Oh, I Love This! And Somehow "They Always Build A Snowman When It Snows" Is The Sweetest Little Detail

Crowley starts off his confession already terrified, already most of the way to mourning, but his voice really starts to go to pieces when he says “and we’ve spent our entire existence pretending we aren’t. Well, these last few years, not really.” And you can just see it sinking in — after all these years of pretending, this is all we get? These few years of half-admitting, half-having? Never saying it was love?

I think that’s why he can’t get through “and I would like to spend — ”. Whatever time we have left together. Really together. Before it all comes apart. He’s just realizing that after all this time, he won’t get to.

Amazing how uncannily fitting are the words of that song.

When I first heard about this story, I thought - wow, EVEN Patti Smith herself isn't immune!

Patti Smith and Her Dedication To David

On this day in 2014, the iconic rock-n-roll queen Patti Smith (who's celebrating her 77th birthday today, by the way) dedicated her song "Distant Fingers" to David Tennant. Which makes me even happier when the first thing he said to me when I told him my name and spelled it so he could sign an autograph, he asked me, "Oh, like Patti Smith?" Yes, sir, exactly like that! For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, let me elaborate. I don't know how often she did it on her 2014 tour, but I know that on 29 December 2014 at New York's Webster Hall, she had a talk with her audience (watch at the link) before singing her song "Pumping (My Heart)," and described how David first caught her attention for his role as Alec Hardy in Broadchurch. Then, after catching him by accident in Doctor Who, she ended up watching his entire run as the Tenth Doctor, and - predictably, because DUH! - fell head over heels for him.

The following night, again at Webster Hall, was her birthday. That night she dedicated another of her songs, "Distant Fingers" - from her 1976 album, Radio Ethiopia - to David. You can watch that here - and I'd advise you to watch it in its entirety, as she begins to riff at the end of the song and talks about David:

And oh, just in case you're having difficulty understanding her words, or English isn't your first language, here are some of the lyrics to the song:

When, when will you be landing? When, when will you return? Feel, feel my heart expanding You and your alien arms

All my earthly dreams are shattered I'm so tired, I quit Take me forever, it doesn't matter Deep inside of your ship

La, la, la, la, la, la, landing Please, oh, oh, won't you return? Feel, see your blue lights are flashing You and your alien arms

Deep in the forest I whirl like I did as a little girl Let my eyes rise in the sky looking for you Oh, you know, I would go anywhere at all 'Cause no star is too far with you, with you....

Keeping in mind she wrote this song in 1976, the lyrics fit David's turn as the Tenth Doctor with eerie clairvoyance!

And because she is the queen she is, she adds a sly little comment: "So come for me, David. I know I'm an older woman, but I know so many things."

One wonders what David thought about this. I've no doubt someone in his circle alerted him to Patti's dedication, because how could they not? And as an aside - his interaction with me about Patti Smith was about nine months before she did this dedication to him. So not only was he aware of her as the music connoisseur he is, the fact her name sprung immediately to his mind when speaking to me has always made me think he's a fan.

He probably blushed. Deeply. Well played, Patti. Well played.

I knew that! Flipping conspiracy!!

end of time secret ending (the bbc wont tell you about this one)

Part 2 The Runaway Bride

So, everyone has pointed out how funny it is that fifteen claimed to have gone through therapy and be fine now only to immediately act just like his old traumatised self and it is but like…

Has anyone considered fifteen was lying?

What if he hasn’t actually experienced that domestic bliss that fourteen got to enjoy or have fourteens memories following their split at all?What if he just told fourteen he did to convince him to stay on earth and be happy so fourteen could have a chance at happiness that fifteen believes he will never have and doesn’t deserve and his seemingly incredibly upbeat personality is just a facade?

I mean this sounds incredibly in character for the doctor to me tbh

woke: the nazis recognized crowley because he was working for british counterintelligence 

also woke: crowley didn’t actually know exactly when and where aziraphale’s book deal was going down, he just had a vague idea, so he’d been busting into churches at random for about the past month and a half, hopping around on his burning feet, and each time he did it he Loudly announced his entrance like “here comes anthony j. crowley to save the day!” because he had a whole plan, he was gonna be so suave, but it was never aziraphale, and he ended up interrupting several other clandestine nazi meetings so that word got around in nazi circles of anthony j. crowley, the weird hopping church guy, and then when he finally did happen upon aziraphale’s deal, he was just so incredibly happy to see his angel that he completely forgot his smooth introduction, but the nazis recognized him as the weird hopping church guy so they did it for him.

1960’s ineffable wives but Crowley looks like this

We drifted here, in the lack-of-light, passing no-time. But we would feel it from so far away... your noisy, boiling universe. We want to travel there, to play your vicious games and win.

Wild Blue Yonder

"A joy in celebrating whoever you happen to be... And that's just a message of kindness and openness, and I think that's why the tone of Good Omens is positive, and open, and joyful - and fun!"

Oh, DT, I love you. Not much news, but still.

“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.