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whoacanada · 3 years

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Zimmerbro AU

Summary: Andrew Phillip Rowe could skate before he could walk, and it wasn’t until he was almost twenty and well on his way to becoming a Las Vegas Ace before he knew why.

a/n: that’s right we’ve got a secret zimmermann brother au based on the fact that Bob was an active pro athlete for almost 15 years before Jack was born and almost definitely had relationships before Alicia. This particular one resulted in a secret love child.

When the call finally went out that year — a request for players willing to billet the incoming draftees — Andrew had been the first in line.

His already sparsely decorated guest room had been primed for a new tenant since he’d learned Las Vegas’ abysmal season had earned them the first pick of the 2009 draft. In his mind, Andrew had envisioned a tearful confession. A family reunion nineteen years in the making where he’d finally get a chance to connect with a half-brother he’d grown up learning about through news articles and stats pages.

He wasn’t ready for Jack to pull out of the draft days before the ceremony; wasn’t ready for the claims of an overdose or speculation about suicide attempts. He certainly wasn’t expecting to have to open his home to a young man with limp blonde hair and deep circles under his eyes with the same enthusiasm he’d promised he’d offer to a son of Bob Zimmermann.

Andrew was hoping for a little brother.

He got Kent Parson instead.

______

“You remind me of my boyfriend.” Kent slurs one night, completely gone on Johnny Walker Blue borrowed from Andrew’s wet bar. “It’s your . . . face.”

“Shouldn’t talk about things like that,” Andrew cautions gently, covering his own surprise. “Never know who might be listening.”

“Who fucking cares? He won’t talk to me,” Kent continues, ignoring him and sniffing like he’s on the verge of sobbing or puking, both options equally unwanted. “They wouldn’t tell me if he was even alive.”

Another unwanted puzzle piece locks into place.

“Jack?” Andrew suggests softly, and Kent begins to cry.

“You won’t tell right?”

Andrew shakes his head no, long enough for Kent’s bleary eyes to focus on the gesture and take it seriously.

Things are different, after that conversation. Not worse, or better, just different.

________

“He’s my brother.”

Andrew admits this one night, for no reason other than that he can.

Kent is across the room, backlit by lights from the Strip, his legs dangling off the arm of his favorite couch as he scrolls through his phone looking for distractions. Parse hasn’t lived with Andrew for almost two seasons, but he still turns up like a bad penny whenever he needs to commiserate with someone who knows his more lascivious secrets. Truthfully, Andrew’s grateful for the company. He’s a pretty genial guy, but he’s always kept his distance, a personality trait he likes to think he shares with an unassuming sibling, but there’s no way to know for sure. The farther Andrew gets from the 2009 Draft, the less faith he has in a reunion that won’t just bring crippling sorrow to everyone involved.

A secret Zimmermann son who actually made it in the NHL. Who has his name on the Stanley Cup, not once, but twice, largely thanks to the spitfire forward lounging in Andrew’s living room.

“Who’s your brother?” Kent asks, not looking up from his phone.

“Jack Zimmermann.”

Kent barks a laugh and rolls his head lazily to smirk at Andrew.

“That’s funny. I guess you kinda have the same chin. Was Marky digging for chirps?”

Andrew has no idea what that means, but he sets down his tablet and says, “No, he’s actually my half-brother. My mom dated Bad Bob in ’84 and got pregnant.”

The lackadaisical smile on Kent’s face falters as his gaze sharpens, like he’s actually looking at Andrew for the first time. Andrew responds by gesturing at himself lamely.

“That’s not funny.”

“No.” Andrew agrees. “It isn’t.”

Kent swings his feet down off the couch and braces himself against the overstuffed leather. He doesn’t look mad, but there’s something too close to disbelief for Andrew to convince himself everything’s okay. It takes a moment, but Kent must find what he’s looking for on Andrew’s face.

“Does Bob know?” Kent asks with that familiar overfamiliarity, as if they both still have some personal relationship with the living legend.

“Yeah. When Mom got pregnant she told him she didn’t want the attention since it was only a fling — ”

“Who the fuck doesn’t lock down Bob Zimmermann?” Kent breathes. “Also, why the fuck did she tell you that?”

“No shit, right? She got him to sign away parental rights, set up a trust, never spoke to him again as far as I know. I didn’t find out until after I signed with the Aces. She didn’t want me to get blindsided if it all came out, but the story never broke.”

“I mean, does Bob know who you are?” Kent questions. “Does Jack?”

Andrew shakes his head no, because he doesn’t think so, and Kent flops back against the cushions, face slack with disbelief; it doesn’t take long for his features to shift to anger.

“You knew this whole time and you didn’t tell me? Even after I told you —“

“Okay, there’s a whole-ass difference between you fucking dudes and and me being ‘Bad Bob’s bastard’,” Andrew bites, curtailing Kent’s imminent hissy fit. Appropriately, Kent closes his mouth, almost pouting.

“Fine. But that’s fucked.” Kent says after a loaded moment of silence. “I’m sorry you’re . . . you.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry you’re you, too.”

“You know Jack’s signing with the Falconers, right?” Kent offers like the worst kind of olive branch, unintentionally telling Andrew exactly what he was up to during that stretch of time between New England games a few months prior. “It’s not public but it’s happening. Ink’s dry.”

“I know. That’s why I told you. It’s gonna be weird,” Andrew swallows, thinking about playing Providence in the coming months.

“Fucking right it’s weird.”

_________

For the most part, the Las Vegas Aces are decent, stand up guys. Even with the accusations of gambling debts and mob connections with the ownership group, Andrew’s never been asked to hit a certain player a little too hard, or to take a dive so the other team gets a shot at a power play. A lot of talk, a lot of conspiracies, ‘Typical Aces hockey’, but there’s no malice. Not really.

Andrew thinks it’s hilarious he plays the game a lot like his estranged father, but he’s not a legend in the making, hell, at this point he’s barely regarded as more than a mid-level, reliable center that can bring home 40 points a season.

Carly whips behind Zimmermann’s back to clip his skate with a stick, dropping a ill advised chirp that sets every player in earshot on edge. Parse is close enough to catch the quiet slur, stiffening like he’s been hit, and Andrew watches Zimmermann recover quickly, steely and resolute.

Jack has his mother’s eyes — not the warm brown Andrew catches every time he looks in the mirror.

“He’s a fucking goon,” Andrew breathes, gliding up to Jack’s shoulder in lieu of an apology. Zimmermann doesn’t miss a beat, his gaze flicking to Andrew with the quiet rage of ‘who gives a fuck’. Andrew admires his commitment to the game. Coming back after so much, after so long, to willingly subject himself to the same kind of treatment that Andrew knows likely led to his original fall from grace.

“Hey,” Kent ducks his head as he slides up a little while later, mouthguard clenched between his teeth, and asks, “You see his twink?”

At Andrew’s obvious confusion, Kent jerks his head toward the glass behind the Falconers’ bench, to a raucous group of fans all sporting fresh Zimmermann jerseys. Andrew’s gaze drifts along the row of faces, lingering longer on the familiar, handsome couple beside the blonde young man. He may be imagining things — the stadium lights catching a bad angle — but for the briefest moment, Andrew holds eye contact with his father.

“He’s cute, right?” Kent says bitterly, like he doesn’t have a partner of his own back home.

“Yeah, he is. You gonna do anything about the slurs, Captain?” Andrew counters, earning a stern look from Parson.

“I’ll deal with Carly.”

“Oh, you will? Because I’ve never seen you shut him down before.”

“I’ll handle it.”

Kent’s expression goes stormy, and he gives Andrew a hard shove before skating off to set up for the next shift. To his credit, he does grab Carly by the arm and tell him something that earns a look of displeasure from the larger man, but Andrew knows a verbal warning won’t curtail someone as dead-set in his conservatism as Carly.

The next play, Carly flashes Andrew a toothy smile over the lineman’s shoulder, as if they’re in on the same joke, and his vision goes red.

__________

“Bad Bob’s outside,” Scraps rasps, like whatever brief interaction he’s just had has physically winded him. “He wants to talk to Flip.”

Andrew blinks up from the water bottle in his hands, previously concerned with the pink-stained gauze wrapped around his knuckles. A few of the guys start chirping, but most of them remain silent, still processing the fact that Andrew assaulted one of their own without clear motivation, in defense of an opponent.

“That’s what this was all about? You gunning for a trade?” Sorenson spits from his stall. “Needed to impress Bad Bob by beating the snot out of Carly?”

“Maybe I am,” Andrew sighs, pushing himself to his feet, wincing at the way his jaw aches from the few good hits Carly had managed to squeeze in before he went down. “What the fuck are you gonna do about it.”

_______

Andrew’s grateful he kept his skates on. He needs the boost of confidence that comes with the added height, especially when he finds Bob Zimmermann waiting patiently in the corridor like he’s just another staff member and not the second most recognizable figure in modern hockey.

“Hey kid,” Bob greets, casting an approving, overly-familiar eye over Andrew’s padded bulk and sweat-slick hair. “You can throw a hell of a punch. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy beat the piss out of a teammate before. Off ice, sure, but never during a game.”

His accent is just as thick in private as every interview Andrew’s ever caught live — but his tone is unexpectedly warm, even grateful — when Bob laughs at his own recounting of Andrew’s assault attempt, the sound is light and joyous like nothing in the world comes easier to this titan of a man.

Andrew wonders if Bob can recognize the chin they share beneath a his playoff beard; if there’s any resemblance left in a nose that’s been reset a half-dozen times.

Andrew grew up loved and never wanted for anything. His step-fathers, both of them, had been good men who never left him looking for a father figure. It wasn’t until his twenties that Andrew even realized there was hole where his bio-dad should have been, and not just a regular hole, a yawning sinkhole threatening to devour his entire sense of self, because his biological father turned out to be a man he grew up idolizing as a personal hero.

He’s not mad at his mother, but when Andrew struggles to find his voice — which is bullshit seeing as he’s almost thirty-five and a god-damned professional athlete — he can’t stop himself from feeling like a misplaced child.

“Do you,” Andrew swallows, looking over Bob’s shoulder to see if anyone’s watching them. Finding they’re alone, he rallies quietly, “Do you know who I am?”

Bob’s jovial expression softens into something remorseful, but unfathomably kind. “I do, buddy,” he acknowledges, somehow squeezing three decades of affection into one term of endearment. “I’ve known for some time, now. The whole time, actually.”

That hurts more than expected.

“Does your wife? Does Jack?”

Bob shakes his head, but it isn’t a hard no.

“Alicia knows, and Jack has some idea he’s got a half-brother, but it’s all in the abstract. No specifics. Definitely doesn’t know you play. I wanted to respect your privacy and your mother’s wishes. She let me know she’d told you the truth a few years back and I wanted to give you the space you needed if you decided to reach out. When you didn’t, well, a man makes assumptions.”

Andrew looks down at the concrete beneath his skates and sniffs hard, fighting nasal drip from the smelling salts he’d needed in the third period; or, at least, that’s what he tells himself. “I had a plan, back when — ” he stops himself, looking down at his skates. Bob’s eyebrows lift in curiosity, leaving room for Andrew to gather his thoughts, but he doesn’t take the bait, unable to bring up what could have been just yet. Bob seems to grasp the context after the moment.

“2009,” he acknowledges softly. “Hell of a year.”

“Yeah. It was. Is he okay?”

“What, Jack? He’s leagues ahead of where he was then —”

“No, I mean, tonight. Carly clipped him pretty hard before I got in there.”

“Oh, a little bruised up, but he’ll live. Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Okay.”

Andrew looks down at his bandaged fist and realizes he’s completely forgotten how gnarly his face must look.

“Trainer says I’m alright, but I’m gonna get leveled with a wicked fine, I know it.”

“Was it worth it?” There’s a look of guilty pride on Bob’s face, like the man’s enjoying himself a little too much when he leans in and whispers, “You just did something I’ve wanted to do since Jack was in mites. Fucking lay out one of those fuckers that’s got nothing better to do than bitch because they can’t play,” there’s a moment of hesitation, as if he’s worried about pushing a boundary, before he adds, “How’d it feel to look out for your little brother?”

Pride, it turns out, in contagious, and Andrew feels like he could go back on the ice and do it all over again. “Pretty fucking great,” Andrew can’t help a smile, wincing when the gesture pulls at his split lip.

Bob slaps a hand on Andrew’s shoulder pads, then gets a grip on the back of his head, heedless of his sweaty hair.

“Crisse, you’re a fuckin’ beaut, kid. I’ve wanted to tell you that for years.”

Andrew can’t blame the smelling salts anymore.

__________

Jack clearly doesn’t see his father standing there with red-rimmed eyes, or Andrew in an equally unkempt state, and has no reason to think anything untoward has happened when he offers a handshake and pulls Andrew into a hug, bouncing his free fist off the back of Andrew’s pads. “I owe you a drink,” Jack says decisively when he pulls back, shooting a grin between his father and Andrew. “Can’t believe you did that.”

“More than a drink, I think,” the blonde guy Andrew saw behind the bench pipes up. Jack’s ‘twink’. Boyfriend. Whatever. “Dinner at least.”

“A pie,” Bob suggests tightly, keeping his voice even as he turns to quickly scrub his fist over his eyes. Andrew recognizes the statuesque woman who strides up beside Bob, and one quick look tells him she definitely knows who he is.

“Hello, Andrew,” Alicia greets softly, genuinely. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“You, too.” he says, the tightness in his throat coming out as gruffness rather than emotion. “This is great, but I should go shower and, uh, it was nice meeting you all.”

Bob’s hand whips out and fists the sleeve of Andrew’s sweater, keeping him in place.

“You have plans tonight?”

Andrew debates lying, because he doesn’t know how to move forward from this point, but they’re all looking at him. Waiting. Expectant. There’s too much at stake, and yet somehow — A sharp whistle drags Andrew’s attention back to the locker room. Kent is peeking his head out, and god knows how long he’s been eavesdropping.

“Yo, Zimmermanns. Bittle.”

“Parson.” The blonde says curtly, earning a wry smirk from Kent.

“Flip, we got a presser if you feel like putting a bow on the evening,” Kent’s gaze drifts to Bob’s flushed face, and he adds, “Or, you can shower and slip out the loading bay while I cover for your aggro ass because this is not going to be fun. Your call.”

Andrew looks at the small family surrounding him, his family, and says, “I don’t want to explain.” Kent shrugs and ducks back inside while Bob’s brow furrows in confusion. “I can do dinner, but I don’t want to,” Andrew holds his hands out in front of him, trying to gesture what he means, and Bob snaps his fingers in understanding.

“Ah, ha, I got you, kid.”

“Neat. I’m gonna go shower.”

“We will be here when you’re ready,” Alicia offers. “Take your time.”

“Oh, I will,” Andrew replies before he can stop himself, cringing the second his back is turned because what the fuck could he be any more awkward?

Time will tell.

_____________

#zimbits #jack / bitty #omgcp #check please #my fic #my stuff #lost zimmermann brother au #bob's got another kid and I named him andrew again!#kent is not a bad guy #only carly is a bad guy and we hate him #long post #because it's a mini fic!

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justforbooks · 3 years

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Lawrence Ferlinghetti, poet, artist, activist and founder of San Francisco’s famous City Lights Bookstore, who has died aged 101 of interstitial lung disease, was the least “beat” of the Beat Generation. In addition to a political commitment that blended anarchism and ecology – he loathed the motor car, calling it “the infernal combustion engine” – he had an instinctive business sense, founded on the philosophy of small is beautiful. City Lights, which he started in partnership with the magazine editor Peter Martin in the early 1950s, is still among the most welcoming of shops, with its tables and chairs, sheaves of magazines, and signs saying: “Pick a book, sit down, and read.”

Ferlinghetti discouraged interviewers and seekers of personal information. “If I had some biographical questionnaire to answer, I would always make something up,” he once said. Different reference books give different dates of birth, and one published story had it that he wrote his doctoral dissertation on the place of the pissoir in French literature. For many years, he listed his dog, Homer, as City Lights’ publicity and public relations officer. The poet recalled that Homer Ferlinghetti received regular mail, but that his public relations career stalled when he peed against a policeman’s leg. For this act of citizenship, he was immortalised by his master in the poem Dog.

Perhaps the facts made Ferlinghetti uncomfortable. He was born Lawrence Monsanto Ferling in Yonkers, New York, to a French mother, Albertine Mendes-Monsanto, and an Italian father, Carlo Ferlinghetti, an auctioneer, who had shortened the family name to Ferling. His parents were unable to care for him, however (sometimes Ferlinghetti said his father had died before his birth, sometimes after), and he was rescued by an aunt, Emily Monsanto. She took him to France, where they lived for his first six years. Returning to the US, Emily was employed as a governess by a family called Lawrence, a branch of the one that founded Sarah Lawrence College. “Then she left me there,” Ferlinghetti told an interviewer in 1978. “She just disappeared one day, and that family brought me up.”

His education was extensive. In the early 1940s, he attended the University of North Carolina, where a professor introduced him to the vernacular voice in poetry. This was a revelation: you didn’t have to sound like TS Eliot to write a poem. After wartime naval service had taken him back to Europe, Ferlinghetti enrolled at the Sorbonne, studying French literature while translating poets and novelists in his spare time. One day in a restaurant, he noticed that the paper tablecloth had a poem written on it, and that it was signed “Jacques Prévert”. He took the tablecloth with him as he left the restaurant, and some years later translated the poems in Prévert’s Paroles, eventually published, under the original title, by his own City Lights Books.

Back in New York again in 1946, Ferlinghetti went to Columbia University, preparing a thesis on Ruskin and Turner. He just missed meeting Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, who by then had either been banned from (Ginsberg) or had dropped out of (Kerouac) the university. Ferlinghetti did not team up with the Beats until eight years later, in San Francisco.

Drawn to Paris once more at the end of the 1940s, he met George Whitman, proprietor of the English-language bookshop opposite Notre Dame, which was first known as Le Mistral and is now Shakespeare and Company. Ferlinghetti looked to Whitman as an example when he opened City Lights Bookstore in 1953. It was the first all-paperback bookshop in the US, and, as Ferlinghetti said, “Once we opened, we just couldn’t get the doors closed.” He ran the place more in the spirit of public service than for profit, and by the 70s was content to live on his book royalties and plough the takings at the counter back into the shop.

Two years after starting City Lights, Ferlinghetti published his own collection of poems, Pictures of the Gone World, as No 1 in the Pocket Poets series, little four by five-inch, black-and-white paperbacks, which continue to appear today – one of the most popular literary lists of modern times. It was at this stage that he reverted to the original family name, Ferlinghetti. The next two Pocket Poets after Ferlinghetti were Kenneth Rexroth and Kenneth Patchen – as a result, both were drafted as “fathers of the Beat Generation”, somewhat to their displeasure – but it was the fourth in the series that ensured the list’s success. And for that, as Ferlinghetti was quick to point out, they had to thank the San Francisco police department.

The book was Howl and Other Poems, by Allen Ginsberg. Ferlinghetti had heard Ginsberg read the title poem at an event at the Six Gallery, San Francisco, in October 1955. On returning home, he sent the poet a message that consciously echoed the famous letter from Ralph Waldo Emerson to Walt Whitman after Emerson had read Whitman’s Leaves of Grass: “I greet you at the beginning of a great career.” The proprietor of City Lights added: “When do I get the manuscript?”

The book was published the following year, in an edition of 1,000 copies. However, after a failed attempt by the police to prosecute the bookseller for peddling obscene material, the reprints could not come fast enough. Ferlinghetti joked that the police “took over the advertising account and did a much better job”. Howl remains the bedrock of City Lights’ success as a publishing concern. It has now gone through well over 50 reprints, often more than one a year.

Ferlinghetti’s own poetry is irreverent, cajoling, casual and loose-limbed, sometimes excessively so. His models were Whitman and William Carlos Williams. In partnership with Rexroth, he took part in many poetry and jazz events on the West Coast, and the two made a record together. Ferlinghetti later became disillusioned with the poetry and jazz combination – “The poet ended up sounding like he was hawking fish from a street corner,” he said.

His verse on the page, though, suggests a spoken origin, as in his poem Underwear:

Underwear controls everything in the end Take foundation garments for instance They are really fascist forms of underground government ….

In addition to his many collections of verse, including A Coney Island of the Mind (1958), The Secret Meaning of Things (1969) and Endless Life (1981), Ferlinghetti wrote two novels: Love in the Days of Rage (1988), which is set during the student revolt of 1968 in Paris, and Her (1960), a more experimental work, a classic “poet’s novel”.

On one of his transatlantic voyages, Ferlinghetti met Selden Kirby-Smith (known as Kirby), whom he had had a passing acquaintance with at Columbia. They married in 1951 and had two children, Julie and Lorenzo, but were divorced in 1976.

In 1971, Nancy Peters, a former librarian at the Library of Congress, joined the company, and as time went on played a larger part in running the business, leaving Ferlinghetti to his creative work. She served as executive director from 1984 until 2007, and then continued to be involved as a co-owner of the business.

Ferlinghetti also had a serious interest in painting, and in 1990 the University of California mounted a retrospective. Many poems feature the names of painters, or employ a self-consciously “painterly” style, such as Short Story in a Painting of Gustav Klimt or Returning to Paris with Pissarro.

Ferlinghetti disliked being associated with the Beats, though he benefited from it, and, despite his love of Ginsberg, was apt to lament the commercialisation of the Beat Generation. Ginsberg, he said, “fabricated the whole thing out of his imagination”. But, happily contradicting himself, he could add, as late as 1996, “It’s still the only rebellion around.”

A collection of the correspondence between Ferlinghetti and Ginsberg was published in 2015, under the title I Greet You at the Beginning of a Great Career. At the same time, a selection of his travel journals appeared, Writing Across Landscapes.

Ferlinghetti expressed disappointment in other Beat writers for their unstructured approach to politics. He decided to travel to Cuba to see the Castro regime for himself and later wrote One Thousand Words for Fidel Castro, which ends, “Fidel … I give you my sprig of laurel.” Another political poem evoked a surrealistic scene by Goya, showing “freeways 50 lanes wide”, with “fewer tumbrils / but more maimed citizens / in painted cars”. In 2012 he declined to accept an award from the Hungarian Pen club, in protest at the policies of prime minister Viktor Orbán.

City Lights, open till midnight seven days a week, was Ferlinghetti’s way of infusing the spirit of resistance peacefully into the streets of San Francisco.

With Peters, he wrote a Literary Guide to San Francisco (1980), and in 1988 was responsible for the renaming of 10 streets after writers associated with the city, including Jack Kerouac Alley, partly composed of City Lights’ back wall. In 1994, he himself was similarly honoured by Via Ferlinghetti, the first time a street has been named after a living writer in the history of the city.

He is survived by his children and three grandchildren.

• Lawrence Monsanto Ferlinghetti, poet, artist and bookseller, born 24 March 1919; died 22 February 2021

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS #Lawrence Monsanto Ferlinghetti

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ships-n-giggles · 4 years

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Paperback Prophets: Platonic Aziraphale/Reader

Summary: Aziraphale forms a symbiotic relationship with you. Platonic Aziraphale x Reader, friendship fic. Nerds bonding over books.

Author’s Note; Thanks so much to those who liked my previous work. I like these platonic stories since I think it’s underestimated how interesting and enigmatic these characters can be when you don’t have all the facts about them. In a lot of ways, Aziraphale and Crowley are like people you can’t exactly put your finger on, but know there’s something special about them. I know a lot of reader-fiction likes the drama of the big reveal, but I think the subtlety of secrets never revealed lends its own flavor to fiction.

Just a heads up, this Reader-insert is not defined as male or female in comparison to my previous work, which was more directed towards a female character. Some of the works described do not exist, but were rather made up by me based on historical events or people whom I think would lend to the eclectic tastes of Aziraphale.

Again, if I owned Good Omens, there would be real dinosaurs and I would live in a castle by the sea. Thou shalt not sue.

____

Your family based their business on the martyrdom of your great grandfather….a victim of the Nazi Party when he refused to surrender his bookshop in Krakow, Poland. He was no stranger to the fascist movement and threw out the first attempts by the police to seize his books. He chased them out with a club, and was joined by his neighbors, and stood his ground.

There was no rude interruption in broad daylight next time. The next time, they burned him, and his books, and the entire block for his defiance.

“He was burned for protecting the language of the Jews, of Poland. Of the world.” Your grandmother told you, sitting in her lap as a small child. You knew this story by heart, but your grandparents told it so well. “His books disavowed the reign of dictators and terrorists, and they could not stand for it.”

Defiance ran in the family. And for the next three generations your family rescued more books by taking up that noblest of crimes…the theft of books.

_______

Your grandfather had founded the idea, when the ashes of his father’s shop left only a ledger of the books that were destroyed, kept in the safe along with the family tree and a Star of David that had belonged to him. The books he had kept in his shop were very old, and came from all across Europe. Some of them were even brought over from imperial Russia, before the fall of the czar. Not many copies of them were left in the world.

But your grandfather knew where the copies were.

He fled to England with his wife and opened a restoration firm to spit in the face of the war. It was only partially a cover for his real business. He did have the knowledge to restore books back to their original state, with tricks passed down from generation to generation. But with each restoration, he also meticulously copied the contents of the book, using a special trick involving wax, glue and cheesecloth to make a print of the papers and their imagery onto a fresh book. Then he would return the original book unscathed back to the owner, none the wiser. Your grandfather’s real job had been in building up the secret archives of the British National Library and making copies of the great universities works. No book was too rare or obscure for him. Even the controversial Hammer of Witches was copied, though your grandfather noted that the pictures were better than the instructions.

Your grandfather also had a long memory. When he saw a bookseller that dared have Mein Kampf, he would have to be held back by friends to avoid from brutally beating the clerk and smashing the windows of the establishment. In time, he has a son and his temper cools. He tended to conveniently not notice your father’s mischief, such as when your father writes rude words on the glass window of an offending bookshop.

He’s almost too cheeky to be real, and often was chased by your grandfather for his jokes and pranks. But it only endears him to others, making it easy to divert shipments of banned books.

A Clockwork Orange turns your grandfather’s stomach, but your father takes a shipment meant to be burned, creates a nonsense excuse of recycling the materials for book repair, and the publisher believes him right away. When your father first reads a nicked copy of Ulysses, he is so enchanted he actually dupes a government official into paying for the family to dispose of an intercepted shipment of the book. Your parent’s basement, your uncle’s basement, and your older cousin’s basement is full of copies of material banned by the government. But under the family firm is the treasure trove. The books copied from some of the rarest material on earth. Some of their original material have been destroyed since then.

But you save sacred trips to the secret basement for when life hits you hardest. It’s important those copies survive in the world to come.

_____

You receive the call on a Monday morning. You can hardly believe who it is before passing the phone to your grandfather. He is less involved with the business, but he might have been tempted into throttling you if you hadn’t let him talk to Mr. Fell.

A.Z. Fell and Co. was notorious among the antiquarian community. Not only was his collection as eclectic as they come, but it was also a gold mine of rare books, out of print bibles and religious texts, and treasures of the literary world that likely had no equal. How he stayed in business was the subject of fervent gossip, as he kept odd hours and was very passive-aggressive…and successful….in discouraging would be buyers. Your father’s joke was that he might let you read a few books if you caught him at the right time. But even those rare moments were tinged with a lot of rules.

Your grandfather enjoys the conversation immensely, and when he hangs up he calls for a family meeting over dinner.

“He asked for you. By name!” Your grandfather is just as in shock as you are. Though it is clear that he reveres Mr. Fell with the same kind of respect one would give a saint, he can’t help but sound a little jealous. “He wants to discuss the restoration of his collection this week. As soon as possible.”

You meet on a rainy Wednesday, scampering in the side door per his instructions at teatime.

The smell is just like the private archive below the firm, though lightly tinged with the scent of hot cocoa. More than just books are on the shelves. Reprints of paintings and illustrations, framed tapestries and busts sitting on the tables, even a tarnished suit of armor with chainmail, dressing up a half sculpture of a Greek youth.

“Pleasure to meet you.”

Mr. Fell looks like many other retired antiquarians, except he didn’t have the same strain of arthritis or suffer from a draft in his bookshop. He was in fact, far more rosy, lively, and brighter than most other people, even in occupations that were arguably more pleasing or easy. His coat is perfectly straight and tidy, though the velvet buttonholes in his vest have since lost their color.

The two of you shake hands, and you accept a mug of cocoa seasoned with a dollop of vanilla paste. In time he pulls out a ledger twenty pages thick, with tidy handwriting scribbled on a hand drawn spreadsheet.

“Given the state they’ve been in, I think it’s time the books got a bit of a good pick-me-up.” He giggles as if he’s told a private joke, and continues. “Most of my collection is in tip top shape, but I’ve put the ones worse for wear on the list. What do you think?”

The list of books makes your jaw drop. He has a Nostradamus original…never been copied! And a rare copy of a controversial Gnostic bible, one on the golden list of books not yet copied by the family. These were books that had been floating unknown, with a cringing fear they were decaying in an attic or hoarded in a bookshop with someone unaware of their value.

However, Mr. Fell was only too aware of their value.

“My only request is that you do your work here.” It’s a condition that leaves you a little nervous. Does he know your family’s secret business? “Not to be the suspicious type, but I have had attempts on these books, in both the legal and the far less legal.” He huffs into his drink. “I can set up a cozy little corner for you and give you as much room as you need. Fair enough?”

“I think so.” You empty your cup. “I’d have to ask Grandfather first. Our preservation techniques are also something of a trade secret.”

There’s a bit of a silent visual exchange. If Mr. Fell’s eyes said “what do you think you’re doing”, yours are replying with a certain “I don’t know, what do you think you’re doing” right back. But he did not invite you in to get a prime list of his collection, drink cocoa, and discuss business just to end rudely. The two of you shake hands and promise to get in touch later, and you urge the cabbie that picks you up to drive you as fast as physically possible back home.

You hesitate to show your grandfather the list of books to repair. You’re certain he’ll have a heart attack. Instead he only faints into his fussing wife’s arms.

“An original print of Goethe’s work!” He gasps, the rest of you scrambling to pass him an inhaler as he takes a breath and regains his composure. “The things I would do just to look!”

“I’d have to work in his shop. That’s his condition.” You remind him. “It would be easy in our workshop but under his nose-”

Your grandfather isn’t a pushover however. He knows that with great gambles often come great rewards. If you throw the dice right. All of you exchange looks of unease when he asks your grandmother to set an extra seat for dinner and goes to make a phone call. You’re hanging in anticipation when he asks you very calmly to work on the normal restorations.

Mr. Fell arrives very eagerly for dinner, like a schoolboy just released for summer break.

He is almost unusually excited. He is very complimentary to your grandmother’s special lamb stew, exchanging culinary stories from a visit to Rome. He and your grandfather get along like a house on fire, swapping admiring rhetoric on the evolution of Romantic-period literature and emptying out a bottle of wine on their own. Your grandfather gets to the point over a dessert of strawberry mess.

“Mr. Fell, I am unashamed to say it.” He leans back in his chair, and makes a boastful confession that puts you in shock. “I am, very proudly I may say, a most excellent thief.”

Even Mr. Fell is unable to recover his expression. “I beg your pardon?”

“What pardon? I am not ashamed!” He untucks his napkin, wiping his mouth. “I am an extraordinary thief in the meaning that I steal for a generation that has not yet been born. And I steal a medium that never loses its value, no matter how long the years may toll.”

“I see.” Mr. Fell is unsure of whether to be impressed or concerned, and you wonder if your grandfather has lost his mind. There is an entire collection of rare works waiting to be copied and he seems to be throwing out all pretenses of pretending not to want to take it! “Is this in regards to the private collection you mentioned?”

“Yes. Moreover, I stole all of those books without ever taking the original copy.”

“…forgive me but I don’t understand.”

Your grandfather stands up and hobbles to the workshop in the back. Awkward looks are exchanged at the table and you try to busy your face with scooping some of the strawberry mash into your mouth when your grandfather comes out with a yellowed manuscript. “Here. See for yourself.”

Mr. Fell hesitates, his fingers doing an odd wiggle as if to insure they do not smudge the paper. But as soon as he glosses over the title on the cover it’s his turn to gape with his jaw ajar. “But this is the Constitution of Freemasons! Those were stolen by the Nazis years ago!”

“Who do you think stole this copy eh?” Your grandfather boasts. “I insured a friend of mine who owned a copy kept it hidden long enough for me to copy it. When it was stolen, I already had this! And that is only one of many.” He crosses his arms. “I am trusting you with this family secret because you appreciate the kind of effort put into preserving the history of literature.”

Mr. Fell takes a moment to whip out a pair of spectacles, looking over the contents very intently. He must be convinced it is a real copy, because a few pages it he closes the manuscript, whipping his glasses back off and letting out a ‘whoosh’ of air through his teeth.

“I think I’m in the mood to negotiate.”

______

The Setup is arranged.

The number of books that needed repair were quite extensive. It would doubtless be a three year work involving many, many hours a day of repair. However you are only too happy to report to A.Z. Fell and Co from eight to three, everyday. Your workstation is a restored folding desk of fine cherry wood, with an engraving from the carpenter dating back to the 1700s. You have your case of tools, which you decide to leave there each day. No point in covering up anything to Mr. Fell anymore, now that your grandfather has whipped the curtain open on your family secret.

“Aziraphale please.” He insists. “Mr. Fell is so terribly formal.”

Your family’s fee for repairing the books is remarkably cheap, a cover of course to lure in potential owners of rare books not yet copied. But the real payment comes with the copies you make while you mend. Books to be saved for the future.

Aziraphale gets free access to your family’s private library and once he’s permitted a list of what’s actually in the vault, you have several copies brought for his enjoyment and to join the collection as manuscripts. You know it’s not the full list, according to your knowledge of the library, but Aziraphale is hiding a few of his own rarities, you’re sure.

You find that mending old books is a bit like surgery. You have to wear latex gloves (no powder), and pick away rotting fibers with a set of tweezers, painstakingly removing the dry rot and mending it with new thread and leather. The pages that are withering are given a careful coating of your family’s recipe for “magic paper maiche”, which is more of a joke than an accurate description of the goopy liquid. Patience is the key, and when some pages dry, you work on the bindings, resewing and completing the methodical process of putting books that are falling apart back together. Luckily these books were well loved and kept away from arid attics and damp cellars. Aziraphale locks them in their cabinets with care in-between visits, and though you do not see an alphabetical order that makes sense, you’re keenly aware he could pick the right book off the shelf with his eyes closed.

You’re not used to people hanging over your shoulder while you work. In fact your grandfather was tested severely when you crouched over him to learn how to do it, and his fitful temper sometimes made him very annoyed when you didn’t get it quite right. However Aziraphale has a way of making his presence very welcome. You attribute it to his boyishly eager expression, fascinated with the process. It’s quite flattering after all, to hold an audience so interested in the nitty, gritty details of book mending.

“This isn’t so bad.” You tell him over lunch. Your grandmother packed you both sandwiches, perhaps to continue earning Aziraphale’s good graces, and the cold cuts are served with chilled gazpacho while your host makes tea. “Father had a very graphic encounter with an unusual medium when he found out a book had been bound with human skin.”

Aziraphale is short of spitting into his cup at that, and you can’t help but admire his restraint. “Animals. Human skin? What on earth kind of book was that?” He is aghast, but clearly intrigued.

“A historic account describing the execution of the Yorkshire Witch, Mary Bateman. It had details of her life, trial, and the subsequent catastrophes that were left in the wake of her execution. It’s her own skin they bound the book in.” You shiver. “Father was glad to return it after copying it, but when he spritzed the leather and saw what it was made of, he jumped out of his seat and near gave up.” The book hadn’t sold at all, but had been more or less a memento from the court official who had recorded the trial.

Macabre stories aside, the bookshop was a temple to the things that mattered to you.

-----

“Your grandfather is quite the hot-blooded trickster isn’t he?” Aziraphale noted with a strange fondness. He had been invited for dinner on multiple occasions to talk the better half of the night about books, history, and debating the quality of culinary publishers based on their country. You knew exactly what he meant by having attended last night’s dinner. Your grandfather was so old, but he still went to work, banging his fist on the table when he laughed, and arguing his point to the bitter end. Only your grandmother could soothe his hot temper with a bit of dessert or by humbling him with a pinch to the ear and a playful reprimand. “He would have been an absolute hoodlum if not for books.”

“No, I think he’s a hoodlum even with the influence of books.” You joke. “He and his friends used to hold bridge parties until the chief organizer died, and those were some wild parties. Nowadays they like to visit for a drink at a bar and talk about their hobbies, but I think grandmother might have been a little more than relieved to know they got canceled.”

“Oh how bad could bridge be?”

He himself has never played it, so propping up the extra cards against a pair of busts, you teach him the ropes. You sometimes play with your family at big events, holidays, and birthdays, and with your grandfather as your teacher, you also are a rapacious cheat. You teach it fairly the first time, both you and Aziraphale sharing a pair of cards for the others, but the second time you destroy him completely.

He has a good sense of humor about it and concedes defeat, promising to get more friends over and try again.

The first book that is finished is Aziraphale’s first edition copy of a biography dictating the life of Oscar Wilde…written by a friend of the famous poet. You think you see Aziraphale’s name scribbled in the cover, but the name is faded out and could very easily spell Azekiel if you squint. The cover had been rotting (from what he claims was a freak incident with a cold cup of tea) and the pages were badly stained and threatening to crumble. It did look as though it were brought back to life by a miracle, and Aziraphale tells you so.

“Oh it’s just like when I got it!” He says with glee. Though it’s strange how he feels the need to cover for himself. “Not from the author of course! No, no, that’d be silly! From a friend. Bought it from a friend.”

It strikes you as bad manners to pry, so you don’t. Fortunately, you are the restorer in this case and follow certain etiquette. Your grandfather would have wheedled him for hours to get the full story.

___

You only miss one day of work when a family emergency happens. Something you and your family have been dreading.

It’s been over a year. Aziraphale’s books were resurrected from the brink of decay, you enjoyed the lunches and the visits for dinner, and the conversation. He had even let you (to the shock of all family) borrow his copy of Book Trails: Through the Wildwood. It is not a particularly well known or rare find, and he confesses with eagerness how it was a personal favorite found completely by accident. But you do not take advantage of his generosity. You read it in one night, and return the next day with a tin of cookies as a thank you. The saffron and orange shortbreads go over extremely well at tea time, and you promise to bring a favorite book of yours to read. In due time, you have loaned him all of your Walter Moers books to read, and he sometimes giggles in his chair at the antics of Thirteen and a Half Lives of Captain Bluebear. He probably can view himself as the intrepid hero in that case, who had an equal fondness for food.

It should not have come as a surprise. But you were hoping maybe your grandfather was too tough to actually fall sick.

He had been complaining of a wheezy cough after opening up a chest of books he’d procured from a friend, though he complained more of their condition…with pages that had to be replaced outright. He had labored hard with your father over the books, squawking about how normal people need to be educated in the care of antique belongings.

When you come home from the bookshop, he has already gone to the hospital.

You hurry over to take your grandmother with you, who has been whimpering softly into her hanky ever since your father caught him in midfall, choking on a breath. He didn’t wait for an ambulance, but bodily carried him to the car and likely broke half a dozen traffic violations hurrying him to the hospital. Soon the whole family is informed, and crowds into the hospital waiting room. Taking turns.

You miss your turn when visiting hours are over and are so tired that you send your father and grandmother home to take care of things while you made phone calls to his friends. Before you can finish however, you fall asleep in the drivers seat of your grandfather’s car, and remain there until late in the afternoon the next day. You’re awoken by a phone call from your father, but decide to wait to return later. A quick wash in the bathroom and satisfying your hunger from the vending machine, you take your turn at last.

“I shouldn’t be here.” Your grandfather grumbles. But he is not speaking in his big voice, energetic and impassioned. He sounds too soft, like a kitten and can’t even sit up straight. “Neither of us should. We should be working.”

“You worked for sixty years. More than that.” You remind him. “Life has a way of hitting the brakes on you.”

“Bah. You know what I mean. Our kind were meant to work.” He runs a hand over his face, though it is made awkward as he avoids the clip in his nose keeping him breathing. “How many hundreds of thousands of millions of books are there in the world? How many have been written and swallowed up by time?” It’s clear the hospital is getting to him very deeply. You don’t think he would be happy to die in this place, all clean, white, and too new. He wants to be with his wife, sleeping in his big old bed with the antiques on the wall, the cheap carpet he got on a bargain when he was still young, and his books. He wants to peer up from his desk at the family photos and eat what your grandmother cooks.

“You’ve got to take me home. A couple extra months in this place is no way to live.”

You’re planning his escape when Aziraphale calls, sounding worried. “You didn’t come in so I thought I’d check. Is everything alright?”

It isn’t. And you say it as it is.

Aziraphale arrives in a cab soon after, squeaking in a short visit with your grandfather alone. There is some form of healing presence you must miss, because when you dip back in, your grandfather is asleep and looking much more healthy and at ease. “You said you were planning a hospital escape?”

____

One of the rumors in the literary circle of friends your family keeps is that Aziraphale’s father was a British secret agent stealing books from the Nazis. You think this is more or less an endearment to your grandfather, but there were additional claims that he had gold hidden under his shop from recovering treasures and reclaiming wealth from the Germany treasure vaults.

You think it’s a little more than true when, miracle of miracles, the three of you are all in the car, driving home.

Aziraphale asks very little of you. Put this on, and don’t look suspicious. Please take the patient from his room to the examination area. Whoops. There’s been a mixup, he’s transferring to another hospital. Thank you, we’ll take him there right away! He shucks off a doctor’s coat and giddily climbs into the passenger seat as you all take off, your grandfather snoring in the backseat.

“Well that was very exciting. Hope you all don’t get into too much trouble.” He seems to be bouncing in his seat at the “heist” of sorts.

“Grandfather would likely curse me on his deathbed if I kept him in there.” You remark, pulling into the driveway. “Besides, the doctor can come see us, and he wants to be with his family.” There’s a lump in your throat, and you know where it’s coming from. “When…when his time comes.”

The silence that hangs is very sad, and you’re not sorry to get your grandfather into his wheelchair and take him in. Your father is a little more than shocked that you achieved, or would even do, all of this, but laughs anyway and puts his father to bed.

You drive Aziraphale home and thank him for his efforts.

“Anything for a friend.” He smiles brightly, but there’s a cloud over his face.

It is not easy waiting for a friend to die.

____

It’s clear that the clock is ticking for your grandfather. Aziraphale makes the most of his time and hosts a bridge game.

Your father passes it up to take up the bulk of restoration, catching up where the old man left off. But your grandmother does not fuss at the idea of her husband playing, with so little time left for him, and sends you with a wheelchair and a stockpot of soup, fresh bread, meringues and a couple bottles of wine.

The fourth player is a friend of Aziraphale, who looks as different from the portly, chipper bookkeeper as a house wren does from a vulture. “S’ alright. I know how to play.” Mr. Crowley promises, grinning as he opens the first bottle of wine while the table is set up. In spite of promises to your grandmother not to gamble, you don’t think the game is quite the same betting over cookies or candy like you do for family events and you bring a few wads of cash from the bank.

You knew your grandfather would cheat, but Aziraphale and Crowley are so rampant in their sleight of hand, round after round, that you’re certain all four of you have your own games you are playing. The rules of bridge aren’t just flouted, they are flipped upside down as each of you take turns calling the others out, sometimes failing. Crowley groans aloud when Aziraphale “magically” reveals a card hidden under your collar, and you snort with laughter when your grandfather states you all had seen it peeking from the cuff of his jacket for the past five minutes. The money switches hands so frequently that there is no clear winner by the time the food is eaten and the wine is drunk. Your grandfather had far more glasses than he needs, but he has regained his fire for the night and Aziraphale plays his collection of records in the background.

The Glenn Miller Orchestra is still playing in the background as everyone’s energy slows. Dirty dishes are stacked next to a set of books, and you absently hope they don’t join the list of books to restore when Aziraphale holds up his glass, with barely any wine left, tipsy and flushed with enjoyment. “Well that was a wonderful fiasco. Absolutely tickety-boo.”

“Tickety-boo?” You and your grandfather say at once. It is just so inherently British that it doesn’t occur to you that it might be a real word. Crowley rolls his eyes and finishes off the wine straight from the bottle, stumbling to stand up. “Right, that’s the end of the night for me. ‘M off.”

There is clear endearment as Aziraphale walks him to the door, and you see the drowsiness in your grandfather’s eyes as you help clean up and wheel his chair to the car. “This really was fun. Grandmother would be livid at all the cheating.” You remark, rubbing your eyes. It isn’t a long drive home, and your bed beckons. “But it isn’t really bridge without cheating.”

“No, I suppose not.” Aziraphale chuckles. “Do you…need some time off?”

You’re confused. But it’s clarified that he wants you to spend some time with the old man dozing off in the backseat.

“No.” You turn down the offer. “He’ll let me know when he needs me. But right now he needs these books to be alright.” You climb into the drivers seat, and wave goodbye as you pull from the curb.

_____

It’s all very normal until one afternoon when you get the call from home. To your surprise, he asks you to bring Aziraphale along.

“This house used to be a cooper workshop. For casks and things like that. They rented out the space to wineries to store their vintages.” Your grandfather explains as you push him along a familiar route away from the workshop to a back room saved for storage. “The levels go very deep, and on paper it’s supposed to be full of ducts for heating and conditioning and all that. Me and my friends worked years to get it sealed up and safe. Before we all had to collectively hide our books under our beds or in fake book covers.”

He fishes out a key hidden under his bed-shirt and unlocks a hidden door behind an old, old bookshelf.

The elevator is noisy, but it’s brief. When Aziraphale catches sight of the dark room, you can see him taking in what is decades of work. Everything organized and sorted, and packed in rows of shelves listed by author, print date, and title. “There must be at least half a million books in here at least. I could do that much.” Your grandfather muses. “I keep the ledgers secret to know for sure, but I’ve spent more money on this room than I have on my own wellbeing.”

There is a safe in the back he shows to Aziraphale. No one outside of the family has ever seen its contents before…not even his closest friends. It is the same one rescued from the smoldering wreckage of his father’s bookshop, still somewhat melted on one side. But the lock still works and your grandfather turns the well memorized combination and the safe clicks open.

Inside there is no rare book. Instead, it is the family tree, hand written with photographs leading up to the present. Marking the page with your birthday is the Star of David, still on its gold chain and kept safe all these years.

“No one else can have this.” Your grandfather states. “This is something that cannot be bought or sold. Our memories.” He lets out a shuddering breath. “Our legacy. Criminal as it may be, I’m not ashamed of how I lived my life.” Inside there is a picture of your great-grandfather before he died, in front of that little corner shop in Poland. A boy is sitting on the stoop by him, with a glimmer in his eye. Neither of them know their fate, and are frozen in a past vision of joy.

“There is nothing to be ashamed of.” Aziraphale says, very softly. It’s strange. He seems to recognize the figures in the photo. “Life is meant to be enjoyed.”

That is the last time your grandfather ever sets foot in the secret library. You all share books, stories, memories, times when life and limb were at risk, and books that changed you. Two nights later, your grandfather falls asleep in his chair after lunch and does not wake up.

____

The funeral is crowded. Even though most of the attendees are very old, your grandfather’s death draws a mass of friends, colleagues, and all of the family. Former officers of the British Secret Service, librarians and antiquarians, the entire staff from the Oxford Literary Club. You haven’t really started crying yet, though it seems your grandmother and father can’t stop.

Aziraphale shows up, with flowers, and catches you after the service is done, rubbing at your eyes and trying to regain your composure. As soon as he rubs your back and gives you comfort, there is an ethereal presence you can’t quite name that dries your eyes and lifts your spirits.

“I imagine my great-grandfather will have a laugh when he sees him.” You still have red-rimmed eyes and a runny nose, but your heart is on the mend. “His naughty son, stealing books for a living.”

Aziraphale is close by when the procession goes to a cemetery outside of London, and your grandfather is buried on the coast that he first stepped foot on when he escaped to England. Your grandmother may never fully mend from this, the love of her life, but you know she will remember him well.

When the rest of the guests depart with their condolences, Aziraphale waits longer until your father gives him leave to go, and even then he watches in worry on the sidewalk while waiting for his cab.

____

Life is quieter. But little changes, except now the key to the family secret hangs on your neck.

Aziraphale surprises you with another treasure, first edition of Treasure Island with fantastic illustrations. When you try to return it after reading, he shakes his head and pushes it back. It was a gift to keep. Not for the vault below the firm, but something that is well looked after on your shelf, with a scribbled note from Aziraphale inside the cover. It’s the kind of compliment that would make your grandfather blush with pride.

A story for the rebels and thieves. A.Z. Fell

In two more years the work is done. You have more copies in the vault than you started out with, and Aziraphale has more manuscripts for works he had not had before. Sometimes you break up work to play cards, with the enigmatic Crowley passing through just when Aziraphale mentions the idea of playing, and sometimes you both just sit in silence to read your new copies or something else on the shelf. You’ve tried to extend the lease of work to do, offering to put new covers on the manuscripts for Aziraphale to enjoy and to keep them alive for longer, and the two of you deeply enjoy the fine art of tartan printed covers. There are so many conversations. So many books.

But you cross the last book off your list and pack the dusty suitcase with your tools. There’s a fine ring of dust from where they have been removed, and you wait even longer to dust it off and give it a good polish.

“You don’t need an excuse to visit, I promise.” Aziraphale states. “And I expect you around for tea, as often as you can.”

“Same.” You smile brightly. You’re a little rosier now too after all. Who wouldn’t be with a place like this? “Grandmother wants you around for dinner more often. Don’t worry about calling ahead, she always makes enough.” You two are still shaking hands goodbye and do so until finally you know to break it off. He follows you outside to the side of the car before you finally ask.

“When we broke Grandfather out of the hospital-“ You finally express your curiosity. “-how did you get them to do it?”

Aziraphale wiggles his finger. “Just a miracle or two.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes.

You suppose he will always be something of a mystery.

The car starts up and you wave out the window as you drive away from Soho. Back home, where you have your family and your bed with all your books. Home where you keep your secrets close and remember them well.

And in his shop, an angel opens a chapter on a new book and begins to read.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #good omens aziraphale #good omens crowley #aziraphale/reader #aziraphale x reader

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wonderfulworldofmichaelford · 4 years

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Is It Really THAT Bad?

Gigli is perhaps one of the most infamous films ever made. Originally to be a straight mob film brought to the world by Martin Brest, director of classics such as Beverly Hills Cop, Midnight Run, and Meet Joe Black, the executives decided to do what they do best: meddle. The film was then changed into a rom-com vehicle for stars Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez to bank on their wildly popular real-life romance. Unfortunately for the execs, there wouldn’t be much to cash in, since the film bombed to the tune of less than a tenth of its budget. And that would be one thing if it were merely a bomb, that wouldn’t be something worth discussing to any great degree, but this movie goes beyond that.

This film has widely been panned as one of the worst films ever made, bar none. It frequently finds its way onto “worst films of all time” lists, was mocked as a side effect of computer viruses in Weird Al’s song “Virus Alert,” and is just in general regarded as a terrible, terrible film. Ben Affleck certainly thinks so; according to Matt Damon, his eye twitches when the film is mentioned, and according to Kevin Smith, bringing this movie up is a surefire way to end any argument you might be having with Affleck. It’s not surprising he feels this way about the film either, since this film’s failure helped derail his career until he managed to bounce back later in the 2000s and 2010s with better roles and some great directing gigs. But here and now, in the year 2020, far removed from the media craze surrounding the “Bennifer” romance and all the craziness this film had to offer, I must ask an important question:

Is it really THAT bad?

The Good

So what’s really shocking here is that there are some genuinely great performances, though sadly most of them only last a single scene. I think the one that most people go to is Christopher Walken as a cop who wanders into Gigli’s apartment and rambles on for a few minutes, eventually going off about pie before walking out of the film, never to be seen again. It brings to mind such memorably awkward one-scene appearances such as his minor role in Pulp Fiction with how utterly bizarre it is. As much as I love Walken, though, I have to say the real scene-stealing one-scene wonder here is Al Pacino as the mob boss Starkman, who manages to make his mark on the film with but a single scene under his belt. He comes across as genuinely affable and yet completely unhinged, cheerfully discussing facts about the human thumb before blowing the brains out of an idiotic subordinate and gleefully showing us how to be truly intimidating. It’s easily the best performance in the movie.

Well, it would be at least if not for Justin Bartha of National Treasure fame. He plays a mentally handicapped man named Brian, and while he’s certainly playing into the Hollywood ideas of the mentally handicapped, he doesn’t ever feel totally offensive or cringey. The fact he’s never really treated as the butt of the jokes and actually gets a relatively happy ending is pretty good too. Bartha definitely did a good job with this character who I feel would likely be horribly offensive in the hands of others.

The movie is also genuinely amusing at a few points, and not entirely in an ironic sense. Scenes where Ricki intimidates some punks at a restaurant are amusing, but sadly they are few and far between. Ironic enjoyment can definitely be gleaned though, as there’s a lot of awkward dialogue or just strange and ridiculous scenes (again: Christopher Walken and Al Pacino).

The Bad

So weirdly enough, the biggest issue with this film is actually the two leads, which is even more baffling because they were dating in real life. I guess the movie is something of a cautionary tale detailing how some couples just don’t function as well onscreen as they do offscreen. Anyway, let’s look at their characters one at a time:

First is Ben Affleck’s Gigli, the title character. Now, at the start of the film, Gigli is your average mob enforcer, but as soon as he meets the self-described lesbian Ricki, he becomes what is known as a

In fact, Gigli might be one of the biggest, saddest simps of all time, because the girl he’s after is supposedly a lesbian (we’ll get to that in a bit). Affleck managed to play this character type far better in the film Chasing Amy, but he had the luck of being directed by Kevin Smith in his prime with a script that wasn’t forced to shoehorn in a popular tabloid romance. Here, his every romantic interaction becomes awkward, and his declaration of love is just sad, creepy, and pathetic. What’s worse, in the end, he seemingly gets the girl, a stark contrast from Chasing Amy. It comes off as really gross and cringeworthy.

Then we get to Ricki. While she’s written a lot better for the most part, the fact she is referred to exclusively as a lesbian for the entire movie is a bit… odd. It leads to so many unfortunate implications, cringeworthy moments, and perhaps one of the most uncomfortable sex scenes ever, and all of this could have been avoided if the film had stopped calling her a lesbian and used a neat little word that begins with a B: BISEXUAL. It is abundantly clear Ricki is a bisexual from the point she meets Gigli’s mother, but this possibility is never brought up or discussed at any point whatsoever in the film. Ricki is a lesbian as far as this film is concerned, even after she has sex with Gigli and decides to run off and start a life with him in the end.

The lack of romantic chemistry between these two makes all the scenes that are flirtatious between them come off as awkward, and frankly there’s just something nasty about a film where a guy basically pesters a “lesbian” until she relents and has sex with him, something only exacerbated by Ricki saying “It’s turkey time. Gobble gobble” to get him to engage in intercourse with her. I’m guessing there was a similar dynamic between them in earlier drafts that had this creepy romance shoehorned in when the execs decided to make this a “Bennifer” vehicle. It’s unfortunate because for the most part, the two play off of each other really well, but when it comes time for the lovey-dovey stuff, they just drop the ball hard.

Is It Really THAT Bad?

This movie has a legendary reputation that it most definitely does not live up to. Gigli is honestly an okay, if still trashy, film. I would not argue this movie is high art, or even great, but it’s certainly not unwatchably bad and certainly veers closer into the waters of “so bad it’s good” than genuinely horrible. The awkward line deliveries and solid performances from side characters certainly help keep this film afloat, even when the awful romance shoved into this goofy gangster film tries its hardest to sink it.

With an IMDB score of 2.5, it currently sits at #19 on the Bottom 100, and frankly I feel that’s an overstatement born of resentment from when the film first came out. Watching it now, in 2020, it certainly isn’t the most horrible thing to ever grace my screen; I think a score more in the mid to low 5 range would be a much better fit for it, maybe even a 5.5 if I was feeling especially generous. Again, I can’t really say this movie is great, or amazing, or even a must-see, but it’s amusing and not nearly as bad as I was led to believe for years. If you’re going to watch it, definitely don’t watch it for the romance, because this movie fails at the “rom” part of “rom-com.” It is, however, pretty good at the “com” part, intentionally or otherwise.

#Is it really that bad?#review #movie review #Gigli #Ben Affleck #Jennifer Lopez #rom-com #crime movie

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ashroadtrek-blog · 6 years

Text

The City on the Edge of Forever

Air Date: April 6th, 1967

Writer: Harlan Ellison

Director: Joseph Pevney

WOW! This is easily the best episode of the original series so far, and maybe one of the best episodes of Star Trek I’ve ever seen. I didn’t remember much about this episode, and I expected it to be one of those overrated meme episodes like TNG’s Darmok. Having given it its due, I instead found it to be appropriately rated as one of the best episodes of Star Trek ever filmed.

Cordruzine: a miracle drug of the future that can restore a critically injured man. Sulu had a console explode in his face, yet just 2 drops of cordruzine and he’s happy as a clam in its ideal natural environment. But if you accidentally stab yourself with a full dose, well...

400 drops will send you into psychosis.

I know McCoy is a fast and loose old hardass, but he really shouldn’t have been so careless with that hypospray when the ship had clearly been experiencing space-turbulence.

The Enterprise is investigating unusual phenomena around another desert planet covered in ruins; par for the course, nothing unusual. We witness another carelessly incompetent transporter chief whose back is to the door while a security alert is ongoing - not only that, but he’s locked the transporter onto the anomaly. Is it part of his job, or was he screwing around? Considering our experience with past incompetent chiefs, I’m more incline to believe it’s a bit of both - not that it’s important to the episode at all, just an observation that transporter chiefs are usually subjected to getting their asses kicked or otherwise fooled into allowing the conflict of the week to escalate.

Ahem.

When Kirk, Spock, Scotty, Uhura, and some redshirts (none of whom die) beam down to find McCoy, they discover ruins that Spock says are 10,000 centuries old - which means 1 million, and why he didn’t just say that I can only guess because 10,000 centuries sounds more impressive than 1 million years. Somehow.

The Guardian of Forever is whatever - it’s a plot device, it’s the fourth method of time travel presented so far (matter/antimatter intermix in The Naked Time, flying too close to a black home and slingshot around the sun in Tomorrow is Yesterday), and it has an obnoxious habit of speaking in god-talk: I am that I am and all that crap. Bones jumps in, and Kirk and Spock follow - notably, Kirk wants to save his friend by using it to go back in time before the incident that drove Bones to madness. Unfortunately, the Guardian won’t slow down; perhaps its creators perceived time differently, or just had faster reflexes.

Kirk and Spock jump to the 30s, but like Nero in 2009, came up before their target. They get into some shenanigans at first, then get a job paying $1.50 per day - or $21.64 per day, adjusting for inflation - that’s for 10 hours of work. No wonder they called it the great depression.

No Taco Bell, medical marijuana, netflix, or Xbox here.

Kirk isn’t having this hobo’s foul mouth, and while I expected Edith Keeler to thump a Bible (having been in these situations before myself), her message was one of optimistic secularism that touted the future benefits of social welfare and technology. Optimistic, but a bit delusional; here we are 50 years later and things only seem worse...still, I can’t help but admire the woman; there she is, clearly high-born and educated but working alone in the slums surrounded by down and out workmen, trying to help people out thanks to pie-in-the-sky ideals of basic human rights and cooperation. We need more Edith Keelers and less twitter comedians in our own time.

“Out there, around that star...someone will tweet a topical commentary on contemporary events that will be favorited and retweeted by billions...and trigger billions more...it will be dripping with sarcasm and double entendres with feigned ignorance to how inflammatory it is...those who denounce it will be labeled contrarians and enemies of the twit’s preferred brand of pop-philosophy...”

Spock spends his time building some sort of computer that can tap into temporal wifi (or something) while Kirk woos Edith. They break basically every aspect of the Prime Directive short of handing her a working warp drive, but it’s partly because she’s a smart woman who catches on to them pretty quickly. She’s one of those Fox Mulder types who want to believe.

Spock faces Kirk with the grim fact that Edith Keeler must die to prevent the Nazis from winning - she’s so damned good at what she does she convinces FDR to go with pacifism, so either Pearl Harbor never happened or FDR did everything he could to appease Japan.

Back to you, Bones

You know the rest: Bones comes back, and I guess the cordruzine madness wears off because he appears fairly lucid after a couple days...until he runs into Kirk, and Kirk runs into him to save the timeline instead of Edith Keeler.

The event destroys Kirk. He’s positively devastated, and I think this is Shatner’s best acting so far because he really emotes it well.

The episode ends with a shot of the Guardian instead of on the bridge as usual. Bones doesn’t make a pithy comment to Kirk, no joke at Spock’s expense. The episode is too serious for that. Kirk has saved his friend, but at great personal cost to himself.

I think a weaker (or later) version of this episode would see the crew saving Edith, only to go back to a future where the Enterprise is crewed by Nazis, then go back to make sure Edith dies. I think that’s a TNG version of the episode, and I think Picard would apologize before throwing her in front of a bus himself - it would be Riker who struggles with the decision. Other captains I think would shove Edith in front of the bus would be Lorca; Sisko would find a way around it, or like I expect Janeway and Archer to do, would stand by and let it happen.

Kirk did his duty, he restored the timeline...it was an enormous act of self sacrifice that only someone like Kirk would have the balls to go through with. It is a profoundly sad ending, but one that is necessary. Truly, this was Kirk’s Kobayashi Maru.

So Harlan Ellison, a renowned sci-fi author of the time, was credited with the story, but his original draft involved drug-dealing on the Enterprise and the villain of the film trapped in a recursive time loop in a star going supernova. That’s a fun story, but it’s too much for Star Trek.

Over the course of 11 months from first outline by Ellison to filming, various other writers put their touch on it; Stephen W. Carabatsos (from Court Martial and the next episode, Operation: Annihilate!), Gene L. Coon (The Devil in the Dark, Errand of Mercy), Dorothy Fontana (Charlie X, Tomorrow is Yesterday, This Side of Paradise), and Gene Roddenberry himself all participated in rewrites and redrafts for various reasons you can look up on Memory Alpha.

Another piece of trivia I’d like to share is that this episode has been cited as a favorite by William Shatner, Eugene (Rod) Roddenberry, and Gene Roddenberry himself. It’s not hard to see why.

Rating: 5/5

Rewatch? Every time

The City on the Edge of Forever is easily the best TOS episode I’ve seen so far, and probably the best TOS episode - and likely one of the best episodes of Star Trek.

#star trek #Star Trek: The Original Series #TOS #captain kirk #mr. spock #leonard mccoy #edith keeler #the city on the edge of forever #ashroadtrek

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