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There are so many unintended consequences to well-intentioned actions. It feels like a game you can’t win.

broke: crowley is jealous about the lovers that aziraphale might have had throughout history  woke: crowley isn’t jealous at all - he’s insanely intrigued and every time they get drunk he begs aziraphale to tell the story of how he got each of them into bed and will sometimes interrupt him mid-sentence by saying “i knew that guy!!” followed by a huge grin  

This is kinda hilarious, he's so clueless 😂😂♥️

“Who’s going to take care of me if I get on your wrong side and become jobless when I’m older?”

It is different in browser, but not my fandoms!

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Ding!

Archangels Gabriel and Michael sat glowering at the nearby hovering screen. It was emitting chimes practically nonstop.

13:24:45: [Aziraphale] Moved one (1) plastic cup to trash bin. 13:24:47: [Aziraphale] Moved one (1) cigarette butt to trash bin. 13:24:48: [Aziraphale] Moved one (1) plastic straw to trash bin. 13:24:49: [Aziraphale] Moved one (1) styrofoam container to trash bin. 13:24:52: [Aziraphale] Moved one (1) left sock to trash bin.

“Why doesn’t he just miracle all of them in at once?” Michael asked in frustration.

“You damn well know why,” Gabriel muttered. Ever since that horrifying day that Aziraphale stood in a column of demonfire and then belched out a gout of it at them, it seemed that he was going out of his way to just piss off the management with incessant spam.

Gabriel sighed in relief when he saw that the onslaught of messages stopped for a bit. “Anyway. I was thinking that if we do want to arrange for the Big One™, we might want to–”

Ding!

13:25:49: [Aziraphale] Removed one (1) Swastika graffiti.

Michael glanced at the screen. Then she shrugged and shared a nod with Gabriel. “Fair.”

“… we might want to have you get a few more ‘contacts’ in low places, if you know what I mean,” Gabriel continued.

Michael took a breath to respond.

Ding!

13:25:58: [Aziraphale] Applied one (1) graffiti reading ‘Gabriel <3 Beelzebub.’

Michael stared at Gabriel, her eyebrows twitching up questioningly.

Gabriel shifted uncomfortably in his chair, “… well, now he’s just being petty. Come on, Aziraphale.”

Michael decided to ignore it and move on, “I may be able to make some arrangements. Even if the holy water didn’t work out as planned, the exchange was still marked as satisfactory…”

Ding!

13:26:15: [Aziraphale] Applied one (1) graffiti reading ‘Gabriel = Gross Matter.’

The two archangels scowled at the readout. “Something needs to be done about him,” Michael said.

Gabriel raised his eyebrows in a doubtful look. “Soooo… you saying you wanna be the one to confront him about it?”

Michael sat quietly for a moment, glancing aside nervously as she recalled the image of Aziraphale’s gleeful, hellfire-engulfed features.

“… on second thought, we have better things to do,” she murmured.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! …

13:26:49: [Aziraphale] Created one (1) grain of rice. 13:26:50: [Aziraphale] Created one (1) grain of rice. 13:26:51: [Aziraphale] Created one (1) grain of rice. 13:26:52: [Aziraphale] Created one (1) grain of rice. 13:26:53: [Aziraphale] Created one (1) grain of rice. 13:26:54: [Aziraphale] Created one (1) grain of rice. …

good omens + richard siken quotes

“and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and touches you like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you don’t have a name for”

like a prayer for which no words exist

[Read here on AO3]

There are places [1] Crowley likes to go when it all gets to be a little much, like a snake seeking a hole for refuge from a storm. That Aziraphale is the storm is surprising, or maybe not surprising at all. These places are holy - lowercase h - in that they are undisturbed, protected, and treasured. A reprieve. An indrawn breath before drowning. They are places Crowley goes that Aziraphale does not visit. That’s not to say that the angel doesn’t know where they are, simply that he does not go where Crowley does not ask for him.

[1] A rooftop garden in New York City. A cozy nook inside St. Paul’s. A patch of red dirt outside Tuscon, Arizona. An old iron bench just outside Kensington Gardens. The bosom of Eden.The edge of the World. Others, dozens maybe, that Crowley knows by feel and not name.

He’s in New York two days after the Apocolypse-That-Wasn’t, high up in a humid class cage full of shivering plants that know both fear and reverence. The Orchids have become fussy in his absence refusing to stand straight out of pure defiance. The English Ivy, the oldest, grows thick and lovely in creeping vines along the ceiling and walls. It almost seems to sigh at Crowley as he brandishes a pair of shears menacingly at the disobedient Orchids.

“Not you as well,” Crowley sneers, shaking the shears at the wall, “I won’t hear it.”

In the corner a Snake Plant shakes almost fondly. Crowley hisses, terrible yellow eyes drawn into slits, and it stops moving, its tall leaves stretching skyward as if in surrender. Crowley clicks his tongue and goes back to fussing with the Orchids.

“Don’t know why I even bother. I should just bin the lot of you.”

He does not. Crowley has known these plants for a long time. He takes a seat on the floor amongst empty pots and potting soil, dirt on his hands and smudged along a sharp cheekbone because he allows it to be. There’s something satisfying about the mess. He wonders, vaguely and quite without meaning to, if that is how She feels about Her Creation. Crowley snarls and kicks out at the leg of a table. It wobbles, the pots atop it shuddering with the force, before going still.

An impossible Honeysuckle bush in the opposite corner blooms for him, sickly sweet in her smell. The orchids finally stand upright, maybe sensing the shift in their Master’s mood or maybe just tired of being contrary. Crowley is no longer looking at them, however. His eyes have drifted up, through the English Ivy curling sweetly along the ceiling, where gray skies hang fat and heavy in the sky. The rain starts first as a light pat and, as Crowley watches, works its way to a torrent. Between this and the overwhelming smell of sweet Earth, Crowley can almost fall asleep.

It’s tempting, and Crowley does love temptations. A hundred year nap after The-End-That-Almost-Was feels well deserved, but Aziraphale gets dreadfully worried if Crowley is gone for too long. He’s startled by a creeping vine tangling around his ankle. He shakes his leg. “Off with you, you annoying little bugger.”

The vine squeezes once before letting go and all at once Crowley misses Aziraphale so dearly it makes his stomach ache. In a wild fit of temper he reaches for an empty pot to throw and smashes it against the wall.

smash

Then another-

smash

And another-

smash smash smash

Until he is left empty and the wall of Ivy is bruised.

Crowley moves then, shaking, standing to shove the table aside with less care than it deserves, cutting his feet open upon broken terra cotta. He rests a hand, gently now, on the Ivy and pulls away green fingers like he’d made it bleed. He puts his hand to the wall again, burying his hand amongst the leaves and pushes . “Dreadfully sorry old chap.” Crowley says and feels the Ivy pulsate around his fingers. [2]

[2] Long ago Aziraphale had given Crowley a little cutting of Ivy from the side of his bookshoppe. “Perhaps you can take up gardening,” the angel said wryly. The Ivy had pulsed in Crowley’s hand then as well, like it was trying to hold him.

Crowley untangles his fingers from the Ivy and it shivers once before stilling. He moves the table back into place and waves a hand dismissively at the floor, clearing the pots. The storm outside rages on and he paces, leaving bloody footprints along the concrete. The garden suddenly feels stifling and Crowley leaves without a word, letting the door clap closed behind him.

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we do see a fair amount of Crowley’s eyes in the show but I also want to stan the rest of David Tennant’s face for being so expressive that even with these big sunglasses that you can still tell exactly what is going on in Crowley’s mind. this is of course assisted by the fact that what is going on in Crowley’s mind 99% of the time is “holy hot damn I love ONE (1) complete idiot” but the thought still stands

Me on Tumblr app after finally reaching the end of a long post I wasn’t interested in: