This Promo Photo. This. As A Promo Photo. That's Just Cruel

The Ineffable Mrs Sandwich

So. Mrs Sandwich.

I’ve been wondering at her relevance. I put a post up a bit ago about the signs at her front door that rang honking great foreshadowing bells: “Come Upstairs” and “No pairs. One only. Be Brave” on a wall surrounded by stars. Not to mention they now have a “New Model” with “Friendly Hands” up there.

In the party, she says something to Aziraphale that made my brain jangle because of all the meta that I’ve been eating: [her girls] stand on their own two feet. Initially I thought this was a sex-work joke, but there’s the fact that at the beginning of the season, both lads are completely co-dependent, especially Crowley who talks about “my only friend”. By the end of the season, the boys are separated and they will be forced to stand on their own two feet for the first time since 2500BC.

Throw into the mix that God’s department is always referred to as “upstairs” and Mrs Sandwich is the only person shown coming down from an upstairs to a ground level that has a chandelier, much like Aziraphale’s bookshop also has a chandelier on the ground floor, directly over his contact point with the almighty.

“I don’t know why you invited me,” she says and Aziraphale makes a point that she’s part of their world, even if she feels she’s separate from it. Then you have the seamstress conversation and yes, maybe she is a brothel madame, but the fact she can’t say what her actual role/position is has very ineffable vibes to me. A convenient way to mask her real identity/purpose.

When Crowley walks her out the party, he says “Have you got your hand in?” and she replies “Oh, I’ve got more than that, love.” which would track for the person who was playing three-card monty with the universe. Since they’re so careful with their dialogue, between all of this and her calling Crowley “a good lad”?

Add the fact that her “girls” upstairs can tell when Nina is unhappy when making coffee and that one of the drinks she orders almost matches the order by the Metatron, who has professed to consume human food/drink. His version has almond syrup instead of hazelnut and almond is symbolic in the bible for watchfulness and promise of a new season. (However, interestingly, some Biblical translations of hazelnut and almond mean the same thing)

And what is a sandwich if not two separate sides with something in the middle?

"...And his grumpy friend, Mr. Crowley." "The demon." "Oh, I suppose that explains the grumpiness."

Okay I'm still thinking, because it's not the fall that made Crowley angry, not on its own, anyway. It's nothing inherent to being a demon. Being an angel again wouldn't fix anything.

It was the flood. It was the flood, and then Job, and Jesus.

The fall sowed the seeds, obviously. But until the flood, it's like Crowley had a bit of hope that things might be different. And the flood is the confirmation that God claiming to love and taking it away isn't just a one time thing. That they're just going to keep doing it, over and over again. And with the shift from the flood to Job, the only thing that's going to change is God isn't going to say sorry anymore, no more rainbows because we're all going to pretend it's hell's fault now.

Pictures beneath the cut:

There's still an innocence to Crawley in Eden. His attitude is… playful. He's kinda bouncy. His questions and his doubt are like, mildly frustrated at best. Overall, a pretty chill demon.

When he first pops up in Mesopotamia, same thing. He's excited to see Aziraphale, to tease this weird angel some more.

And he is bouncy with energy right up until Aziraphale says "Wiping out the human race." And Crawley goes still.

He keeps falling into stunned disbelief, right up until:

And there's the anger. Humans have only been here 1000 years before God withdrew their love.

Now, Job. Land of Uz. About 500 years later. A much more subdued Crawley, monologuing to goats. Projecting on them like he will his plants, but with a little more sympathy. Hey, at least they're getting an answer.

And then Aziraphale shows up, and even after he drops the angelic light show, Crawley...

Doesn't really move? Barely engages with him? Night and day to the last time they saw each other, and being reminded of the flood can't have helped.

The only smiles we see here are these awful grimaces.

I'm going to skip ahead to Crucifixion. Aziraphale is a little bit on his side now. But what does that even mean?

Crowley's back to slithering up behind Aziraphale in a move very similar to Mesopotamia, but way more stiff. Waits to hear whether Aziraphale agrees with this.

They watch the horrible death of a very bright young man, who (like Job) doesn't blame God for abandoning him. Who only asks for forgiveness for the people doing this to him.

Whose death forgives the sins of those who ask for it.

But still not Crowley. Not that he wanted it or anything.

No, Angel, I am what I am, if that bothers you leave me alone.

But he doesn't. And we see Crowley's first real smile in a very long time.

Such a Gallifreyan stance.

Heaven planned to do a Rassilon on... well, on everyone and everything.

Apologies as I’m sure this has already been said before, but…

Okay, after my fourth rewatch I truly believe that Crowley never meant to ask Aziraphale to run away with him.

I mean, look at him! After his conversation with Nina, he comes to term with his feelings, and meets up with Aziraphale at the most romantic cafe possible. He asks him if he wants to have a drink. They flirt. It’s all very… if not human, earthbound. (Scene of all time, honestly).

Back at the bookshop, I think he was planning on confessing, hopefully having his feelings reciprocated, going to the Ritz for that romantic, boozy breakfast, and going back to the bookshop to live as an us. I think he panicked when Aziraphale threw the Metatron curveball at him, and reverted to his trauma response, which is to escape. I don’t think he really wanted to run away from the life they had built together (“You can’t leave this bookshop”). I think he pivoted to that plan because he saw the writing on the wall. I wish Aziraphale could have understood that in the moment, but I understand why he wasn’t able to.

Doesn’t make it hurt any less though 😅😅😅😅

NO listen! for i have the true Crowley kiss analysis!!

He put distance as soon as Aziraphale pushed the idea of coming to heaven on him again after Crowley's confession. he already knew this was over, but when Aziraphale stops him they take second shots at explaining themselves to each other.

"we can be together!"

This is when Crowley tenses up, even if I cant for the life of me find a gif of it. Aziraphale thinks he's saying the same thing Crowley was during his speech about going off together, but he isn't.

"I don't think you understand what I'm offering you"

"I think I understand better than you do"

Crowley knows they couldn't really be together in heaven, not the way he wants. They could only be colleagues, essentially go back to the way they were working on Earth before. Sanctioned this time, but still just the same.

"you idiot. we could've been. us"

Crowley starts trying to describe exactly what the difference is. no nightingales, we could've been us, anything of their coded language that might get through to Aziraphale. but everything falls just short.

So he tries just what he did in the first episode. "just breathe, breathe and count to ten. that's what humans do"

he tries the human way.

it still doesnt work.

I wonder, too, I wonder when Crowley is going to know. The six-espressos-in-a-big-cup protective hypervigilant Crowley. Ever circling around his angel, snapping at the slightest threat, shielding him from harm.

When is he going to know that he’s been manipulated, too?

And when is he going to know what role he himself played in Aziraphale’s decision?

There are so many things he didn’t tell Aziraphale. To protect him, to spare him, to give him time. Except, of course, all of that also meant that Aziraphale had no time and space to process them.

(And yes, there were things that Crowley could not possibly tell his angel. The cruel disdain of Gabriel’s words at Aziraphale’s execution is burned forever into Crowley’s mind; how could he have taken this dagger to Aziraphale? 

Anyway, shouldn’t the fact of the execution itself be enough for Aziraphale to know?)

But Crowley’s angel is kind, is bright, never expects and is forever surprised by treachery: Rose Montgomery turning out to be a Nazi spy, a countess turning out to not be a countess. Of course Aziraphale’s sheer relief on deciding that he’s been wrong about the Metatron will be a powerful force. He wants to be aligned with something bigger than himself; he wants there to be a point.

For all of S2, Crowley deflects threats from Hell. (Aziraphale, involved? Unlikely, Crowley says with studied nonchalance. And how do you know I didn’t do that miracle?) Out of Aziraphale’s earshot, he threatens and hisses, as he has likely done for millennia. Remember Hell’s book on angels, with everything it says about Aziraphale, with instructions to ‘avvoid’ and report to Crowley? Yeah.

By the end, there are key things that Crowley hasn’t told Aziraphale: his visit to Heaven, Gabriel’s punishment, what it was that Gabriel refused to do. Yes, there were archangels in the room, watching. Yes, Crowley had rather assumed that Aziraphale is as done with Heaven as he is himself. Still, it wasn’t Crowley’s instinct to give Aziraphale all the information. And after Aziraphale’s conversation with the Metatron, Crowley was primed to go ahead with a confession, was interrupted during said confession—so in the aftershock of Aziraphale’s words, he went right back to the path he’d already committed to. Then, of course, it was too late; the pain became too much; neither of them were thinking clearly, neither of them had the time to understand.

Yes, telling Aziraphale of the danger may not have helped. Aziraphale is even better at denial than he is at forgiveness; he might have refused to see what Heaven needs him for, how they intend to keep him in line. (Also, no doubt a worrying thought for Crowley if he was conscious of it: it’s very like Aziraphale to go to Heaven to try and stop the Second Coming no matter the risk to himself.)

But the thing is, the Metatron remembers Crowley. And he must know how rash Crowley is. How impulsive, and how likely to rear up and bite when presented with an offer to be forgiven for an injustice done to him.

So yes, Crowley has been manipulated. Through Aziraphale: through his angel’s indefatigable hope, through his desire to see the best and redeem what had seemed (but surely cannot be!) irredeemable: Heaven itself. Manipulated into storming out, his heart broken, the pain of that kiss still on his lips.

Into, after so many millennia, letting Aziraphale walk straight into danger.

I wonder when Crowley is going to know.

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.

I keep seeing a post that's like "it's so sweet that Crowley cleaned up the bookshop while Aziraphale was in Edinburgh" and I'm like listen, I get what you mean but that is not what's happening here, Aziraphale keeps his shop a mess on purpose to ward off customers and Crowley tries to alphabetize his CD collection to take his mind off the impending apocalypse but is thwarted by them already being alphabetized. That was stress cleaning and it was for Crowley's benefit.

One thing I love about Crowley --never stated, but consistently shown-- is that he is, at heart, an engineer.

I have a few different things to say about that. Let's unpack them.

As the Unnamed Angel, we see his designs for the Pillars of Creation are millions of pages long, comprised of cramped text, footnotes, diagrams, schematics, etc. It's very...Renaissance polymath, in the way it implies a particular intersection of artist and inventor.

Also: in the naked romanticism with which he views his stars.

We already knew he made stars, but in s2 we learn that he did NOT sculpt each of them by hand. He designed a nebula ("a star factory," he says) that will form several thousand young stars and proto-planets, and all --aside from getting the 'factory' running-- without him lifting a finger. We also learn that these young stars and proto-planets stand in contrast to those made by other angels, which are going to come 'pre-aged.'

...I'm reminded of Hastur and Ligur's approach to temptations. Damning one human soul at a time, devoting singular attention to it over the course of years or decades, and how that stands in contrast to Crowley's reliance on, quote, 'knock-on effects.'

Ligur: It's not exactly...craftsmanship. Crowley: Head office don't seem to mind. They love me down there.

Hm.

I'm also reminded of the M25.

The M25 may not be as grand as a nebula (sentences you only say in GOmens fandom...), but LIKE his nebula it's an intricate, self-sustaining engine that does Crowley's work for him, many times over. Again.

That's some pretty neat characterization --and so is the indication towards Crowley's disinterest in victimizing anyone tempting individual people. It takes a considerable amount of planning and effort (and creeping about in wellies), but in accordance with his design the M25 generates a constant stream of low-grade evil on a gigantic scale.

Cumulatively gigantic, that is. Individually? Negligible.

But no other demon understands human nature well enough to parse that one million ticked-off motorists are not, in any meaningful way, actually equivalent to one dictator, or one mass-murderer, or even one little influential regressive. That's the trick of it. Crowley gets Hell's approval (which he NEEDS to survive, and to maintain the degree of freedom he's eked out for himself), and at the same time ensures that any actual ~Evil Influence~ is spread nice and thin.

It's some clever machinery. And he knows it, too:

The Unnamed Angel and Crowley are both proud of their ideas.

(musings on professional pride, Leonardo da Vinci, the crank handle, and 'the point to which Crowley loves Aziraphale' under the cut)

In the 1970's Crowley gives a presentation on the M25, projector and all, to a room full of increasingly impatient demons. Maybe the presentation was work-ordered; the 'can I hear a WAHOO?' definitely wasn't.

Before the Beginning, the Unnamed Angel can barely contain his excitement about his nebula. Aziraphale manages a baffled-but-polite, "....That's nice... :)"

11 years ago, Hastur and Ligur want to 'tell the deeds of the day,' and Crowley smiles to himself because (according to the script-book) he knows he has 'the best one.'

(Naturally, his 'deed' has nothing to do with tempting anybody, and everything to do with setting up a human-powered Rube-Goldberg machine of petty annoyance. Oodles of 'Evil' generated; very little harm done.)

Hastur and Ligur don't get it, of course. That's also consistent.

Nobody ever knows what the hell he's talking about.

It didn't make it on-screen, but, in both the novel AND the script-book, Crowley was friends with Leonardo da Vinci. The quintessential Renaissance polymath. That's where he got his drawing of the Mona Lisa --they're getting very drunk together, and Crowley picks up the 'most beautiful' of the preliminary sketches. He wants to buy it. Leonardo agrees almost off-the-cuff, very casual, because they're friends, and because he has bigger fish to fry than haggling over a doodle:

He goes, "Now, explain this helicopter thingie again, will you?" Because he's an engineer, too.

(It is 1519 at the latest, in this scene. Why the FUCK would Crowley know about helicopters, and be able to explain them, comprehensively, to Leonardo da Vinci?

...Well. I choose to believe he got bored one day and worked it out. Look, if you know how to build a nebula, you can probably handle aerodynamics. And anyway, I think it's telling that this is his idea of shooting the shit. 'A drunken mind speaks a sober heart,' and all. He probably babbled about Aziraphale long enough to make poor Leo sick)

Apart from Aziraphale, Leonardo da Vinci is the only person Crowley has any keepsakes or mementos of.

Think about that, though. Aziraphale's bookshop is bursting with letters, paintings, busts, and personalized signatures memorializing all the humans he's known and befriended over 6000 years (indeed: Aziraphale has living human friends up and down Whickber Street. He's part of a community).

Crowley doesn't have any of that. It's just the stone albatross from the Church (for pining), the infamous gay sex statue (for spicy pining), the houseplants (for roleplaying his deepest trauma over and over, as one does), and this one piece of artwork, inscribed, "To my friend Anthony from your friend Leo da V."

To me, at least, that suggests a level of attachment that seems to be rare for Crowley.

...Maybe he liked having someone to talk shop with? Someone who was interested? Someone engaged enough to ask questions when they didn't immediately understand?

...Anyway.

There's also the matter of the crank handle.

This thing:

This is one of the subtler changes from the book. In the book, Crowley knows Satan is coming and, desperate, arms himself with a tire iron. It's the best he can do. He's not Aziraphale; he wasn't made to wield a flaming sword.

The show, IMO, improves on this considerably. Now he, like Aziraphale, gets to face annihilation with what he was made for in his hand. And it's not a weapon, not even an improvised one like the tire iron.

He made stars with it.

[both gifs by @fuckyeahgoodomens]

If you Google 'crank handle,' you'll get variations on this:

Crank handles have been around for centuries. Consisting of a mechanical arm that's connected to a perpendicular rotating shaft, they are designed to convert circular motion into rotary or reciprocating motion.

Which is to say they're one of the 'simple machines,' like a lever or a pulley; the bread and butter of engineering. You'll also get a list of uses for a crank handle, archaic and modern. Among them: cranking up the engine of an old-fashioned car... say, a 1933 Bentley. That's what Crowley has been using his for, lately. But he's had it since he was an angel and he's still, it seems, very capable of it's angelic applications.

Stopping time. For instance.

(This is conjecture on my part, but, I like to imagine that Crowley has the ability to stop time for the same reason I can --and should-- unplug my computer before I perform maintenance on it. Time and Space are a matched set, after all, and in his designs in particular, one feeds into the other.)

I know everyone has already said this, but: I REALLY LIKE that when he needs to channel the heights of his power, he does so not with a weapon but with a tool. Practically with a little handheld metaphor for ingenuity. One from long-lost days when he made beautiful things.

(And he loved it. Still loves it --he incorporated that metaphor into the Bentley, didn't he?)

Let Aziraphale rock up to the apocalypse with a weapon: he has his own compelling thematic reasons to do exactly that. Crowley's story is different, and fighting isn't the only way to express defiance. And if you've been condemned as a demon and assumed to be destructive by your very nature, what better way than this?

He made stars. They didn't manage to take that from him.

Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale are fighters, really --they have no intention of fighting in any war. They'll annoy everyone until there's no war to fight in, for a start. But between the two, if one must be, then that one is Aziraphale. Principality of the Earth, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Wielder of the Flaming Sword... all that stuff. Even if he'd prefer not to, it's very clear that Aziraphale can rise to the occasion, if he must.

Crowley was never that kind of angel. He wasn't a Principality. He doesn't have a sword.

...And yet.

It's Crowley who protects. He's the one who paces, who stands guard, who circles Aziraphale and glares out at the world, just daring anyone else to come near.

In light of everything else I've said here, I think that's interesting.

Obviously part of it is that Aziraphale enjoys it and, you know, good for him. He's living his best life, no doubt no doubt no doubt. But what about Crowley? What's driving that behavior, really?

Have you heard the phrase, 'loved to the point of invention'? Well, what if 'the point of invention' was where you started? What if where you end up involves glaring out at the world, just daring anyone else to come near? What is that, in relation to the bright-eyed thing you used to be?

What do we name the point to which Crowley loves Aziraphale?

...Thinking about how an excitable angel with three million pages of star design he wants to tell you all about...becomes a guard dog. Is all.

Crowley has a bad habit of being the architect of his own misery.

From what he's sure was Earth's first (and, in his opinion, worst) hangover, to shutting down London's mobile networks only to have to make an urgent call himself, or purchasing the cheapest plant mister and using it in a bluff only to have it leak giving the damn game away, Crowley is frequently frustrated and frequently so at himself.

Now is no different.

He's sitting alone in his car (it still smells like angel and yellow and good lord he didn't know he could be this miserable) with only his plants for company and running through the last few days in his mind and wondering exactly where he cocked the whole thing up.

There was progress, he's sure of it. There were touches, moreso than usual. Hell, he thought he was going to drag the angel off to, well, somewhere, when they were at the pub and he just oh so casually placed his hand over Crowley's useless heart.

He can still feel it, those thick, strong, warm hands that even through layers of fabric felt divine and it made him want things. Tangibly want.

Imminently want.

How was that mere days ago? How had it gone so pear shaped so quickly? He went slow, he did the right things, he tried to protect his angel like he's always done. Well, bugger him for a lark considering how all that turned out.

He knows things now, like the depth of commitment Aziraphale had to the almighty and certainly not to him.

He knows what it's like to love and hate someone in a moment in equal measure. Knows what it's like to have someone awfully close but never further away.

He knows how the angel tastes, the love of his damned pointless, interminable existence, but only when tinged with fury and betrayal and desperation. (It was never supposed to be like that, it wasn't). He knows how soft those lips really are and he knows how those hands would grab him and maybe, in the right circumstances, pull him closer and then maybe-

He wishes he knew less. He'd like to know nothing at present.

But there's nothing for it now, Aziraphale's gone where Crowley can't follow and for the first time in six millenia, Crowley is untethered and entirely alone. Not the kind that protects you but the kind the hollows you out.

He had always promised himself he'd never tell Aziraphale howhe felt, would never break that boundary. Now that he knows how it plays out, he can't help but think he was right, Maggie and Nina be damned.

For the original tempter, the being who brought knowledge to humans and defended that with his entire infernal being, he's currently questioning if this is just one, big, awful joke with him as the natural punchline.

Knowledge, it turns out, is a real heavy burden.