“Thank you Blitz, for making me so happy, even if only for a little while”
I am simply going to sob. 💔
I feel like the next few episodes are going to break me, but then hopefully everything will get put back to together, the way it should be, with blitz and stolas together!
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I've seen a number of posts taking Aziraphale to task for hesitating over the word "friends" in 1941 and here's my take.
Neither of them names their relationship before 1941. It's always The Arrangement, and they deny anything else because Heaven and Hell are always listening/watching (many many great metas on their coded language elsewhere so I won't get into it here).
But then this happens in 1941:
"It would take a real miracle for my friend and I to survive it."
Crowley just SAYS it. (Code again, always, but said out loud.) Then the books. The touch. The "oh."
It's not JUST the books. It is that Crowley has NAMED them, named this. Admitted what they had to deny in 1601.
So not a half hour later Aziraphale says this. In public!
He takes the very next possible opportunity to communicate to Crowley - "I heard you. I understood you. I feel the same."
AND JUST TO BE SURE, he says it again, in private, with softness in his look and his voice.
Look at the way he glances away just before the word friends. He wants to use another word, but can't. So he will say it again, in code, but again so Crowley understands.
"I see you. I understood. I understand. I feel the same."
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Hiya, could you pretty pretty please do a 12. and 33. prompt for the ineffable husbands? I keep thinking of Bentley just locking them in and not letting them out until they talk cupboard trope style 😔
Yessssss :D
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"Now you listen to me Crowley, you are going to tell your car—"
"Our car."
Aziraphale stops. Blinks. Gives up on fighting with the door handle.
"What did you say?" he asks.
"It's our car," Crowley repeats, more of a mumble this time, looking away from Aziraphale. A raindrop runs down the window, and he follows it with his eyes until it pools at the bottom, joining the great conference of former raindrops gathering there. They're in for a night of it, by the looks of the sky. "You said that. You made that true. So you're as much at fault as I am for it locking us in."
"I don't see how this is my fault. You kidnapped—"
"Kidnapped? I rescued you. That's. That's what I do. That's what the almighty made me for, I think," he huffs, still not looking at Aziraphale.
One rescue does not a rift mend. He's owed an apology. And even though everything's gone to heaven, like he predicted, he still hasn't gotten one.
He'd take a lot less. He doesn't need to hear that he was right. He needs to hear that Aziraphale's sticking with him this time.
The Bentley is, at least temporarily, seeing to that. Crowley gives the steering wheel a gentle pat. He genuinely has nothing to do with the doors being locked and apparently immune to miracles or temptation, but he thinks it's trying to help.
If nothing else, the constant itch of not being able to reach out and touch Aziraphale, if he wanted, has vanished for a bit. The ache of missing him has eased back just a fraction. It's a good car. A good, loyal car.
"You're cold," he says, shrugging out of his jacket without even having to look at Aziraphale. It's cold out tonight, in the middle of bloody nowhere, and he gets cold easily. Crowley doesn't want him to be cold.
"You'll be cold," Aziraphale says as Crowley shoves his body-warmed jacket at him.
"Demon," he says. "Don't get cold."
Theoretically, an angel ought not to get cold either. Thing is. Aziraphale's never actually been a very good angel. Not that Crowley would ever tell him that to his face.
Besides, he's his angel. He's allowed to be not very good.
"Thank you," Aziraphale says, taking the jacket and spreading it over himself like a blanket.
Silence, except for the pit-pat of rain against the car, falls. And Aziraphale's breathing. Crowley's missed the way he breathes.
He literally twiddles his thumbs in his lap, trying to think of something to say or do.
"Things are a bit of a mess," Aziraphale says after what might have been several eternities. Crowley's lost count.
He opens his mouth to say something—something comforting, like that it's not all that bad, or that they'll figure it out, they're a team, they always figure it out.
And then Aziraphale continues, "and you tried to warn me."
His voice sounds so small that Crowley, naturally, like he always does, deflates like a sat-on whoopee cushion. Because the thing about Aziraphale is that he always really is trying to do the right thing. Because he still believes there's one true Right Thing to do. Because he's precious and wonderful and optimistic and good. Not a good angel. But a good person.
"Did you ever wonder why I might try to do that?" Crowley asks.
He's not sure he wants an answer. Either one's going to hurt.
Aziraphale falls silent again, which is probably for the best. The way the moonlight's hitting the window now, Crowley can see him reflected in it. Still the same Aziraphale. Heaven hasn't really changed him.
"Do you really think God created you to look out for me?"
Crowley sighs. "I don't know. Plan's, y'know, ineffable."
"Well it would explain why you keep doing it," Aziraphale says. "If it's all in the plan."
"Right," Crowley draws in on himself. Not getting through right now, then. "No other possible explanation for it, really."
"Well. There is one other possible explanation," Aziraphale offers hesitantly.
"Oh?" Crowley asks.
"Well... you might. I suppose. Be fond of me?"
Crowley glances over at him. Sighs. Okay, well. He's come to that conclusion, then. It's only taken a little over six thousand years. Practically no time at all.
He takes his sunglasses off. Stares out of the windscreen. Wonders if he can actually be discorporated by way of stomach knots. Gnaws on his lip.
And then gets very, very brave. "I might be," Crowley says, forcing himself to look Aziraphale in the eye. "I might even be in love with you."
Aziraphale swallows. He looks like he might either be sick or pass out from what Crowley realises at the last second isn't disgust.
It's nerves.
"You might," he says, looking away as he fiddles with Crowley's jacket. "And. And if you were. That would be very convenient for me. Because I... I think I've been in love with you for a very long time."
Crowley means to say something to that, but the nice satisfying thunk of the Bentley unlocking beats him to it.
"Well," Crowley says, running his tongue over his teeth. "That's probably enough to save the world, then. Shall we?"
Aziraphale lights up, bright and beautiful and good as always. "I think we really must."
The soil testing equipment on Curiosity makes a buzzing noise and the pitch of the noise changes depending on what part of an experiment Curiosity is performing, this is the way Curiosity sings to itself.
So some of the finest minds currently alive decided to take incredibly expensive important scientific equipment and mess with it until they worked out how to move in just the right way to sing Happy Birthday, then someone made a cake on Curiosity’s birthday and took it into Mission control so that a room full of brilliant scientists and engineers could throw a birthday party for a non-autonomous robot 225 million kilometres away and listen to it sing the first ever song sung on Mars*, which was Happy Birthday.
This isn’t a sad story, this a happy story about the ridiculousness of humans and the way we love things. We built a little robot and called it Curiosity and flung it into the star to go and explore places we can’t get to because it’s name is in our nature and then just because we could, we taught it how to sing.
That’s not sad, that’s awesome.
*this is different from the first song ever played on mars (Reach For The Stars by Will.I.Am) which happened the year before, singing is different from playing
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New headcannon: everyone in that song is gay except the Piano Man who has no idea he’s playing at a gay bar and the staff and regulars have a betting pool on how long he’ll take to finally figure it out. So far John is ahead.
“The manager gives me a smile ‘cause he knows that it’s me they’ve been coming to see” also implies that the Piano Man is possibly an incredibly attractive but oblivious himbo, and if you listen to the rest of it imagining that, this all fits a little too well.
this makes too much sense. Also, the full quote is “Now John at the bar is a friend of mine. He gets me my drinks for free. And he’s quick with a joke or to light up your smoke. But there’s someplace that he’d rather be” Yes, your bed, he wants to be on your bed honey, that’s not a joke, he is flirting with you.
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