Oh Fuck, Oh Shit, Oh Goodness Me, I’m Irrevocably Atheist, But... Please??

whatever the doctor and the master have going on is so much more complex than just “enemies-to-lovers” or even “friends-to-enemies-to-lovers” in the most deranged way possible. they’re friends, enemies, lovers, rivals, bitter exes, reluctant allies, arch-nemeses, and they’re constantly, rapidly oscillating between those things. usually they’re more than one of those things simultaneously. they’re lovers who regularly try to kill each other. they’re tentatively repairing their friendship but still can’t trust each other. they’re hatefucking. they’re searching in each other for a lost innocence they can never truly recover. they’re enemies with benefits. they’re each going scorched-earth to annihilate the other. they’re a disgrace to their species. they’re the last of their species. they both want to carve out the parts of themselves that resemble the other. they ran together through fields of red grass under the orange sky of their now-destroyed homeworld and made a pact to run away together to see every star in the universe. i just. do you understand.

“This one’s dedicated to you, pal”

We could be beautiful.

It's about Crowley bearing witness to Aziraphale's desire, about the way that desire is animal and visceral and enormous and terrifying*. And about how Crowley sees that and wants it. Crowley offers the ox rib and watches Aziraphale eat because eating provides them no sustenance, it's purely for pleasure, sensual, selfish. And Crowley introduces Aziraphale to this, and thousands of years later still takes obvious pleasure in feeding Aziraphale, in watching him eat. In watching Aziraphale's pleasure.

And I think it's significant the things we see Crowley put into his body in s2, and why: six shots of espresso, as something bracing before seeing what it is that made Aziraphale call him in his "something's wrong" tone; whiskey, because he has to give Aziraphale some bad news; wine, because they "might as well get comfortable" during the storm coming down on Job, after Aziraphale learns that Crowley is actually pretty unhappy with Job's suffering; and poison, to dispose of it so Elspeth (or Wee Morag, I've fogotten which is which) doesn't die. Crowley doesn't take Aziraphale's "something that calms you down", only consumes things that not only don't bring him pleasure but are an attempt to prevent pain. Crowley, who introduced Aziraphale to this important physical, sensual, selfish pleasure, denies it to himself. He denies himself the eccles cakes, he denies himself partaking in food, and he denies himself Aziraphale.

And we see throughout the rest of the season other things he's denying himself: the comfort and safety of a home in the bookshop in favor of the mobility and ready-made escape of living in the Bentley, the surety of saying what he really means during the confession. He cannot bring himself to admit what he wants, that he wants. Gabriel and Beelzebub "going off together" is not what he wants. He wants Aziraphale, but he doesn't say that, because he's never, in the years and years and years we've seen this season, let himself want or be seen wanting. "Going off together" is as close as he can get to speaking it. "A group of the two of us" is as close as he can get. So he has to watch as Aziraphale leaves and takes his pleasure in the world with him.

🎄The David Tennant Christmas Content Masterlist☃ (Part Three)

21. David's Christmas pantos throughout the years

22. Of course, his new Burberry adverts

sixidiotsdavidtennantfan.tumblr.com

Six Idiots & David Tennant ( Mainly)

23. Staged, season three: A Christmas Carol

(part one) (part two)

The thing is, Aziraphale does see Crowley. He can see Crowley is on edge, he can see he isn't happy. There are many ways in which he is adept in reading expression and gesture (all those years through dark glasses), and the things Crowley does say, with the indirect speech they've both been forced to adopt. Aziraphale sees him and he knows he's not okay.

But they've switched roles, and Aziraphale doesn't know how to be the one who comforts and reassures. Partly it's because he's spent his whole life being afraid, and Crowley mostly wasn't -- Crowley was always the one saying never mind, they never check, they don't care who does the job so long as it gets done. Now Aziraphale is finally at a time in his life -- oh glory -- when he thinks he doesn't need to be afraid, and he doesn't know what to do with Crowley's fear. Just like he didn't know what to do with it when Crowley first asked for holy water.

And that's the other thing about Aziraphale: he's not okay with not being okay. Negative emotions are not okay. You don't feel them, you don't acknowledge them, you certainly don't discuss them. "Buck up, Hamlet!"

It's his flavor of traumatic upbringing, of course, but some of it is specific to Aziraphale himself. At heart, he's an idealist. Aziraphale believes in better. It prevents him having a fully reciprocal relationship with Crowley or even with himself, because only good things should be allowed, and if things aren't okay, then by God (yes), he will make them okay.

I am so insane about the Job arc.

God says, "I will destroy Job's children," and Aziraphale says, "How did he wrong you?"

God says, "I will destroy Job's children," and Aziraphale says, "How will you make it right?"

God says, "I will destroy Job's children," and Aziraphale says, "Gosh, I don't doubt you know what you are doing and all, but maybe we could slow things down a little and talk about this? And it's essential to the divine plan? Are we sure?"

Crowley says, "I will destroy Job's children," and Aziraphale looks him in the eye and says, "No, you won't."

“I need you” isn’t “I love you,” and it isn’t “Yes, let’s go off together,” but the thing is, it might as well be. And it might be one of the more honest things Aziraphale has ever said.

He has never said it aloud before now. Not like this, with eons worth of raucous indignant feeling crawling up into his throat. He had not wanted, not expected to say it like this, mocked by his own stricken reflection in Crowley's sunglasses, each lens a dark mirror.

"I—I need you," says Aziraphale, and his voice breaks down the middle. It might as well, for he's confessed too late. Crowley is shut to him, recedes from him like a wave broken on the terrible bedrock of Aziraphale's futile stubbornness.

And still, even like this, Aziraphale needs him.

His presence, his constancy. His unfailing, tenacious friendship.

Crowley’s kindness, his softness, his solicitousness under the prickly façade Aziraphale sees is just that—a layer that can be so easily peeled away to reveal the deep core of caring beneath, too entrenched to be deserved by any world they could live in. He needs Crowley’s unguarded gaze, needs the way Crowley’s forever looking at him across distances when he thinks Aziraphale doesn’t notice: chin tilted up, eyes soft as marigold petals.

A phone call away whenever anything or nothing at all happens is Crowley’s dear voice; his lovely dry humor; his sauntering, slithering, improbable walk despite which he somehow flawlessly falls into step alongside Aziraphale anywhere and all the time. His hip knocking against Aziraphale’s, casual as anything and yet so much more than. Flashes of black and wisps of red flitting in and out of Aziraphale’s periphery for thousands of years.

He needs their circuitous arguments, their winding ethical debates—after most of which they somehow end up on the same side, that is, their own side, terrifying and exhilarating in its Promethean familiarity—and Crowley’s chaotically-sure moral compass. The times Crowley is braver than Aziraphale could ever be; and the times Crowley reminds him of how brave he actually always has been.

And Aziraphale needs even the great big awful rows, the ones that end in their standing on opposite verges of another chasm of their own making. Because the culmination of such a fight is always the meeting again in the middle. It’s the low sweeping bow of their apology, a ritual not half earnest for all its facetiousness, which says so much without either of them having to utter a word. Crowley holds a whole conversation in the dip of his fiery head and the exaggerated flutter of his elegant wrists, when it’s his turn; and, when it’s Aziraphale’s, the hashing-out of differences is there in the way he executes each familiar movement with the practiced ease of a faithful courtier, though it’s been ages since he stood in any king’s court.

He needs the knowledge that they always forgive each other. Because, well, they do. They must. They will. What’s a spat or a quarrel or even a proper falling-out to two beings like them, to him and Crowley?

Aziraphale needs Crowley’s happiness. His truest happiness. If that isn't the crux of it all, what is?

He remembers the ancient light of Crowley's joy, how it had shone once about both of them like an aura through the blackness of undeveloped space. It never left, all that bright, barely reined-in giddiness, all that frenetic energy, but he's transmuted it, magpie-like, into something else. Aziraphale can sense it whenever Crowley brings him a new vintage record to add to his collection. Whenever Crowley pulls out Aziraphale’s chair for him outside Marguerite's, or orders just what he likes for him at the Ritz. Whenever he drops into the shop unannounced with a little box tucked under his arm, full of gorgeous petits fours from the new bakery Aziraphale hasn’t yet tried, and says, gleeful, Ohhh, you wouldn’t believe all the wiling I had to do to get my hands on these, angel. You’ll have to thwart me for this, I know. But first—no, no, no, first! The only sensible thing for you to do would be to try them… you’ll like the pear macaron...

And of course Crowley is right. He's right about most things, isn't he, after all? Because Crowley knows him, and he needs to be known, but it simply wouldn't do for anyone else to be the one doing the knowing.

Aziraphale likes the pear macaron, just as Crowley knew he would.

He likes all the things that come along with Crowley, really. The fast car, oh yes, sleek and stylishly classic and so very Crowley through and through, though Aziraphale has committed staunchly to grousing about it. The way no companionable silence held in Crowley's company is ever truly silent. The jaunts to the park on seasonable days: Crowley's touch lingering where he pours frozen peas for the ducks into Aziraphale's cupped palm; the fondness in Crowley's tone poorly disguised as he points out his favorite mated pair trawling placidly across the pond. The drinking together long past the small hours of the morning in the back room of the bookshop, where the walls are the same warm ochre shade as Crowley’s eyes.

It isn't ever so much about the drinking as it is about the together bit. How the space between them dwindles with the syrupy passage of time. How Crowley softens and melts into the settee. How he becomes Aziraphale's to watch, for once. How he grows so wondrously relaxed and gloriously at home there in Aziraphale's space that Aziraphale begins to wonder if this will at last be the night Crowley does not, eventually, get up and retreat back to his Bentley to take himself away again...

There is always that fragile little moment, right after sobering up, when everything in their universe seems at the same time to be entirely too set in stone and entirely too much as though it all hangs by one delicate, dissembling thread. Always the split second in which Aziraphale looks into Crowley's guileless face and remembers he could unravel everything with a single tug.

Yes, one sharp tug on the lapels of Crowley's jacket would do it, he knows. How easily it could be done... Tumble the two of them into one another, just then, and they would never be parted again. And his deft-tongued Crowley would lick the heat and the aftertaste of Talisker into Aziraphale's mouth, then, before it had the chance to dissipate completely.

He could. He could.

It's in those stretched milliseconds, brimming with a tender longing so acute it tips right over into an agony, that Aziraphale realizes: I do need all of you, darling, don't I? So terribly much it might unmake me one day. Never mind Aziraphale's most fickle and blustering attempts at denial, he knows this to be true as he knows the truth of little else in the cosmos.

And perhaps today is that day—the day Aziraphale will dissolve and be remade in the permanent shape of lack.

The last panel is truly frightening!

Keep it up @neil-gaiman, it will be over soon

Oh yes, yes, exactlly that! 

He still thought that the angel crowley would be the whole (wholier, no such word, I know, sorry), crowley, and that’s heartbreaking in the ways I couldn’t even think it would be. 

noooo i already saw so many people misinterpret the ending😭😭 guys, the problem is not that aziraphale chose heaven over crowley, but that he chose angel crowley over crowley.