#coffeesugarcream

Hi, you were in bookclub! It's been a couple of years so I can't remember how active you were for sure, I think you read a few of the books with us? If you wanted to come back let me know.

Crowley hates the fourteenth century for many reasons. The first and most obvious is the fact that it just doesn’t bloody go well for anyone, particularly in England. The embarrassment at Bannockburn in 1314 puts everyone’s noses out of joint (good for the Scots, Crowley thinks – he’s fond of the pugnacious underdogs), and then the Great Famine of 1315–21 starves half the country and it rains even more than usual. He hasn’t forgotten the skeletal children hanging on his boots and begging for bread, and the fact that he could only miracle up so much of it before it started to catch the attention of Head Office. A demon cannot do good. He’s found workarounds and justifications and excuses before, clever subversions, you name it. But sometimes you can’t, and it stares you right in the face, and the broken bits of the Fall ache in a way he normally doesn’t allow.

They’ve barely got done with the famine when Edward II is deposed in 1327, with the attendant mess that it is (though the hot-poker-up-the-backside story is greatly exaggerated). Then Edward III has to go and start the damn war (it’s not known as the Hundred Years’ War just yet, though Crowley would be utterly exasperated and unsurprised if you told him) in the 1330s, and 1348 is a very, very bad year for anyone of a remotely human persuasion. The Black Prince faffs off to do more of his storming and sacking thing, then dies before his father in 1376, leaving the promise of his nine-year-old son, Richard, to inherit the throne and the turbulence of a minority government. At this point, it’s been seventy-six years more than Crowley cares to experience of the fourteenth century ever again, and it still isn’t over. Uncle, he thinks. Uncle.

By far Crowley’s least favourite aspect of the fourteenth century, however, is that it keeps trying with single-minded vigour to kill (or you know, discorporate) Aziraphale. He has already had to find seemingly innocuous ways to pop in and spirit him away from a bridge collapse, a hungry mob in London, Isabella and Mortimer’s army, a particularly angry goose (Aziraphale probably could have handled that one, but Crowley decided not to risk it), another mob blaming the local Jews for supposedly poisoning wells to bring on the plague, and at least seven men named Wat Tyler. (Or maybe it’s the same one? Seems like a firebrand.) Aziraphale also will insist on puttering off to Oxford and hanging out with the local malcontent, John Wycliffe, which Crowley watches with constantly spiking anxiety; does the idiot want to get burned for heresy? He is trying here.

As such, when it’s 1381, Wat Tyler has finally gotten his day in the sun, and the Peasants’ Revolt is raging in the streets of London outside, Crowley is, how do you say, extremely fucking stressed. It’s not that he doesn’t support the peasants, having once been part of an ideological rebellion or two against supreme overlords himself, but the action is only a few blocks away at this point, and he thinks they should move. “Come on, angel,” he snaps. “I don’t care what you’re looking for, let’s just… let’s just pop along, shall we?”

“It was just here,” Aziraphale insists, digging in a trunk like a gopher and excavating a flying whirl of papers. “I do so enjoy the drafts that Chaucer fellow sends me, I can’t leave without them.”

“Bugger Chaucer!” Crowley performs an agitated skip from side to side, as if standing on holy ground (perhaps Aziraphale’s floorboards count? Who knows). “Let’s go!”

“In a moment,” Aziraphale fusses, displaying far less concern for his personal safety than is warranted by Crowley’s blood pressure. (If he has that. It definitely feels like he does.) “No need for such alarm, dear. Besides, I am sure they’ll leave us alone.”

Crowley glances edgily at the door. He supposes that they could try a miracle and just make everyone rethink their lives and go home, but that’s more intervention in human events than they’ve really done since arriving at the Arrangement in 1023, and besides, he’s been foiled by Wat blasted Tyler often enough that he should just admit defeat. “Aziraphale – ”

It’s possibly a good thing that the angel is so distracted by the need to recover the scribblings of this Chaucer idiot (a random mid-level London bureaucrat who fancies himself an author) as to miss Crowley’s transparent and poorly disguised terror. Then again, Aziraphale has managed to miss this particular terror for going-on-5,385 years, and maybe it is for the best. But when a window breaks next door, Crowley has had enough, grabs his Divine Adversary’s elegantly embroidered tunic, and pulls him down the stairs, into the crookbacked, muddy alley that runs behind the back of the townhouse. “Let’s just – ”

He does not finish that sentence, mainly because at that moment, another mob bursts around the corner, sees them stood there looking distinctly like not-peasants, and charges directly toward them. Aziraphale utters a startled squeal, and Crowley readies himself to serve as the blunt agent of celestial defense as always, throwing out his arms to place his own body between the angel and the oncoming hordes, waiting to –

The next instant, someone grabs him, he only has half a second to realise that it is Aziraphale, and the angel snaps his fingers. There is an anticlimatic pop as the entire mob vanishes on the spot, though by the sound of confused shouts and splutters from a nearby public garderobe, they have not gone far. Aziraphale looks up at Crowley, whose mouth is is still stuck open, and solicitously brushes the mud off his stylish black tabard. “Are you all right, my dear?”

“I – ” Crowley still cannot muster up words. He remembers just then that Aziraphale was the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, but the sheer number of scrapes that the gormless feathery idiot seems to get into, vainly wringing his hands as if oh dear, he really can’t miracle himself out of this one, such a bother, such a fuss, so unnecessary, if only someone could help him –

It’s just then when Crowley finally realises that the reason for Aziraphale apparently attracting all the trouble in the world (though he’s still not sure how to explain the goose) might have nothing to do with his ability to protect himself. He can do that just fine, and when the opportunity calls for it, will straight-up transport a rampaging band of revolutionaries headfirst into a toilet rather than let them lay a finger on Crowley. Indeed, that was rather restrained of him. Instead, the explanation seems to be that he gets himself into these ridiculous situations… precisely so Crowley can turn up and get him out of them.

What the hell, Crowley thinks. Is that what’s going on here?

Fine, then. He isn’t going to complain. Not if this is all he’s ever going to get.

So this ends up being quite broad with these categories so narrowing it down will mean hitting on only a few points versus the entirety of the characters.  If that makes sense.

Headcanon: I can muster a cogent argument for why it would make more sense or make for a better story if this were the case: 

Always this comes down to more accuracy with character injury. Both Shawn and Carlton were shafted with regards to carryover with their gunshot wounds what with being miraculously healed by the next episode. Shawn wasn’t even shown to have a scar which, of course, is completely impossible given the proximity as well as the caliber of the gun.  With regards to the injuries themselves, Shawn will have ongoing pain, to some degree, as well as some weakness in that shoulder and will have a rubber ball that he squeezes on regularly to try to build back the strength in that hand.  Carlton, too, will have physical side effects from his wounds and would have taken a long time to recover before returning to work - which he’d have insisted upon doing in spite of the need for recuperation.  They both will have been required to see a therapist before returning to work; no exception full stop.  Shawn, especially, will suffer from nightmares and some flashbacks from his ordeal and this will carry with him for years to come.  He will not want to talk about it but at some point Gus will observe a flashback in action with full panic attack and emotional fallout and will insist Shawn tell him what the hell is going on.    

Heartcanon: I don’t have a particular rationale for why this ought to be the case, I just like to imagine it’s true because it gives me the warm fuzzies:

Everyone: By the birth of his second child Lassiter has finally let go of the (basically fake) animosity he’s shown towards Shawn.  After all, with the kid married to Juliet he’s essentially family (though that does still make his lip curl in mild disgust).  They make regular visits back and forth - the Lassiters to San Fran or the Spencers (and the Gusters) to Santa Barbara.  Holidays, in particular, are a huge shared affair and typically take place at the Lassiter home both for the space as well as the memories attached.

Shawn and Henry: Henry is, frankly, sick of doing nothing.  He’s tried out various distractions but nothing compares to the excitement that came from working with Shawn on cases - even in a limited capacity.  While his near death experience makes working as a police consultant highly distasteful, he still wants to be involved in some way.  Eventually he reopens the old Psych location.  Not, though, as a PI.  But as a trainer for aspiring private detectives.  He guides young people and gives them the skills to solve cases and stay safe.  He also begins helping Shawn semi-regularly either remotely via Facetime or by occasional trips to San Fransisco.  He and Juliet are extremely close and he’s basically the dad she never had - allowing her to confide in him and find a willing ear and wise father figure to walk her through her troubles.   

Gutcanon: it’s not that I actively want this to be the case – it just unaccountably feels like it should be:

Shawn and Juliet are not ready to be parents whereas Gus and Selene almost immediately ended up having twins and Gus is in a constant state of panic and meltdown and eventually Shawn and Juliet become sorta co-parents and help out with the two wild toddlers.  Henry gleefully considers himself grampa to the twins but only babysits once before declaring “NEVER AGAIN” as its a hellish experience.  And yet he eventually does take on that duty again though not without dragging in outside help either by hiring a professional or making some of his PIs-in-training use it as part of the educational experience. 

Junkcanon: I like to imagine it’s true because it gives me the other kind of warm fuzzies:

Yeah, that’s gonna be whump again cause HELLO.  San Fransisco is a significantly different world than Santa Barbara.  Shawn is somewhat naive in this regard and it costs him.  The experience of being shot and kidnapped is a mild jaunt compared to what he faces when he ends up in the sights of ruthless heroin dealers who are tired of the mouthy dude and his sidekick cutting into their profits by getting their client base clean and into recovery.

Spleencanon: I insist that this is the case specifically to spite the author, because, like, fuck you, sir or madam:

“That’s fine, since I’m certain I don’t like you at all,” said Charles flatly. Affection had always embarrassed him and his only defense against it was to be–in Merrick’s words, not his own–an arse. He moved unsteadily on his crutches to the far side of the greenhouse and sat down on the arm of the couch, staring hard at an unusual-looking fern that was growing in a pot near his feet. 

Now that his annoyance with Merrick had abated, he felt a little ashamed at having snapped. Naturally, this only made his temper rise again.

After our discussion about an au where Aziraphale meets the DT version of Casanova in the 18th century and gets a little carried away with his new friend’s flirtations. That is, until Crowley arrives to find his angel seemingly falling for the wiles of a lookalike, and a battle of wits begins. But there’s only so much Crowley can take.

Angst ahead, though it all works out!

Crowley’s standing in the dark of an alley outside. It’s been getting harder and harder to waltz in night after night to the same tableau of pastel frippery and groping hands. And the one shining spot within it all, a jewel that should blind them all but they’re all too stupid to see it for what it is. 

Satan’s bollocks, he can’t do this tonight. His hands have some sort of permanent shake and the grin he pastes on feels like a rending crack that might split apart and swallow him whole. He needs a fucking drink.

In the shadows something moves at the far end of the alley. A giggle, then a gasp. Ugh, yup now he can smell them; bloody perfect.

“Oh, Giacomo!”

“Mmm, say it again darling - ngh - just like that, you naughty girl.”

No.

No no no no no, fucking no! How- That fucking-

Crowley has to leave. 

Has to move because if he stays they’ll both die. The urge to destroy, to make them cower and fear and beg and fucking bleed, has rarely surfaced in Crowley, and it’s usually in response to cruelty beyond Hell’s imagination. The 1480s in Seville. But it’s there now. And it’s only the thought of Aziraphale’s face that makes him stalk away, his fingers trailing sparks along the brickwork before calling up thousands of years of practice and pulling the fire back into himself, pushing it down, down, to a smouldering ember that eats at his insides.

you have no idea how powerful the phrase “I’m watching glow and loving it” makes me feel; I am so proud to be spreading its gospel????

okay but francis, who also has the face of a Traditional Shakespearean Actor lbr, consistently being passed over for parts in favor of james; who does these???? avant-garde “reimaginings” that involve things like pyrotechnics and snaps instead of clapping. francis just wants to act, damn it, instead of resorting to all these (in his opinion) gimmicks. 

but gimmicks pay the bills so blanky gives him a Talking To and gets him to settle for this vaguely trashy show as you say and. you know. maybe this fitzjames has a bit of talent in him after all. and maybe feminist readings of shakespeare aren’t, you know, all that bad; and maybe it’s actually a great idea to make out with fitzjames in his dressing room after they’ve wrapped/cut/etc for the day--

You're blowing my mind - and this is potentially so soft and Chock full of feelings and achingly slow Victorian-style angelic pining BUT ALSO - Aziraphale taking uo the fic frenzy in the late 1990s and quietly making himself a name as a stunning author of period-precise Sherlock/Watson fanfictions renowned all over the internet

yes, he probably had a dedicated geocities site until it closed down, then systematically transferred all his fic to ao3 when it went into open beta.

i imagine a lot of the fics were written well before the internet was even a gleam in the eye of the universe, in journals, in the back of his bookshop, where he lovelornly copes with crowley’s absence. they’re self-indulgent, full of time lost to them; petty arguments with crowley holmes over the mischief he causes with gleaming eyes (that are a bit too gleaming) and wide grins, dates to the Cafe Royal and the Royal Albert Hall and the Opera Comique, rendezvous to Turkish baths. there's a slightly tear-stained one where holmes and watson go to see Maskelyne, and holmes insults his practice while watson vehemently defends him (this may or may not be ooc, aziraphale stopped caring at some point).

all of the fics are gentle and easy, because heaven and hell don't exist here.. of course, why would they.. this is holmes and watson.. not a certain angel and demon.

when crowley saves him in 1941, aziraphale binge reads the entire canon series again, gently crying, equip with handkerchief, when he rereads the reichenbach fall (and geeze, holmes literally dies by falling... from a waterfall.. into water.... i just... the universe did this on purpose, somehow), and the empty house, but they’re tears of relief because now his holmes has finally returned too and they can do all the things he wrote about.

(crowley comes in when aziraphale is crying, concerned, with a cup of cocoa for the angel, and aziraphale is so overwhelmed by the sight of him, he confesses about the fanfic and shows crowley all the journals. crowley is himself overwhelmed, embarrassed and vaguely turned on because oh. he wants to be irritated because they could have done all these things, but when he looks up from the book within his trembling hands and aziraphale frames his face with well-manicured fingers to draw him into a desperate, longing kiss, crowley can no longer find it in him because there's other things to look forward to.)

the internet crops up and his love for sherlock holmes still burns so he decides to revisit writing fic, and it's much more in-character now, but there are times when he drinks a bit too much whiskey while writing and sometimes holmes will have dark red hair or luminous eyes that can see inhumanly in the dark, and watson will go on a tangent about a garden and how lovely holmes is, or suddenly holmes will have a mysterious in-depth knowledge of plants that gets explained away by knowing about poisons and such and holmes will wax poetic while they stroll st. james's park under a murky moon. these fic strangely get more kudos than his regular fic (though the regular fic get more comments coz accuracy).

there is one fic on ao3 that is his favorite, by an author with no description and has only that fic uploaded, that is essentially a collection of the lost love letters from holmes to watson during holmes' three year disappearance. it's the only one in his bookmarks.