For the brainrot series - as though you don't have enough requests, but I heard this song again today and the resulting assault on my imagination has irrevocably damaged my sanity, and I had to say something because I will not be suffering alone.
Okay, so, picture this:
Crowley is tired of the way things have been weird in this vague post-S3 world I'm picturing, and he's decided he's gonna Do Something About It (mostly because he's already about 'if I'm not a bush I'm not no one' levels of drunk). Naturally, he decides that what he's gonna do is woo his angel.
Easy enough. Humans do this shit all the time, and without the benefit of 6000 years of mutual pining and some slinky hips. In fact, thanks to his extensive knowledge of romcoms (a must for any demon if they want to learn inventive ways to sow discord among couple, etc, and for no other reason), he's decided that the perfect course of action is to serenade Aziraphale with a song that perfectly encapsulates his squishy, kind of embarrassingly soft feelings that the angel just has to give in and accept his expertly plighted troth (probably not a euphemism).
He is, at this point, at the 'I'm washing me and my clothes' stage of his drinking binge, but he's nervous, so sue him.
It takes him foreeeeever to pick a song (he only knows "bebop" won't do, but unfortunately that covers such a wide and sometimes contradictory swath of all music made since the 1940s, it's pretty impossible), and he keeps second guessing himself, so he makes it to the 'Kiefer Sutherland tackling a Christmas tree' stage of blitzed and hits shuffle on his 'Embarrassing Angelfeels I Can Never Admit To Even Under Pain Of Total Annihilation' Spotify playlist et VOILA! The perfect song! Crowley can't believe his luck, and he sets his plan into motion before he can do something stupid, like sober up.
So, it's about 3 in the morning at this point, and Crowley has set up his speaker system in the middle of the street facing Aziraphale's bookshop, and as you do, he climbs onto a stolen crate (containing an order of dildos the adult entertainment shop three streets over is going to be looking for in about five hours) and shouts for Aziraphale until the angel, and anyone else unfortunate enough to be hanging around at 3am on a Wednesday (mostly Mrs. Sandwich and her girls and poor Nina, who has unwisely chosen to arrive extra early to wait on a delivery of hazelnut syrup), pops their heads out to see what the deuce is going on.
Once he sees his darling angel, Crowley takes another swig of frankly embarrassingly cheap vodka for a demon of his tastes, hefts hus microphone, and starts to sing (for a given value of sing).
It starts off soft, all chimes and romantic piano, full of joy and longing, and Aziraphale's face does that thing where he's definitely embarrassed, but also pleased, so Crowley shuts his eyes, and that's when the disco beat drops.
Oh yes. Crowley is about to fucking boogie down for the love of his life.
He busts out all the moves, wiggling those slinky hips (because he's never been one not to use every weapon at his disposal), belting out mostly the right lyrics in somewhat the right key, generally on time and everything.
Aziraphale's face, if Crowley would open his eyes and look, is now crossing over into horrified, yet hopelessly enamored, with a dash of down bad. His tastes are varied and interesting, okay?
The music fades out before Crowley does, still belting for a good thirty seconds after the track changes to 'The Edge of Glory', which isn't as perfect for his purposes, but Aziraphale hasn't fallen to his knees in besotted supplication (also not a euphemism, probably), so Crowley figures he may as well, and the whole street is both glad and a little disappointed that this is when Aziraphale steps away from the shop door, reaches up for Crowley's hand, and drags him off the box of dildos and towards the shop.
"That's lovely, dear. Why don't we go inside so you can sleep this off before we talk about it."
Crowley, of course, follows along happily, about 80% sure that is a euphemism, and decides send a little blessing to Barbra Streisand in gratitude. He knew 'The Main Event/Fight' had been the right song to choose.
(It was not, in fact, a euphemism, and Crowley thinks the squirming agony of having to listen to Aziraphale somehow turn a love confession into a lecture about proper methods of courtship and being considerate of human sleep cycles while suffering the worst hangover of his entire existence is possibly the best worst thing he's ever experienced. Hell should take notes.)
(They spend the rest of the day getting to know each other, and that is a euphemism.)
Now.
Did I fail to peel this mental image off the surface of my brain for the last 24 hours and decide to share the agony and the ecstasy of it? Oh yes.
Is it the perfect song to confess your love to your ineffable crush with? Debatable, but it has good results of one (1) success and no failures so far, so we can't really say no.
Thank you for coming to my TEDtalk.
The level of detail in this is unmatched. The creativity? Inspired. When I started th brainrot series never did I think I would receive something of this gravitas. Bravo my dear, I'm in the palm of your hand. And the specificity of the playlist turning to Edge Of Glory? Delicious. This is truly, marvellously unhinged. God bless the Babs and to you for the gift you have bestowed upon me. I will treat it with love and care.
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