along fast enough for you. Personally, I have had three years of intensive healing torn out of me, and have thirty years of wasted love for my ineffables to grieve.

The Ending SUCKS because the WRITING SUCKS.

NO, I don’t find the concept of ‘tHeY FiNd eACh oThEr IN eVerY uNivErSe’ beautiful.

1) Because they don’t. There’s zero evidence that this is a recurring thing, thats 100% fandom copium- and even then they don’t have any of their memories and aren’t the same people. THATS. NOT. THEM. And it never will be because people are the sum of their experiences AND THEIR CHOICES. You don’t take a comedy Christian satire and make the solution some Buddhist-esque reincarnation philosophy that requires an entirely new suspension of disbelief no one signed up for or wanted. That’s shit writing.

2) So not only does the finale spit on every theme it had prior regarding championing human choice as miraculous and the world being worth fighting for in all its flaws as it is- you are going to sit here and tell me that actually they never had any choice at all, so they decided to toss everything down the garbage disposal for the next life. That is, frankly, terrible, and nihilistic, and not at all sensible for this series.

Aziraphale and Crowley are a wonderful love story because they were on opposite sides and they CHOSE each other, and they CHOSE to love humans. They chose to be hedonistic and compassionate and selfish and ‘human’ as they were because they knew how to make choices. Their love has always been THEIR choice.

So how can you tell me that the ending is great because they sacrificed everything for humans to have free choice- which they already had by the way- and then say the ending is beautiful because Aziraphale and Crowley are Predestined to love each other in every reality. How is that not massively hypocritical to the concept they are trying to sell us last minute out of nowhere? Is predestiny not the antithesis of what they asked for by your own definition?!

How is taking their 6000 years of choosing each other over and over again, and summing it down to a deterministic soul bond, more ‘free will’ or beautiful than them literally defying cosmic powers just to stay together and eat dinner at the Ritz on a casual Tuesday?!

People act like their life was just complete suffering, but they were perfectly happy on their own earth. Season 1 left them exactly where they wanted to be!!! Together with the Earth. It was so EASY to circle back to that, all they had to do was write it, and no one would have questioned it because that’s THEM and what they want to be doing. If Adam defied Satan for humanity, why would Jesus Christ- who’d already died once for the salvation of humanity- not tell God to be merciful?! Why not have the humans make the choice, rather than Crowley- which is another hypocritical move because he’s making choices for them just like he’s telling god not to!

How do we have any evidence this new world doesn’t have a god? Trust? In the woman who just destroyed the world after having a casual laugh with Satan? Okay. They didn’t trade their existence for freedom, they traded the apple of knowledge for ignorance.

The fact is, is that the world that championed choice and love was the one they came from, not the one they sacrificed themselves for- because choice and love doesn’t mean there are no complications, it means you take a stand and you do what you want anyways.

This dystopian nightmare of an ending where they let the universe die and don’t know each other was never a thought in anyone’s mind until it came into existence with the most shallow and contrived justifications of all time ten minutes before close, and that’s because it’s out of character nonsense.

And I’m sick of hearing ‘they were always gonna be human’ ‘it was always gonna be this way’ like there was rational grounds for it beforehand. No it wasn’t, and it certainly didn’t need to be. At most it was everyone’s joke of a worst case scenario, and that’s what they decided to give us- probably after a quick google search to find out what would piss everyone off the most.

This was Neil Gaiman and his team of horror writers, who probably didn’t even consider the source material, throwing a temper tantrum and abusing the fandom for liking Terry Pratchett’s divine optimism more than his petty ass. They designed every ridiculous contingency in this horrible script to justify their own mess.

The Ineffable Husbands were fine as they were. Even as a Demon and an Angel they were already ‘human’ enough, THATS what was funny. What the hell is so great about being mortal and not being able to have a free table whenever they want, and having to deal with real world shit like taxes, and homophobia, and Dying?

Enough Dyin’. No Maur DYIN’. It’s it’s-ITS NOT ON!!!