Don't Get Me Wrong, But Spies Of Warsaw Was THE Handsomest DT Ever Looked (before The 60th Specials,

Hand, anyone?

“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.

😌❤️

I'm not a "coffee theory" enthusiast but does anyone else feel like Aziraphale like, literally didn't hear and/or understand a word of Crowley's love confession? And I do mean literally - it seems Aziraphale did not get it at all. He never responds directly to a word that Crowley says about them. I mean Crowley says they've spent their existence pretending not to be a couple and Aziraphale doesn't address that?? Crowley says they can be like Beelz & Gabe and Aziraphale just looks at him like ????? Then Azi just goes "come with me!" almost as if Crowley hasn't spoken. What is this fuckery.

The cottage will be Crowley’s “stars” because he will learn how to do everything himself there and he will be fixing stuff because he likes to know how and besides it’s fun. He’s an engineer after all.

He will be hanging stars again, when he will be hanging lights around the house for Christmas with Aziraphale gazing adoringly at him and taking too many pictures. And he will put the star on top of the Christmas Tree.

That childish happiness? Back on his face from the simple joy of freedom. Of building again - their home.

Aziraphale will still need to be rescued - or his appliances will, after all, Crowley I can’t finish baking if the mixer won’t start working again! Oh to have a husband who fixes the connection in moments and rescues the cake. Crowley will quickly realise that Aziraphale actually enjoys some of those appliances breaking once in a while.

Aziraphale will pretend he cares about fixing cars but mostly he will just learn names of the things so he knows what to give Crowley when he says “pass me the screwdriver” as he works underneath The Bentley. Aziraphale is there for the sweat, dirt and Crowley without a T-shirt, really.

Aziraphale will look at Crowley’s happy face and be so happy that he finally knows exactly how to bring that joy he had as an Angel back on his face.

Freedom. And them.

I love tvtropes.org’s entry on Campbell Bain from Takin’ Over the Asylum:

“Chivalrous Pervert: Campbell Bain wants to lose his virginity and has never had a girlfriend….despite being a lovable, idealistic, kindhearted, funny, playful Pretty Boy in the highest order. Either his condition without psychiatric care/medication is a billion times worse or he grew up surrounded by either girls who preferred jocks or blind lesbians.“

I think what I love most about Crowley’s character is how poetic and cyclical his story and struggle is.

It starts with him in heaven, an angel with a deep love and reverence for God and her creations, a love that he then pours into his work to bring Her vision of the stars to life. But just as he begun his work, he is given a message from God through Aziraphale that can be effectively summed up to “nothing lasts forever”. The physical manifestations of Crowley’s passion and love will be erased in, what is to an angel, a blink of the eye. For forever God has always been the designer and Crowley, as an angel, has always been there to simply carry out Her plans. But it is here that Crowley begins to question and strain this unspoken relationship, desiring change.

So despite being warned, Crowley dares to test his relationship with God and questions the unspoken, only to be rejected and abandoned by her in the most visceral way imaginable. It was here that Crowley began his fall.

As a demon, Crowley comes to love Aziraphale and, just as he did with God, he expresses this intense love through acts of service. He takes him out to eat, he saves him, he bends at every whim to keep him happy and safe, and yet nothing is ever explicitly said. Instead they dance around each other and communicate in code, and so Crowley is left to assume.

But then just as with God, Crowley pushes his luck and says too much, asks for too much. He questions the comfortable unspoken dance they’ve been doing for centuries and asks for something more. In response, Aziraphale parrots what he had said in the very beginning, except this time it’s his own words: “nothing lasts forever”. Not the stars, not the bookshop, not love.

So despite being warned, Crowley kisses Aziraphale, posing his most desperate question. In return, he is rejected and abandoned by Aziraphale in the most visceral way imaginable.

Aziraphale’s “I forgive you” is a very loaded response, and while it rings as an attempt to call back to his and Crowley’s old unspoken routine, it also reminds me a lot of God. Crowley falls in act of sin, and while God punished Crowley, She also forgives him for being a sinner because God forgives all sin. So Aziraphale forgives Crowley because again he has sinned. Again he has fallen.

At this point we realize Crowley did not just fall, that’s past tense. Rather, Crowley is falling. He continues to love, dares to show it, and thus suffers the consequences.

crowley and his golden nail polish

You know, Nina and Maggie wouldn't have been locked in the coffee shop so long if Aziraphale had just RETURNED the plate he STOLE with the Eccles cakes on it. 😆😆😆

fourteen and the toymaker making out sloppy style but fourteen is actually kissing tooth!master