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new-endings · 4 years

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The Nice and Accurate Guide to Courting

Summary: As Hell’s bastard prince, Crowley is expected to wed an Archangel of Heaven’s kingdom to bring peace between the two warring nations.

It really is too bad he only has eyes for his sweet, bastard of a Guide, the Principality Aziraphale, who is dead-set on making sure the engagement happens.

Chapter 3:

Interlude: A Guide’s Folly and Frustrations

ch1, ch2, ao3

Chapter Summary: In which Aziraphale struggles to find the meaning behind Crowley's exceedingly odd behaviors.

Special thanks to @top-crowley-central, @sadwendigo, @imjustadrummer and of course, @hope-for-snow (dw bby I’ll give you yours next time) for helping me come up with these little courting intricacies!

Aziraphale fought the urge to pace back and forth.

He’s late. Again…

Aziraphale could understand being nervous; he himself was the last person to fault another for such feelings. It was, after all, quite a momentous occasion.

The Angel did his best to set the mood: an abundance of miracled flora sprawling vibrantly over the white walls, the clearance of both his and Crowley’s schedules, and all on a lovely sunset—clouds painted with lovely pinks and blues as the warm, orange twilight bathed the castle in its romantic glow.

Aziraphale ducked his head out from the balcony and his heart caught in his throat—

Ah. Finally.

The prince had arrived.

Aziraphale sighed a breath of relief and smiled to himself as he let his eyes trail over him. Well, doesn’t he look fetching?

Crowley tended to wear darker garb, as was customary for many people in Hell, and while he hadn’t altered that aspect of his wardrobe, he did heed Aziraphale’s light suggestion in wearing something a little more form-fitting… something that accentuated Crowley’s height, his lean body, and elegant lines. And the results were nothing less than spectacular.

Crowley, unfortunately, was making a face far less pleasant to look at.

Or rather he did until he met eyes with Aziraphale; a bright smile graced his lips and Aziraphale gave a little wave back.

Good, Aziraphale thought. What was probably pre-date jitters seemed to melt right off. Aziraphale gave an encouraging grin in return and made a gesture for the prince to get on with it.

Archangel Uriel wasn’t going to stand around at the keep forever.

The prince made a show of rolling his eyes before sauntering towards the awaiting Archangel, her shoulders visibly stiffening at the sign of the prince’s approach.

Holding a breath and uttering a short prayer, Aziraphale forced himself to watch on with apprehensive hope. It was quite difficult to get a hold of any of the Archangels, but with the deleterious prospect of war hanging over their heads, the Archangels were less inclined to deny a Prince of Hell private audience.

Then, it was simply a matter of choosing one that best suited Crowley’s fancy.

Archangel Michael was the most revered of the Archangels: her fortitude in the battlefield earned her place as the Queen’s Right Hand—

—but that being said, she was also terrifying, slain innumerous members of Hells’ army, and in Crowley’s words “a wanker.”

Though Aziraphale sputtered at the last bit, Aziraphale supposed he should count their lucky stars that there were other choices to speak of; Michael, for now, was safely off the table.

Then there’s Archangel Gabriel—

—to which Crowley vetoed outright. “Angel, does it look like I fancy the prospect of going for an early morning jog every damned day for the rest of my life?” And, well…

Aziraphale could hardly fault him for that, now could he?

That left Archangel Uriel.

Calm and steadfast in her mannerisms, Aziraphale felt that out of all the Archangels, Uriel would probably be their best bet in going forward with their Queen’s plan. Sure, she seemed a bit cold. Standoffish, really, and a tad intimidating—but she was also a refined lover of the arts. Something that Crowley (and himself) could greatly appreciate.

There, Aziraphale thought triumphantly. An Archangel who isn’t interested in liquid protein concoctions and an Archangel who you can bring home to without constant threats of assassination for vengeance. Crowley, begrudgingly half-heartedly, agreed.

Oh! They’re conversing! The Angel fought back a delighted sound. He really, really hoped this would go well. He prayed that they’d at least get along. Aziraphale wasn’t naïve—he knew how much of a sacrifice this was for Crowley—for anyone, really. To tie one’s life to another for an end for a conflict, rather than for the simple joy and a promise to live a life together. It was…suboptimal, to say the least. But it must be done and all Aziraphale could do now was hope that Crowley could find both; that this would all work out in the end and that the prince would find himself with a happy marriage and live in an era of peace.

A happily-ever-after.

Aziraphale, with his love of romances and tales, was a Principality to his core. Despite their roles during the wars, Principalities were ultimately made to love.

And oh, how Aziraphale loved love.

Hope bloomed in his chest as the minutes ticked by. It seemed to be going well enough.

Well enough being the key phrasing here. Neither of them made the efforts to step closer, keeping a sizeable distance as they conversed. It was always difficult to read Archangel Uriel, but with their backs turned, perched on the keep, and Aziraphale only able to observe from a tower balcony, it was impossible to tell the reality of things.

But at least the prince wasn’t flung off across the battlements, so Aziraphale would take that as a small victory. A positive sign.

Or it was, up until Crowley likely made a bad joke, judging from his shaking shoulders and the way the Archangel slowly turned beside him. Aziraphale’s high hopes took a sharp nosedive to the pits of his stomach, a feeling of dread creeping up to within him.

Oh no.

The pair seemed to exchange a few words before the Archangel Uriel turned and walked off, a noticeable haste in her stride, leaving Crowley making a hapless shrug at her exit.

Aziraphale blew out a blustery sigh, mourning the failed attempt. Back to the drawing board. He rushed out of the room, out of the spires, and towards the gardens at their designated meeting place.

And in his rush, he completely overlooked the triumphant grin on Crowley’s face and the pleasant tune he whistled out as he walked off.

“That went terribly.”

Aziraphale would have felt much more sympathy had the other even bothered to sound afflicted. “Prince Crowley—”

Slumped down on the stone bench next to him, Crowley rolled his eyes. “Just Crowley, Angel.”

“Your Highness,” Aziraphale continued irately. “What in Hell did you say to her?”

“Nothing,” Crowley replied but Aziraphale could see he was biting back a smile. “I was an utmost gentleman, I assure you.” He gave that same damned smarmy grin again. “Would I lie to you, Angel?”

The very one that made the Angel’s blood boil. “Recent history has proven that, yes, yes you can,” he sniffed. “Quite gleefully, might I add.”

Crowley made a show of pouting, but Aziraphale was not swayed. “Are you ever going to let that go?”

The Angel sent him a flat look. “Not on your life.” No siree. Not after that first humiliating encounter at the hands of Crowley’s deception.

The prince seemed to ruminate this for a while before sighing. “I’m sorry.” Huh. Aziraphale could almost believe that tone. “Honestly, I am. For how it made you feel.” Hesitantly, Aziraphale turned and was met with amber, pleading eyes.

Good grief. Aziraphale shook his head. “Crowley, it’s not my feelings you should be worried about!” He pinched his brows. “If Uriel makes a poor impression out of you, it may prove even more difficult to court—”

“Not exactly what I was apologizing for but,” Crowley paused at the sight of the unimpressed look Aziraphale shot back at him. “Yeah. Sorry about that too, I guess. What can I say? Birds don’t exactly have the best sense of humor.” He smiled to himself, obnoxiously smug. “As recent history has proven.”

Aziraphale let out a gasp. “Crowley!” Gracious, it was like he wanted things to go amuck! “You honestly shouldn’t sound so, so—”

Crowley gave a tilt of his head. “Dinner?” At the mere mention of it, Aziraphale cursed himself for his mood mellowing almost immediately. “To get your mind off it,” the prince continued. He eyed the Angel thoughtfully and Aziraphale fought the urge to squirm under his golden gaze. “There’ll be other opportunities, Angel. For now, let’s just enjoy the night.”

He already stood while Aziraphale uselessly floundered with his options; on the one hand, it would be best to regroup and discuss the meeting with Uriel thoroughly. That first impression seemed to have gone… less-than-ideal, but it was better to learn from the experience and make good use of it. On the other hand, it would be nice to get their minds off this first little misstep. And what better time to regroup than after filling their bellies to further fuel their conversation and ideas?

Crowley looked expectantly at him, hand outstretched to pull the Angel off his seat.

I talked myself into this, didn’t I? “Oh, very well,” he sighed, allowing himself to be whisked away for the night, much to his chagrin and much to Crowley’s glee.

Just like every other night, it would seem.

At least Crowley looked to be in high spirits. “Excellent! Say, how about we try that place with the thin pancakes that you like so much?”

“For the last time, Crowley, they’re crêpes—"

If the past few weeks taught Aziraphale one thing, it was that Demons were an astonishingly generous bunch.

Of course, he’s only had a sample size of one thus far, but Aziraphale feels that he’s got the basics down at least.

Crowley had a flair for opulence. Of course, this wasn’t unusual. He’s a prince—but Aziraphale couldn’t help feeling a slight shift as of late. Of course, Aziraphale still wanted to treat the prince as a guest of his kingdom; this often entailed Aziraphale scheduling meetings at lovely sights and monuments around the capital, the fine eateries and haunts Aziraphale frequented and could therefore vouch for in quality, and yes sometimes it would be on Crowley’s coin—

(All right, discounting their first meeting with the oysters, it was always on Crowley’s coin.)

— it seemed as though the prince’s natural desire for luxury eventually won out. Tender, juicy meats cooked to pinked perfection, fresh, flaky fish fillets lusciously seasoned, beds of vibrant and verdant vegetables, and ripe, refreshing fruits, assorted together in the varying styles of each of the four corners of the kingdom, far beyond a standard Principality’s paygrade to dine upon on a regular basis. But it was ever his fortune that as lavish the lifestyle of a prince must live (bordering on extravagance, really), Crowley was always more than willing to indulge Aziraphale’s tastes. He was delightfully thorough and thoughtful to his preferences, indeed.

Having been trained and stationed at the Eastern Gate for so long, Aziraphale’s mouth watered at the flavorings and spices of the North, the fine fragrance of the South’s wines, the luxury and decadence of the West’s desserts. He was quite eager to share them and their rich history, and Crowley…

Well he seemed to be content just to sit there and converse, letting the topic drift anywhere from the best plays that were in the theater to the rambunctious fun Crowley got into as a boy.

And to drink, of course.

Oh… Aziraphale sighed, breathing in the delicious aromas marrying together from the plate before him. The Archangel of his choosing will be surely a lucky one!

Aziraphale valiantly ignored the strange taste in his mouth at the thought. He succeeded with the aid of the lavish meal he dug into. The sea bass was cooked to perfection and paired nicely with the lemon jus and Aziraphale savored each lovely bite. Ah. Bliss.

Unfortunately, it appeared that Crowley didn’t quite agree. He had barely touched his meal and instead laid his elbow on the table ( Poor etiquette, Aziraphale thought; he ought to remind him not to do such a thing in front of an Archangel) with the palms of his hand resting his chin and staring…rather intently at Aziraphale.

The Angel blinked. “Is the food not to your liking, Crowley?”

That seemed to startle him out of whatever reverie he was under. “Hm? Oh, no—no, I mean it’s good. Just…”

“Not hungry?” the Angel offered.

Aziraphale was certain that although the poor dear gave a brisk nod, he was indeed lying. He looked positively starving! Perhaps he just wasn’t one for fish?

“Well that was scrumptious,” Aziraphale sighed, already feeling the day’s stresses dissipate. Still, the matter of the next attempts of wooing should be discussed and Crowley was looking quite famished. Perhaps they could opt for another night in at his quarters. “What are you in the mood for?”

Something flashed in those golden eyes but Aziraphale couldn’t quite put a name on it. “Alcohol. Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol.”

The second thing that the past few weeks taught Aziraphale was that Demons were an incredibly forgetful bunch.

Aziraphale eyed the state of his quarters: various articles of dark clothing strewn about, sashes, scarves, coats, all matters of jewelry, even a bloody diadem just hanging on the post of his bed at one point—

Crowley really ought to take better care of his things. But, Aziraphale learned from the last venture when he had dutifully gathered up the rich cloths and glittering treasures and brought them back—

Only to be met with an…uncomfortable look from the prince and some rubbish about him Having another just like it somewhere in his wardrobe and Save it, would you? For safe keeping.

Whatever that meant.

“Oh! Before my mind slips from me,” Aziraphale said, compliant as ever in reminding Crowley about what else he decided to stow away in the Angel’s quarters. “You forgot your—”

The prince waved off the comment before resuming his regular position on the Angel’s new sofa. “Keep it; I’ve got plenty more at home.”

“Crowley,” the Angel chided. “Your ring? The one bearing your family crest?”

Amber eyes briefly flickered to the item in Aziraphale’s hand, blinking before giving a careless laugh. “Keep it; I’ve got plenty more at home.”

This little— “Oh you…” At the other’s playful grin, he had half a mind to throw it at his companion’s head, if not for sheer propriety holding him by the scruff of his neck. Crowley was a guest after all. “Fine, I shall place it here for safekeeping,” he announced, heading straight to the corner of his room that slowly turning into a prince’s lost-and-found, brimming with the other items Crowley has left and/or given him over the course of a few weeks. Books filled most of the shelves, a feather here, a vase of Imperial Snowdrops there, a constellation of gifts and memorabilia dotting the walls.

“Why not wear it?”

Aziraphale nearly dropped the ring in his hands. Has the alcohol gotten to him already? Aziraphale gave a (breathless) chuckle. “Sorry dear, I don’t think your ring would be a proper fit.” He gave a short demonstration, fitting the band and exhibiting how it stopped at the proximal joint of both his middle and ring finger.

Crowley protested to that immediately. “’course it will.” He gestured for the Angel to come closer and despite the warning signs, Aziraphale sighed and headed over anyways. Taking the Angel’s hand in his own, Crowley gave a bleary-eyed examination before plucking the ring, “Fits right…” and slipping it over Aziraphale’s pinky. “Here!” he deemed with a happy finality.

And it was a perfect fit.

Crowley sat back, looking so pleased with himself that Aziraphale could only answer with a mild, “Oh. I guess it does.” He examined the ring closer under the flickering firelight, fighting the urge to pull away from the warmth of Crowley’s hand still holding his.

It was a pale gold, unlike the dark, muted colors and vibrant reds that accentuated Crowley’s hair and eyes. It glittered, defining the details of a magnificent serpent sinking its fangs to the breast of a ferocious bird of prey. Aziraphale swallowed, suddenly feeling his mouth dry and cheeks flushed.

He looked up to find Crowley staring at him again. He seemed to be doing that quite often as of late.

“Right, then.” Aziraphale didn’t know what to make of the ring, the crest, and why Crowley wanted it on his finger, but he’ll keep it on to appease Crowley. He finally dropped his hand and Aziraphale scurried back to his desk, a pounding in his chest he could only attribute to the wine not pairing well with the fish he had earlier.

Thankfully, Crowley didn’t comment on the matter any further. Instead, what he did choose to comment on was much worse.

“Of course. I leave my feathers here after relaxing my poor, aching wings, and you use the primaries as—a quill?”

Aziraphale, paused, looking down, He was, indeed, using one of Crowley’s abandoned plumes as a quill. The Angel huffed. “You said to do what I want with them—especially after you begged me not to throw them out.” It wouldn’t do to have loose-lipped maids discovering that the prince was molting from finding the evidence in the trash and he couldn’t very well chuck them in the fireplace.

They were fireproof after all.

Crowley made a face. “I didn’t beg.”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to roll his eyes. “Right, dear. And I’m the one molting right now.”

“’m not molting!” he defended (rather poorly, in Aziraphale’s opinion). “’Just. Not acclimated to the weather here. That’s all.” He stretched the magnificent wings out, causing Aziraphale to startle at the large wingspan. “See? Does that look like a mess of molting to you?”

They weren’t. Either that, or Crowley was among the few birds that could molt gracefully without looking like a plucked chicken.

Aziraphale bit back a smile. “No. I suppose not.” By the Queen herself, Crowley’s wings were gorgeous. Blacker than night, not a feather out of place despite how many he seemed to lose whenever he brought them out in Aziraphale’s quarters.

“Hey, Angel?” Aziraphale turned from his chair, glancing over to where Crowley was perched on the sofa. “Let’s see yours.”

Aziraphale wasn’t even aware he was making a face until Crowley pouted.

“C’mon give it a go. I’ve shown you mine already,” Crowley bargained. “It’s only fair.”

This time Aziraphale knew exactly what kind of face he was making. It was one that lead the petulant prince to pout at him.

The third little oddity—err, quirk he had noticed about his sample size of One, was that Demons could be…oddly affectionate.

At least, by Angel standards.

The sharing of feathers, the demand request to see his wings—

All quite…intimate things to do, but nothing out of the ordinary for close friends and families; a gift of feathers from one of a different flock was a declaration of forming new bonds, an act of adopting an outsider or joining as a family.

It made…for a strange warmth at the pit of Aziraphale’s belly and before it even fully registered, a flurry of white enclosed his peripheral vision.

They were smaller than Crowley’s. Not by much, mind you, but longer; he was made for gliding, soaring, rather than the wings of agile flyers like Crowley’s were.

And as such—they were also a terrible pain to preen.

“Don’t you ever take care of them?” Crowley gave a long once-over to each folded wing as he sat up. “Poor things look like they haven’t been groomed in ages.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale started, folding up his wings self-consciously. “I suppose it has been a while,” he murmured, tracing along a primary. Too long, really, since he’d had a partner to preen him. A partner to preen for. He beat back the unpleasant feeling as he cleared his throat. “I’m sure your staff keeps your wings well maintained, but not everyone—”

“They don’t.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Oh, but…” He stumbled. “Your family must—”

At that, Crowley gave a bitter laugh. “Pfft. Nah.” He gave a meaningful look to the Angel and his ruffled wings, and to his own, lovely pair. “I wouldn’t let them touch a feather.”

But whatever meaning it was, Aziraphale couldn’t understand.

..............................

Crowley didn’t know whether to thank his lucky stars or curse them to his kingdom and back for making the Angel so thick.

He’d watch on, unabashedly trailing his gaze from the way that soft, pink mouth opened and closed around every morsel of food, to the way his eyes fluttered shut, from way the Angel gave an enticing little wiggle as he savored each and every bite, to the polite and delicate way he dabbed at the corners of his mouth with the napkin.

The prince, with his food long forgotten, found that he’d much rather make a meal out of this delectable Angel instead.

Crowley never thought of himself as a glutton for punishment, but watching Aziraphale indulge and sigh in honeyed bliss gnawed at the chains of his control to not simply take the Angel by the hand and lead him somewhere nice, dark, and far away from prying ears just to hear what else Crowley could do to elicit such wanton sounds from that sweet, sweet mouth.

Crowley shook those thoughts from his head; it wouldn’t do well to be this aroused during one of their meetings. Not with Aziraphale insisting that he wear something a little too tight around the trousers—

—but ah those coy looks trailing over his form from the Angel himself was too difficult to ignore. Perhaps he’ll wear similar garb more often and hopefully speed up this entire ordeal of courting in the process.

And ordeal was putting it lightly.

Angels, from the sounds of it, needed far more reassurance of compatibility before initiating acts of courtship, hence why Aziraphale was there to give some insider-details of the Archangels’ follies and fancies. It absolutely would not do to initiate acts of courting without due introduction and shared interests.

Demons, however, tended to gauge all that through acts of courting.

It’s not uncommon for the two to share meals and outings together, even if it ended with Aziraphale giving him a tour of the kingdom. In the beginning, Crowley preferred those days the most since he gets to see Aziraphale in his most natural element: enjoying himself. But other times, the Guide’s sense of duty breaks through and Aziraphale will begin with such nonsense like “Oh Michael’s swordsmanship is legendary, but she has quite the affinity for spears as of late, so for a courting gift—” and other such useless topics. These were the times that regrettably reminded Crowley that he’s here to wed one of those wankers instead.

So, Crowley often deflected, steered the conversation away from unsavory waters, and navigated them towards more pleasant shores by innocently asking, “Right, good, but do you like the North’s dessert wines or do you prefer the South’s reds?”

Of course, Aziraphale will naturally start another hour or so lecture about why nothing beats the Southern reds.

And some nights, Aziraphale will find a nice bottle of Southern red and Crowley is duly repaid with a sunshine smile and his Angel in a happy mood the next day.

Using that same method, Crowley gathered all sorts of interests from the Principality; from his preferences of bygone authors and poets, to the locations of his favorite bouquets of rare Imperial Snowdrops, to which shops baked the sweetest cakes and other delicacies.

A fine ordeal, courting. But Crowley didn’t mind it.

When it came of official courtships, jewelry was traditional, but outright presenting them to the Angel was tricky; he couldn’t very well offer them as payment for his guidance and company as Aziraphale wasn’t took keen on adorning himself, save for a few choice items. So, Crowley did the next best thing: he took to leaving them in the Angel’s little nest instead. An armband here, a bracelet there, and Crowley chuckled at the memory of the Angel carefully wrapping his own diadem before presenting it back to the prince with a pinched look. My dear, I know you’re a bit scatterbrained, but please don’t leave such treasures in my room where I can be easily accused of stealing.

Let them know they’re gifts, Crowley strongly hinted suggested, but Aziraphale made that familiar downturn of his lips that let Crowley know that his “joke” wasn’t appreciated. He took back the headpiece and a few choice items. Obsidian blacks and bloody rubies were hardly Aziraphale’s style anyways.

Books, as scarce as they were in Hell, were Aziraphale’s favorite weakness. He’d never refuse such a rare gem for his collection, so Crowley had taken to sending requests from couriers with the implication that they were being utilized in the name of courtly love. And that was their designated purpose, but decidedly not in the way that would please the King, the next-in-line, nor the entirety of his own damned kingdom—but sharing that bit of information wasn’t necessary.

Wining and dining were a staple in all cultures across the lands, but it was especially appealing for Demons to seek a mate that could provide for them (and Crowley could, would, and was proving this aspect quite thoroughly) and it was nothing short of instinctively pleasing to know Crowley could nourish and sate his future mate to his heart’s content.

Not only that, but since food and drink were consumables, there’d be little evidence of the existence of said courting to point a finger at. Other Birds wouldn’t bat an eye if a prince went out to dine at expensive restaurants and demanded the finest of wines and liquor—oh, for him and his companion? Well he’s a prince after all, he can’t settle for anything less. It was perfect, really. Crowley’s preferred method of courting for this very reason.

Another bite of his meal and his Angel moaned, face enraptured, absolute ecstasy painting across his features. Crowley carefully adjusted himself in his seat.

Among other reasons.

By Crowley’s standards, his Bird was thoroughly courted—

But for better or worse, Aziraphale hadn’t noticed it at all. It seemed that they were on very separate wavelengths when it came to matters of the heart.

Which was really such a damned shame because Crowley, on the other hand, was growing restless and his senses going wild.

Wild in the sense that if he didn’t see Aziraphale at least once that day, his instincts itched and gnawed at him from the marrow of his bones to ensure Aziraphale’s safety; in the sense that he was becoming in tune with the Angel’s needs—It’s lunch time and he should be peckish by now, He’s brooding, Angels aren’t supposed to brood at least not mine something’s wrong and I need to fix it, He’s hardly sleeping and is probably up all night reading those novellas I sent him last week so maybe we should schedule our meeting later in the morning; in the sense that it drove him absolutely mad that he was not able to scent himself on Aziraphale—because if he can’t claim him, then anyone else could just as easily walk by and snatch his little Bird up—

Wild in that sense.

His thoughts were plagued with it and Crowley grew antsier by the day. There were some things he could intercede on behalf of his own sanity, at least.

Although he couldn’t very well scent Aziraphale’s form, his Bird’s little nest was helping soothe that ache. It was cluttered with shelves and collections upon collections of tomes, tales, diaries, and journals and most importantly— cluttered with things of Crowley.

His coats still hung by the rack, his pendant at the side of Aziraphale’s desk; wraps and cloths were strewn over by a chair, folded neatly on a shelf, inside a drawer that contained a variety of Aziraphale’s own outerwear, soft golds of bangles and rings tucked neatly away in a small chest within the trunk at the foot of Aziraphale’s bed—

Even his feathers.

The first time Crowley had been given entry to Aziraphale’s quarters, he was ever-so-fortunate that Aziraphale had been distracted with hunting down a bottle of fine wine to share when those bloody vestigial appendages popped from his back, leaving several feathers in its wake.

Crowley did the only thing one could do at the time—aside from panic: sprawl himself over the sofa and take a nice, big, stretch.

When Aziraphale returned with a vintage bottle, he gave one raised brow at the Demon. Making yourself comfortable, I see?

Crowley barely tilted his pillowed head from the outdated cushions. I’m trying but, this thing’s so ancient, it might disintegrate if so much as twitch.

(As a small aside, there was no way Hastur and Ligur believed him when he used his own coin to replace the battered old thing with something more opulent—something sturdier. All because the legs collapsed after Crowley gave one, hearty sneeze. They had sneered and mocked, rudely implicating that the causal activity likely had been a bit more rigorous to break the sofa.)

It seemed customary now; every time Crowley so much as set foot in Aziraphale’s nest, the night-black wings would manifest without fail. Crowley didn’t know if this was some sort of deeply rooted predisposition left over from their origins as Angels. He just hoped he wouldn’t find himself doing some idiotic mating dance next that consisted of flapping his useless wings around.

But Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he was being a bastard and teased him about his little molting issue.

Which it isn’t!

Crowley, please collect your feathers.

Daft bird. What am I going to do with my own feathers?

Well. what am I supposed to do with them?

Make a cozy pillow or something. Anything’s better than this stiff rock, he had said with a wide gesture to the array of cushions Crowley haphazardly displaced.

He’d meant for that to be a joke, but he quickly warmed to the mental image of Aziraphale curled up to a pillow made of his own down.

The Angel could say what he liked about the issue; so long as he finds use for those feathers. It just seemed. Right, somehow. Even if it was currently being utilized as a writing tool—delicately held in Aziraphale’s plump hands, well-manicured fingers tapping and twirling the plume, the absent-minded brush of the pen against his mouth as he contemplated something— Crowley wouldn’t complain.

In fact, he couldn’t say much of anything as he watched.

Surprisingly, it was Aziraphale that took heed of the last little courting gesture. One that Crowley hadn’t even realized he’d been doing.

Since the little sofa incident, Hastur and Ligur had transitioned from merely ribbing him of the time he spent with Aziraphale to outright stalking them. Every so often, he’d catch a whiff of brimstone and find the pair staring back at him unabashedly. It made Crowley downright uneasy, knowing that they were tracking his movements, their activities.

Who knows what they’d report back to Hell…

Aziraphale was less perturbed by the whole thing. They’re your footmen, Crowley. Shouldn’t you be glad they’re actually doing their jobs for once?

But he relented under Crowley’s insistence that they meet at obscure areas and then head out for the day. Of course he had to deal with the Angel’s insistence that this is ludicrous! but Crowley won him over in the end.

He always does.

Getting Aziraphale to meet him at the designated destinations had been an ordeal of its own, however. It took quite a few trials and errors, but Crowley thought they had a pretty good system down by now. They’d already made four rendezvous points at this time, and it was going swimmingly—

Even if the Angel couldn’t remember between the bandstand (4th rendezvous point) and the national library storeroom (the 2nd).

Hastur and Ligur—as well as any other Demons that came aboard with him, were out of sight for the past week. Still, that did little to ease the anxiety slowly coalescing within him. He’d taken to surveying the area, half an ear attending to whatever his Angel was prattling on about, another honed on dark whispers, covert murmurs, and listening for telltale wheezy little laughs.

He didn’t know if Hastur and Ligur had more contacts, if people started talking and speculating about how much time he spent with this particular Angel. Sure, he can spin the tale justifiably since Aziraphale was ultimately his Guide to the kingdom, but sooner or later, people will be demanding results and progression towards his wooing to an Archangel and by then, Crowley will either need to have won Aziraphale over or—

“Crowley, could you please stop that?”

He startled, turning to the Angel. Aziraphale sighed and tugged him towards a quieter street and away from the throngs of people.

After taking a few lefts and the crowds walking by thinned down, Aziraphale forced the prince to look straight at him. He gave an annoyed huff, but there was no mistaking the worry in those stormy eyes. “You were making me dizzy.”

Crowley blinked. “What?”

There was a stern frown set upon the Angel’s lips now. “Did you even hear a word I was saying?”

A quick scan through rote memory and: “The musical. Yes. The Archangels will be there.” Right. That was why his Angel was wearing new attire: a coat, vest, and trousers of soft creams and off-whites—different from his usual robes. “You were showing me to the theater.”

Aziraphale nodded, suppressing a shudder. “Yes. The…Sound of Music.” He made a face like he had just sampled an under-seasoned cut of steak. “Gabriel’s favorite.”

Crowley grimaced. Ah. That. Archangel…romance-business.

“Yes; honestly not my favorite production but—there you go again!” Aziraphale gestured about him. “Kettling as we speak—”

“Kettling,” Crowley spat, heavily in denial though he halted his movements and…was altogether unsure exactly how he went from being right in front of Aziraphale to standing just by his left. Right. “Ridiculous—”

His Guide shot him an exasperated look. “Circling, then. Stop it, you’re making me feel like—prey.” Aziraphale raised a brow at the convulsion of emotions that just flashed through the prince’s face. “Crowley, is everything all right?”

The prince snorted, none-too-delicately. “Fine. Just…fine.” Prey?

For Go—Sa—for someone’s sake.

He really didn’t get it, did he?

“No, not just, Crowley,” Aziraphale started, patiently. “You’ve been acting all out of sorts for the past few weeks. It’s been worrying me.”

Crowley fought back a wince. “It’s—”

Nothing, really. I’m just upset and bloody hormonal because I can’t scent you, I can’t mark you, I can’t let anyone know you’re mine, and now I’m paranoid that my own men are going to turn against me because I’ve went and decided that I’m simply gone for you.

But obviously, he couldn’t say all that. Not now. Not yet. “The, uh. Situation’s finally gotten to me, is all.” Crowley gave a swallow at the confused look on the Angel’s face. “I’m not used to it. The responsibility. It makes me...anxious,” he ended.

“Oh dear…” Bless—curse this Bird for his cloud-puff soft heart and pleading eyes. “I thought you were adjusting so well.”

“Not your fault, Angel,” Crowley muttered. “New territory, too. Being in Heaven, that is. Can’t help but feel uneasy.”

Tentatively, Aziraphale reached for arm and Crowley wanted to take his hands again, just like that night under the stars weeks ago. Instead, Crowley let it hang limp as the Angel gave a comforting pat.

“My dear, I may not have my sword anymore, but you needn’t worry.” He gave a small, encouraging smile. “I promise to protect you.”

At that tender declaration, Crowley’s brain temporarily short circuited, causing him to trip over his own two feet.

“Crowley!”

That felt like final nail in the coffin: he’s so deep in love to the point it’s physically ruining him and his reputation.

.............................................

Crowley was late. Again.

And when Crowley was late, it never ended very well for Aziraphale and his best-laid plans.

“Well, well.” A Demon stood before him, blocking entrance from the West Wing where Crowley and the rest of his legion resided. Dark hair and complexion with fiery eyes. Ligur.

“If it isn’t the Guide,” another called out from behind the Angel, effectively blocking the exit. An unnatural pallor framing dark, dark eyes; Hastur, then.

Aziraphale had no time for this. He cleared his throat. “Hello, gentlemen. Is Prince Crowley ready?”

He turned to see Ligur shoot a knowing smile to his companion. “Off to another affair?” he asked, ignoring Aziraphale’s question entirely. Okay. Fine.

The Angel decided to play along. “We’re meeting in regards to the progression of—”

“Right, right…” Hastur muttered dismissively. He inched closer to the Angel with a toothy grin. “Say, he is wooing an Archangel, right?”

Aziraphale tried very hard not to give him a look that would have implied insult to his intelligence. “Yes, of course. That’s what I’m here for—”

“Just making certain that things are going according to plan,” Ligur assured with a complacent smile.

Yet something behind that tone made Aziraphale think twice about his intentions. “Yes. No hitches or road bumps,” Hastur added with a smirk at the way the Angel stiffened as he came up behind him.

“No…distractions,” Ligur added with an intimidating step forward.

Oh dear.

No wonder Crowley preferred spending time over at Aziraphale’s quarters if this was what he had to put up with. He nodded primly despite his mounting annoyance. “Quite right, gentlemen. I’m sure you’ll be relieved to know that things are progressing as expected, and that the Prince will be meeting with Archangel—”

“Oh good, good.” Ligur gave another shared smile with his Demonic mate. “Delightful to hear.”

“Yes,” Hastur nodded perceptively. “Especially since the prince has been exhibiting, well,” he gave a vague gesture. “You know…”

“Hastur,” his companion admonished with a scheming grin. “Careful, now. We wouldn’t want word to get out.”

That gave Aziraphale pause. “Word?” Was something wrong with Crowley? “Exhibiting what, exactly?”

Hastur gave a mocking gasp. “Oh, you haven’t noticed?”

“The prince has been exhibiting a few…peculiar behaviors of late, hasn’t he?” Ligur prodded.

Before Aziraphale could refute, deny, or even concede, Hastur answered for him. “Indeed, he has. Tell me, Bird,” he said, turning to Aziraphale with a blade-sharp smile. “Do you know how Demons court?”

Aziraphale didn’t know what to make of that question; it certainly never crossed his mind that courting differed between their two kingdoms. “I’m sure just the same as anyone else.” After all, love was Her creation. It shouldn’t vary so much…

Right?

Ligur gave a thoughtful hum, kettling—but this time, leaving Aziraphale feeling exactly like prey. “Not exactly. Not how you Birds court.” His eyes flashed with humor. “No preamble, no pussyfooting. Straight to the meat of the matter, as it were.”

“The courting itself is a means of gauging compatibility,” Hastur added, circling clockwise to his partner’s counter. “Gifts, usually food and jewelry.” He gave a pointed look to the ring on Aziraphale’s finger. “And other preferences,” he added with a furtive smirk.

The tartan bowtie Aziraphale had eyed yesterday at a shop and found neatly packaged in the middle of his bed suddenly felt tight around Aziraphale’s throat.

Were they implying—

No. That’s…that can’t be, that’s—

Preposterous.

They must be messing with him. Playing him for a sucker. Ugh. It was no wonder Crowley could barely tolerate their presence. They were proving exceedingly poor company. Still, Aziraphale plastered on a placid smile. “Well! Then it seems our sessions have been fruitful!” His smile widened as the two paused in their movements, a few inches away from a full-on collision. “Crowley is ready to court, it would seem.”

There was a cruel smile etched on Ligur’s face. “Oh, I do believe you’re right, Angel.”

Aziraphale didn’t outwardly flinch. It was the same word Crowley had repeatedly called him; it was what he was, an Angel of the Queen, down to his very core of being. Yet somehow, it sounded so wrong coming from this Demon’s lips.

And he really didn’t want to stay there any longer. “Right. In that case, with the air cleared, please let me through. I do believe we’re running a tad behind schedule now.”

Hastur pulled to the side, the maw of the West Wing entrance left open to him. “By all means, don’t let us keep you.”

Aziraphale gave curt nod of thanks before heading off.

“Yes, and oh,” Ligur called after him. “Send Prince Crawley our best wishes.”

At that, Aziraphale stopped. He swiveled around and marched straight towards the grinning pair. He shook his head. “Goodness, what a noisy lot you are. And to address your prince as such?” He crossed his arms, a bite of authority in his tone. They may be guests but that didn’t mean they had free reign to do as they pleased. “Have you no tact? We’re all working on the same side, here! And your prince is making a noble effort for peace. That ought to deserve some respect from his men.”

At that, the façade cracked, even for just a second. “The same side,” Ligur sneered. “What do you think this is about, hm?” He took a step forward, surprised to find that Aziraphale held little to no fear in his eyes. “Have you no brains, little Bird?” Merely contempt.

“Leave him be,” Hastur admonished. “He’ll find out soon enough.”

The Angel wisely paid little heed to that statement; probably another taunt to rile him up again. “Hmph.” Aziraphale narrowed his eyes but turned all the same. “I bid you two gentlemen a good night.”

“Good night, Principality Aziraphale,” Ligur intoned with a mocking, sweeping bow.

The pair watched as the Angel made his way through the halls and to the Prince’s quarters, his footsteps echoing all the while.

Then, somewhere in the distance, an echoed, “Oh. Angel! You’re here already?”

“Yes, we need to be there by dusk, I told you this already!”

“Ah, right, right…”

Hastur gave a raspy chuckle. “Rather feisty, isn’t he?” There was a cruel upturn of his lips. “I can see why Prince Crawley has his eye on him.”

The carriage ride to the theater was a silent one. Mostly because Crowley was sulking at the prospect of spending the next few hours listening to inane singing, earworm-inducing tunes, and approaching yet another Archangel by his own Angel’s design.

For Aziraphale, the ride over was a rather pensive one.

He couldn’t help but replay their words, blood burning beneath his skin at their blatant disrespect and insinuations. But…that disconcerting meeting might have given Aziraphale insight and an answer to all of Crowley’s strange behavior.

But was it true? Was Crowley truly exhibiting courtship behaviors?

Was he ready to take the next step?

He couldn’t tell for sure. After all, Crowley was right in saying that his footmen were a wretched bunch, though they were lenient enough to let him do he pleased so long as he got himself out of trouble. Aziraphale knew that logically, he shouldn’t pay heed to them. Surely, Aziraphale would notice by now if Crowley had been showing signs of interest, signs of love—

He was a Principality, after all.

“Penny for your thoughts, Angel?” Aziraphale turned to see Crowley, once more slumped over in his seat. Goodness, can’t he sit straight for once?

“Careful, dear,” Aziraphale warned with a smile. “In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say.”

He gave a teasing grin. “Brooding, then?”

“What—no,” Aziraphale assured. “Just. Reflective.”

Crowley nodded. “Ah. So you are brooding.” He gave a chuckle at the derisive snort he received in turn. Golden eyes flickered from the Angel’s face to his vestments. “You’re wearing it, I see.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale straightened the bow with a pleased smile. “Yes, it’s lovely. Thank you.”

Crowley cleared his throat. “Think nothing of it. I think I did the tailor a favor, taking that thing off his hands. Really, Angel? Tartan?”

“It’s stylish,” Aziraphale countered. “And I adore it.”

An indulgent smile made its way to Crowley’s lips as he leaned back in his seat, looking quite accomplished with himself.

Aziraphale nearly let out a gasp.

It finally clicked into place. The gifts, the food, the books--! It all made so much sense now. And Aziraphale was frustrated that he couldn’t see it sooner. That he couldn’t help Crowley sooner.

Crowley was obviously exhibiting courtship behaviors to see how Aziraphale would react to it! That way he could gauge how an Angel would respond to the practices before displaying them in front of his intended Archangel!

It was brilliant, really! The marriage of two cultures shouldn’t just be Crowley forced into the traditions of Angels, but a collaboration between two courtship efforts!

It was…decidedly odd. But Crowley was an imaginative and decidedly odd Demon to begin with.

Still… Aziraphale thought. Practice…for courtship?

It was beyond odd—it was mad. But perhaps it’s just imaginative enough to work.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Aziraphale: Pure of heart. Dumb of ass. I’m sorry, Crowley. The light in your sky, the love of your life, is a moron.

Shout out to Binging with Babish’s “Jurassic Park’s Chilean Sea Bass” recipe.

Also vultures, do not in fact, circle their prey.

I am so sorry for this mess lmao

#good omens #ineffable husbands #top crowley #bottom aziraphale #crowley x aziraphale

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shirtlesssammy · 5 years

Text

10x02: Reichenbach

June 21st, 2003:

A boy wakes from sleep to hear a fight happening in his house. He finds his dad brutally murdered downstairs. As he cries over the body, we see a de-aged Dean Winchester walk in the room with a bloody knife. (Like, what a weird thing to spend money on, idk)

Cut to (UGH) Cole (UGH) who was that boy. He’s telling his tale to a tied up Sam. He’s going to kill Dean. Sam tells him that “Dean isn’t Dean right now.” Cole is getting high off of thinking about his revenge so there’s no talking to him. Sam tells him that Dean had his reasons for killing his dad. There are monsters out there.

(UGH) Cole (UGH) thinks he’s talking about human monsters (of which there are many) but Sam tells him REAL monsters. Cole keeps calling Sam the psycho but then puts on gloves and pulls out a hammer. UGH.

Killdeer, North Dakota

Our Demon Dean Bean is enjoying the view (and touching without consent..smh). He throws money on the ground for the exotic dancer and she’s less than impressed and starts to walk away. He grabs her again and this time the bouncer stops him. Dean headbutts him and we’re suddenly watching (UGH) Cole (UGH) beat up Sam. I’m going to be honest, smart editing makes recapping hard. :D Cole continues to demand where Dean is. Dean continues to wale on the bouncer. Dudes at the bar are not stopping him --like, holy fuck, stop him, assholes! He stops himself, finishes his drink, and leaves.

(UGH) Cole (UGH) continues to torture Sam, but he doesn’t realize that he’s dealing with Sam Fucking Winchester. That boy is a badass and he will NOT break. Cole’s just about to break Sam’s kneecap when his phone rings. It’s his wife so he answers and walks away, leaving his keys and a knife on the ground.

Outside the strip club, Dean runs into Crowley.

For Dear God Dunk Me Under That Running Water Science:

Cas is on the road with Hannah and his fake grace is failing him. She heals a wound of his and he thanks her but tells her she can go. She’s staying. She wants to help. That makes Cas laugh. It’s just so very human of her. (HANNAH)

Cas gets a call from Sam. He has a lead on Dean and tells Cas to head to North Dakota. Sam then drops the bomb that Dean is a demon.

Cas and Hannah head out to meet Sam. Hannah doesn’t see the point in helping the Winchesters. Cas sees otherwise. They’re his friends. (Blarf...this is season 10. One more season and he’ll be living in the bunker and he’ll be family and I just can’t take it.) Cas is not ok and starts to nod off while driving, and they crash. #RipPimpMobile

Dean and Crowley are at a bar. Crowley asks Dean how he’s doing, knowing full well that he’s not doing that great. He needs to kill. Crowley offers him a deal that he can’t refuse --kill for him.

Crowley has a list. First up: Mindy Morris. She cheated on her husband and then asked for a divorce. Lester, the husband, would rather sell his soul than give up his money. Mindy’s going to die. Dean agrees.

Cas and Hannah have the car towed to a car repair shop. The extra nice mechanic invites them into her home. Hannah is not used to this human condition and it’s kinda cute. She also doesn’t get human humor. Also cute. Cas is so out of it, he doesn’t register the exchange. They head inside. Hannah heads to find food for Cas (wait, with his fading grace, does he need to eat?) and returns to the living room to find Cas zonked out on the couch.

Dean stalks Mindy Morris’s house and just as he’s about to go in to do his job, he sees Lester pull up. He goes to have a chat with Lester. Pro tip: Not a great idea to be at the scene of the crime when the crime is happening. Dean tells Lester that he can’t really blame Mindy for stepping out. “She’s a North Dakota Eight. You’re a Four and a half max.”

Wanna see a Hollywood Ten:

Also, Lester was already cheating on Mindy (UGH). Demon Dean maybe learned a thing between the no consent touching and this moment, because he ain’t buying the shit that Lester is selling. He punches him. Lester tells Dean that he works for him now and he needs to get in that house and do his job. Uh, demon or no, don’t tell Dean “Free Will” Winchester what to do; He’s going to do the opposite. Dean guts him with the First Blade. Oops.

Sam’s at the Angelz Strip Club (LOLOLOLOLOLOL, Dean wishes it was one angel --I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself. But also, wtf? Is it because he’s a demon, and irony?) He’s talking with the bouncer. They exchange war stories. Sam asks the bouncer to call him (or Lemmy Kilmister at least) if he sees Dean again. Meanwhile, (UGH) Cole (UGH) lurks and follows Sam as he drives away.

The next morning, Cas wakes to Looney Tunes (god, I love this running theme through Andrew Dabb episodes) and a little girl who has the most fascinating dreams about snot and rockets. Epic.

She offers Cas some of her cereal and he accepts. IT’S ADORABLE, PEOPLE. (A thousand Cas with small child fics were born, I’m sure.) The mechanic and Hannah watch and smile and all is right with the world. The mechanic tells Hannah their car is ready. And then she tells her that she’s got a great guy. (Lol, he’s already taken. Hannah learned that little factoid last season.)

Meanwhile Crowley’s in hell (seewhatididthere) while a demon explains to him how to make Hell more efficient. Sam calls Crowley, but Interrupting!Dean (‘cause he’s a demon, I guess) strolls in very proud of himself for killing Lester. When Crowley chews him out for it, Dean shoves him to the ground with his little demon head-tilt. Crowley rather insightfully sums it up: Dean’s a li’l bit human and a li’l bit demon.

Instead of cowering in fear, Dean’s supremely unimpressed by the King of Hell. He informs Crowley that they’re not “besties” and that he’ll come around when he needs someone new to kill. “It's over,” Crowley decrees. “What can I say? Crazy ones...well, they're good for a fling. But they're not relationship material.” It’s okay, Crowley. Breakups are hard!

In sunny angel-land, Hannah takes over driving for Cas who is looking awful. Listen, I don’t often fantasize about swaddling grown men and spoon feeding them soup but Cas! BBY! You look like hammered crap.

Crowley finds Moose and tells him where to find Squirrel. The Mark of Cain’s a PIA and he’d rather be shot of Dean altogether.

Cas wakes up in the parked car to find Hannah gone. She went up to Heaven to speak to Metatron in jail. Careful! He’s a tricksy devil. She tries to interrogate Metatron for the whereabouts of the last remnants of Cas’s grace. Oh, sure! Coming right up.

Metatron says he’ll barter Cas’s grace for sweet freedom. Hannah’s about to bite when Cas arrives.

Cas approaches angrily and tells Hannah not to do it. “I've made deals born of desperation, and they always end in blood and tears.”

Castiel doesn’t want to be saved like that. Hannah reluctantly agrees and walks off. Metatron leaves Cas with a parting shot: there’s just enough of his grace to save him. “Keep it,” Cas tells him. “I’ve made peace with my fate.” OKAY BUT we haven’t. Just so you know.

Metatron decides to make a really compelling argument for freeing him. He’ll escape one day and then...kill everybody. How fun and well-adjusted. He taunts Castiel as he leaves: “Dead man walking!”

On Earth, Dean pensively plays the piano?????????? Bored with piano practice, he pulls out the First Blade and slices his hand, then watches it heal up while Crowley’s advice to choose between the two natures echoes in his head. Sam approaches. (Aaaaand musical number time. Sing him a song, Dean!)

Dean picks up the blade and stalks over to the bar. Sam suggests a nice, civilized trip home to do the demon cure. For some reason, demon Dean isn’t into that plan. He confesses that he’d like to rip Sam’s throat out with his TEETH which is...certainly an image.

Sam expresses his unending loyalty: it doesn’t matter what Dean might have done as a demon. He just wants him home. Dean laughs at him but his mirth gets interrupted by a smoke bomb going off. When Sam stumbles outside the bar, he’s met with (UGH) Cole (UGH). Cole knocks Sam “The Head Injury” Winchester out.

Cole meets Dean at last, who roundly mocks him for not killing Sam already. Cole dramatically announces who he is to Dean. Dun dun DUN. He’s the son of a man you killed decades ago who has since grown into a completely different looking adult! I mean, come on, Dean. Work on your facial recognition here. Dean apologizes - all those dead people over the years have blurred together.

Dean taunts Cole, telling him to shoot him already. (Side note: as much as I dislike demon Dean, he really plays up his eyes nicely in these scenes.)

For Eye Crinkle Science:

They fight. Dean reminds me of a cat toying with a mouse. “What did you think was gonna happen, huh? You just stroll up here and say “my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die,” And I'd just roll over? Well, that's just… It makes me sad.”

(UGH) Cole (UGH) cuts Dean, who heals before his eyes. He demon-flashes him.

Dean starts beating Cole within an inch of his life but hesitates… Sam takes that opportunity to toss holy water onto Dean and slap on those warded cuffs. You got ‘im, Sammy! Good work.

Later, Sam hands the first blade over to Crowley for safe keeping (and WOW about that, really).

(UGH) Cole (UGH) apparently headed straight to the public library after his little prize fight and, still bloodied and barely standing, asks the librarian for every book she has on demons. Please, Cole, demon and witchcraft books always get stolen within the first month on the shelf.

Back at the bar, Crowley enjoys his froofy drink and fondles the First Blade while thinking of his ex. And then we get a close-up of his phone. It’s a photo of Dean and Crowley wearing cowboy hats and being dorks together. Over the scene, the song “Lonely girl” plays. I CAN’T EVEN WITH THIS.

Sam drives Dean home to the bunker. Dean refers to Baby as “just a car” and we all die a little inside. Sam has hope, though. He chose not to kill Cole. Dean just smiles. He didn’t give (UGH) Cole (UGH) mercy...he handed him his destroyed pride on a platter. “That ain’t mercy. That’s the worst thing I coulda done to ‘im.” He then promises to visit more of his anti-mercy on Sam.

______________________________

Quote it Again, Sam:

Sam and Dean may be a bit rough around the edges but they’re the best men I’ve ever known.

I understand the three beans, but what’s the surprise?

What is this, a lifetime movie?

______________________________

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive!

#spn recap #spn rewatch #spn 10x02 #reichenbach #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #cas #crowley #hannah

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lonely-canadian-shrimp-universe · 5 years

Text

Good Omens:A First Foray

The First Impressions of a Viewer with No Context

I knew a good chunk of the plot because at first I honestly wasn't going to watch it, so I didn't really shield myself from any spoilers on tumblr.

That being said, I was hooked right from episode 1. I went into it thinking I was gonna be all over Crowley (given my other favourite characters in most other franchises) but the first time Aziraphale smiled I M E L T E D. SO PURE AND SWEET Also when "Aziraphale" was said I had a moment of 'oh. that's how you say that' Also the earth and my mom share a birthday. When Nanny Ashtoreth showed up I KNEW I was gonna need more content of her. Wife 100%

The fact that, try as they may, Zira and Crowley are completely incompetent and really only matter in the last like 16 minutes before the end of the world is really great. It's like watching a show that's about the really interesting side characters you get to see for 2 minutes and WISH you got 6 hrs of. Thank you, Neil.

Ep 2 we get to meet Newt and Anathema and omg I love them. I need Anathemas wardrobe ugh. And newt??? disaster Newton Pulsifer??? he's a mood. Not totally sure how I feel about their relationship but I love the contrast of "hey we just met like an hour ago and we're dating now thnks" to "we've known each other for 6000 years but there's no way he likes me the same way? side note, isn't it funny how the world is always emitting a low buzz of love my dear?" "ngk"

Agnes is amazing and I love how sassy she is. 10/10. I love how Aziraphale is not at ALL concerned about being shoved against a wall by Crowley. Like not one bit. He's like "oh finally, it's only taken you 6 millenia" honestly same

Ep 3 gives us the 30 minute cold open who's only purpose is to show how these two kept coming back to each other for 6 millenia, no matter how the last meeting may have gone. Here are a few thoughts:

Crowley has very pretty hair. Also I could 100% see by this point how these two have been gay for each other since day 1. Er rather day 7? Golgotha Crowley is v pretty and learning later that those are traditionally female garments was a treat. That scene was otherwise hard to watch, and they definitely thought so as well. The globe theatre was really fun to watch, I love Shakespeare. Sadly, Hamlet reminds me of my awful 10th grade English teacher. she ADORES that play. So thanks, Aziraphale.

Bastille= PEAK GAY LOOK

I'd seen the church scene and "you go too fast for for me in MANY a gift, but hearing them was OOF. Michael Sheen didn't have to go so hard on that line but OH BOY DID HE EVER. I may have cried.

I honestly didn't realize that the intro didn't play until the middle of the episode until I rewatched it?? like that completely flew over my head.

THE BANDSTAND. THE E M O T I O N. AZIRAPHALE WAS SO HURT. he was so torn because so much of him still wanted to believe in the good of heaven, but his heart (or the angelic equivalent) had long ago sided with Crowley. When Crowley came back and asked him to run away to Alpha Centuri??? UGH. that dude instantly assuming they're gay? same. same random dude. same. And omg Crowley praying??? to God??? he cares about humanity and it SHOWS. By this point I was REALLY relating to Aziraphale. His reluctance to stray from what he knows and was told reminds me so much of myself. that A n x i e t y.

the end of episode 4 and into episode 5 HURT. the bookshop? "I lost my best friend"? The fact that Crowley was ready to give up and wallow drunkenly through the Apocalypse because continuing on or running away held no meaning if he didn't have Aziraphale by his side. I cried. On the other hand, defiant Aziraphale? "Angels can't posses people" "Demons can..." YES BBY STOP BLINDLY FOLLOWING ORDERS!!! FREE THOUGHT BABEY!!! Now: Shadwell and Tracy. Shadwell is hilarious and I love him, end of story. He's just so... out there. crazy dude. Madame Tracy on the other hand? AMAZING. her actress (I can't think of her name and I have a REALLY ONE TRACK MIND) absolutely KILLED it. AMAZING. The seance? That dude who WAS JUST LOVING EVERY SECOND? Loved that so much. still cracks me up. When they first get to the airbase and Crowley compliments his dress and Aziraphales like OwO like fellas they gay.

1970s crowley... the mustache... "Can I hear a Wahoo?" Hastur... love him... "What's a computer" part of me wants to think he's just fucking with Crowley because who wouldn't but also he's so deadpan and yo I can't read expression AT ALL.

Love the fact that Crowley was ready to yeet off to a far off star system light-years away, but at the same times like "you expect me... to go to TADFIELD? In this weather??? Maybe I should drive but I mean, have you SEEN the TRAFFIC Angel? And now the M-25s on fire. Great."

Hastur going from on top of everything and tearing Crowley down to panicking because YOU'RE DRIVING TOWARDS A WALL OF FIRE.

snek eyes :3c

"Young man your CAR is on F I R E"

ALSO the horse people getting lost is peak entertainment. Honestly the horsepeople are great. War? Gorgeous. Famine? Love him. He's got style Pollution??? They're amazing, and also THEY THEM PRONOUNS BABEY. that made me v happy bc I just got used to usin em myself uwu. D E A T H. He knows his aesthetic yall. love it.

suppose nows a good a time as any: THE THEM.

I didn't really like Adam at first, he seemed a bit snobby. he's grown on me now but... ngk. Wenslydale was an instant fave. he's adorable. love him. Brian? total mess. super genuine. Great kid. PEPPER. she's great. she's sassy. she's gonna go far in life. all together, they're a tight knit group and I love them and they're all my children now thabks. and the parallels to the horsepeople? p e r f e c t

Alrighty Episode 6!!!

The beginning terrified me. All this time I was rooting for Zira and Crowley to finally get their happily ever after and yknow how most media is nowadays. There's a reason Fix-it Fics are so popular. So the beginning of the episode scared me. Also Beelzebub 💖

I love the Them vs The Horsepeople. "I believe in Peace, bitch."

I didn't even realize til later that that was Aziraphales sword. didn't even catch that line.

When Beez and Gabriel showed up? THAT DUMB SMILE OF GABES? I really hated Gabriel. The way he treated Aziraphale REALLY rubbed me the wrong way and I just did not like him one bit.

W I N G S. PRETTY WINGS. also didn't even realize that what Crowley did was STOP TIME. LIKE WHSOHDOEBE WHaT? ??

"it burned down... remember?" uuggghhh kill me with how soft and gentle he's being!!! he knows that bookshop MEANT something to Zira hdoehekdn

T H E B O D Y S W A P

the caught me COMPLETELY off guard... at first. I was completely unaware right up until "crowley" was attacked. I caught that little "Tickety boo" and I paused screaming like CROWLEY WOULD NOT SAY THAT IN THAT SCENARIO NO WAY THAT IS N O T ANTHONY J CROWLEY W H A T

The heaven scene solidified my then hatred for Gabriel. I like him now but oof that scene he's still VERY punchable.

Crowley: Nearly threw hands with the Archangel Gabriel

The Hell trial. So Extra. Asking for a rubber duck? iconic! "Michael, dude!" oh mood.

when they switch back and it's all revealed? G l o r i o u s. They played each other so well!!! honestly props to Michael and David, their acting was PHENOMENAL.

The ending. A happy ending. The amount of love with which Zira says "to the world" killed me. I'm dead now thanks to that. I'm typing this from the grave, that's how powerful that line is. Honestly, knowing next to nothing going in was kind of wild and my crazy reblogging spree actually got some of my mutuals to watch the show which is pretty neat. Going back through 3 more times now, Aziraphale definitely resonates with me the most. I actually have a small blurb I wrote on the positive effects he's had on my perception of myself in terms of stimming.

All in All this show hit me in a way I did NOT expect it to, and I'm glad I found it when I did. I was at a point where I was kinda feeling like I'd never really have a fulfilling relationship because of my asexuality, and then I found good omens. I def read the characters as ace while watching it and it was amazing seeing two characters who can love each other fully, without the need for anything explicit. The show was an instant fav and I'm trying to find a physical copy of the book (that I can afford) so I can read the original text. This is a story that's going to stay important to me for a very long time, I can feel it.

#was asked in a discord server about my first impressions #having only seen the show #this got WAY too long and i got scared to share it there cuz its a wall of text #so im putting it here #good omens #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #good omens tv #good omens prime

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shirtlesssammy · 6 years

Text

10x09: The Things We Left Behind

Then:

Netflix, why won’t you let me watch the Then segment? Here’s our recap for 10x08.

Now:

Welcome to the pain. MOC!Dean had a nightmare about murder.

At a youth transition center in Pontiac, IL, we’re re-introduced to troubled teen, Claire Novak, who has a severe attitude problem. It seems she was caught shoplifting and now she’s heading to solitary for a bit. (No wonder Claire’s a little angry...she’s an orphan in a juvie center that treats the kids less than human. Ugh.) The next morning, the guard announces that she has a visitor: her father. The emotions that flit her face just break me. She remembers the first time she met Castiel (“I am not your father”) and she knows the man in front of her isn’t her father, but her reaction to seeing the man with her father’s face is heartbreaking. She feigns toughness and demands, “You took everything from me. What do you want now?” Castiel responds, “Nothing, I just—I came here to help you.” Cas asks about Amelia, and we learn that a few months after Cas ripped apart their family, she left Claire with her mother and “went to go find herself.” And ever since Claire’s grandmother died, she’s been living the dream.

Cas wants to help, so Claire asks him to get her out of there.

Step One: Put on a tie, Cas.

(This was uncalled for.)

Step Two: Meet with the woman running the joint and convince her to release Claire to her “father”. She sees through their bullshit immediately. (But it sure is cute to watch Cas try.)

At the bunker, Dean’s self-medicating with the Three Stooges, and Sam’s helping by bringing him a grilled cheese sandwich. The Mark of Cain is not far from either of their thoughts.

Back at juvie, Cas enacts Step Three: He busts Claire out in the dead of night.

Rowena!

Crowley’s got her chained up in his dungeon. A demon brings in another demon that is topside illegally. She pleads to see him, but is rebuffed.

Cas takes Claire to a restaurant for some vegetables.

Claire tells Cas that he’s changed. He used to be a dick and now he’s just kind of a doof. Cas bby, bonding with your pseudo-daughter. He has changed. He’s seen the world, and understands humanity a little better.

The check comes and Cas asks Claire where they’re going next. Claire builds her walls again and tells him she doesn’t need babysitting. Just because he’s feeling guilty, doesn’t mean there’s more to their relationship. Cas won’t take no for an answer, so Claire switches gears. While Cas is attempting to pay for the meal, she heads to the ladies room, only to sneak out and hitch a ride (with Cas’s money.)

Cas calls the brothers to help him with locating Claire. Dean’s none too pleased (but let’s be real, he’s pleased.) Sam heads off to the youth center for possible leads, while Dean and Cas stay behind.

!!!BURGER DATE ALERT!!!

I don’t need to be that dramatic, but this is a *moment* with these two. There’s sailing ships and bi!plaid shirts, and most importantly, real honest conversation. There’s support and advice and kindness and confessions and...and...sigh. They’re each other’s biggest champions and neither of them can see it.

Meanwhile, Rowena butters up to the other demon. They swap stories and Rowena admits that she’s locked up because she “was a horrible mother.” Crowley concurs.

At the youth center, Sam learns that Claire had a friendship with a Dustin Tate. Claire also ran away a lot --one time for six months. Sam wonders where she hid out.

We soon find out it’s at a house of a man named Randy. Claire gives him Cas’s wallet (oof, it even had Jimmy’s wallet --and I’m JUST NOW figuring out why Cas’s birthday is always in July in fanfic. I feel like such a fake fan sometimes.) Despite her best efforts, Randy admits they’re “still short.” It seems that whatever Randy’s got himself into, it’s coming due later than night. This whole situation with Randy is beyond creepy. He guilts Claire more, and she implores him that there must be something more they can do. Randy has shifty eyes. He clearly has a plan for Claire.

Cas and the Winchesters ambush Dustin as he heads in to the Wiener Hut for work that night. Cas hoists him up along the wall by his throat so he’s really not holding much back. The Winchesters look on. YAWN another day at the office. Claire is busy robbing a convenience store so she can buy Randy out of his trouble. Cas intercepts her just as she starts to slip the gun out of her pocket and surprise the cashier.

Cas gives her a stern talk in the alley. Robbing people is wrong! Claire tells Cas that he killed her dad so who is he to talk about wrong or right with her? She pulls a gun on Cas and when he tells her, gently, that it won’t hurt him she swings it around to Sam and Dean. “You just stood there while this monster took my dad,” she says. When she turns back to Cas she tells him she used to pray to him every night about her dad.

“I know,” Cas says. Oh, Cas. He’s remorseful but they still try to convince her that she’s better off not going back to Randy. Claire tells him Randy is family - not Cas. Family don’t end in blood, after all.

Back with Rowena, a smirking guard approaches. Crowley is ready to see her! She’s led into the throne room where she addresses him as “Fergus.” Crowley looooves that so they’re off to a running start.

Rowena congratulates him on becoming King of Hell. Crowley scowls at her proud mama routine and asks her why she abandoned him at the age of eight. She lobs excuses at him.

Crowley’s having none of it, though, and he tells her he has a family already. (Ah, the themes are tying together so nicely now.) Rowena mocks him, though. Backstabbing demons make poor family. “I’ll always be your mother. And I’ll always love you.” She kisses him tenderly on his forehead while he looks ahead, his face a grim mask.

Meanwhile Sam, Dean, and Cas hit a bar. Cas asks for a shot of alcohol to burn away his pain. He’s worried about Claire but Dean tells him in his sweetest, most friendly manner (<sarcasm>) that Cas wearing “her old man’s meatsuit” doesn’t exactly help out his cause. The look Sam shoots him:

Sam tells Cas that Claire loved her father so she’s not going to get over her dislike of Cas any time soon. Cas reveals that he never knew his own father so he doesn’t understand the bond. He asks the Winchesters about their dad. “He’s not gonna win any number one dad awards,” Dean says, winning this prize I just created for UNDERSTATEMENT OF THE YEAR. Sam prompts him to tell a story of a visit to New York. They were in the area for a hunt and after Sam and John fell asleep Dean snuck off to CBGB. Dean gets roofied and as he slips into a haze John Winchester shows up and scares everyone around Dean. Afterward, John tells Dean he’s not his friend, he’s his father - and his job is to raise Dean right. And he did it! Dean grew up super well adjusted! Dean slams down the rest of his whiskey. Cas worries about Claire. Do they think she’s in trouble? Yes, yes they do.

Back at Randy’s Claire busts in on a little crime boss confrontation. Randy’s cornered while they shake him down for their money. Claire spits in the boss’ face, so they’re all off to a really great start. They haul Claire away and the boss tells Randy that he sees through his “caring father” act as a way to get her to steal for him. Randy tells him that he’s willing to bargain Claire for the rest of his debt if the deal is sweet enough.

At Hell headquarters, Rowena is about to be locked up again when she and the other prisoner accuse Gerald of smuggling people out of Hell. Crowley ends up knifing Gerald and then tells his mother she’s free. The other prisoner hisses at Rowena. “You said if I lied, you’d get me out of here.” Rowena tells her she’ll be back soon (probably with a knife or something) and closes the cell door behind her.

Back with Claire, creepy crime boss walks in on her, then locks the bedroom door. He approaches her insidiously and touches her face. She kicks him in the balls. Downstairs the front door opens. Cas power blasts the guy who answers the door and they hear Claire screaming. Cas breaks the bedroom door down, allowing Claire to get the upper hand. She kicks the ever loving shit out of the crime boss before Cas drags her away.

Cas, Sam, and Claire race out the front door. Dean threatens the rest of the criminals, telling them to keep their distance. He gets surprised by the crime boss smashing a bottle over his head from behind. We flash back to the Mark of Cain and all the darkness it’s brought Dean. “You guys don’t wanna do this,” he warns. The crime boss scoffs and kicks him in the head.

Outside Sam, Cas, and Claire climb into the Impala when they realize Dean isn’t with them. Sam hears the sounds of a fight from inside the house and races to help Dean.

We cut to Dean, whose vision from the episode open is interspersed with reality now. Dead bodies are scattered everywhere and Dean holds a bloody knife. Sam runs up to Dean who’s kneeling shocked on the floor. He begs him to say that he had to kill them all. That it was him or them. “I didn’t mean to,” Dean says - which is NOT ACCEPTABLE. Cas looks in horror at the wreckage. Yeah, Dean’s doing greeaaaat with the Mark of Cain.

You’re Not My Quotes:

I fight certain deadly threats to humanity.

It’s just people trying to do their best in a world where it’s far too easy to do your worst.

How are you, Dean?

“I think I might have bedbugs. Any tips?” “Of course. Sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Fergus. Sounds like a venereal disease and not the fun kind.

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive!

#spn recap #spn rewatch #spn picspam #spn 10x09 #the things we left behind #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #cas #claire novak #rowena mcleod #crowley #supernatural season 10

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