Listen, I haven't seen a single episode of this show but all the gifs and posts on my dash sucked me in, and now I'm reading fanfiction and having emotions over those two disaster pirates. This idea literally would not let me go until I wrote something, so I did.
Warnings for attempted suicide.
There is a legend that once, a noblewoman forced to marry a man she despised chose the certainty of drowning over never seeing her beloved again. She jumped in the night, when none of the servants-prison guards were there to stop her, and she sunk, dragged down by the cloth of her dress and underlayers, which soaked up all the water and pulled her down like iron weights—but she did not die. The ocean embraced her as if she was its child, and it changed her, changed her into a creature of the depths, of the waves, free to do as she wished, never shackled again.
Some say she became a dolphin. Others say a colourful fish. But some, the superstitious among the pirates and romantics among the rich who would laugh at the naivety of the poor but cherish their tales in private, some say that she became a mermaid, a siren, and that she sings to this day at the shores near the place her beloved died, died when she was taken, a commoner who dared to dream of love that eclipsed all social status.
Edward had heard of this legend too, but never thought about it much.
Instead of throwing Lucius overboard, instead of doing as Izzy demanded and become Blackbeard again—there was no going back to it now, he was not and could never become him again, not after—and there was no going forward, not without him, not without—! Ed decides to jump into the water himself. Lets it envelop him like an old friend, wrap him into a cold embrace, with armstentaclesdragging him down and down and further down. The salt water stings in his eyes—or was it the tears—but he forces himself to keep them open, to watch as the silhouette of the ship—S—‘s ship—becomes darker and darker, until all he can see is the inky black of the ocean, until all is developed in nothingness—
As the last bit of air rushes from his lungs, as the darkness starts engulfing him wholly, the last thing he is conscious of is a burning sensation running down his spine and alongside his neck. Then, blessed unconsciousness.
There is a legend that once, a noblewoman forced to marry a man she despised chose the certainty of drowning over never seeing her beloved again. She jumped in the night, when none of the servants-prison guards were there to stop her, and she sunk, dragged down by the cloth of her dress and underlayers, which soaked up all the water and pulled her down like iron weights—but she did not die. The ocean embraced her as if she was its child, and it changed her, changed her into a creature of the depths, of the waves, free to do as she wished, never shackled again.
Some say she became a dolphin. Others say a colourful fish. But some, the superstitious among the pirates and romantics among the rich who would laugh at the naivety of the poor but cherish their tales in private, some say that she became a mermaid, a siren, and that she sings to this day at the shores near the place her beloved died, died when she was taken, a commoner who dared to dream of love that eclipsed all social status.
Edward had heard of this legend too, but never thought about it much. In his dreams, there was no gentle and loving embrace waiting for him in the ocean deep, only inky-black tentacles that wrapped around him and squeezed—
Unbeknownst to Ed, as he jumped, he was seen by Lucius, who rushed to the railing and opened his mouth to call for help, but could not get a sound out (he, who talked so much, rendered silent in shock).
And later, a few days at most, always at the very edge of their hearing the crew, worked hard and beyond exhaustion by Izzy, could hear a haunting sound somewhere in the distance, always out of reach, that sometimes sounded like a song, and sometimes when Lucius woke up after seeing Blackbeard jump and jump and jump, he swore it sounded like him.
And later, when Stede makes it back to them and retakes his ship, ousting Izzy (but leaving him with a dinghy and provisions), Stede asks where Ed is. And Lucius tells him when they are alone, in the emptied-out cocaptain’s quarters, amidst the echoes of what used to be. And Stede breaks down, just like Ed did, just like Ed did after what Stede had done to him—
And later, when he manages to take a step without his legs threatening to buckle out under him, when he can breathe without wanting to cry, he stands at the railing and looks at the waves, Lucius standing close by to prevent what he should have prevented the first time, to do what he should have done—
And Stede hears it. That haunting sound. That almost-song he can barely make out. But something is familiar about it. As if—he dismisses that thought the first second third tenth twentieth time but one night, it seems closer, or maybe he strains his hearing, or he is exhausted beyond exhaustion after nights of no sleep, he thinks—this voice is familiar. This voice sounds like…
And he remembers reading a legend about a noblewoman who was torn from her lover and married off to a rich nobleman (and he never could hide his frown while reading these words, that twang of something that would never scab and heal), who took her far away from home. That tale of a woman who would rather die than be away from her beloved and who jumped into the sea, but was transformed into a mermaid instead. Who sung near the shore where her lover lived and died. And he remembers how an addendum—probably included on the behest of a wife or child who disliked the sad ending—said that her lover had not actually died, but one day came to the shore and called for her after recognising the voice. And how the noblewoman swam to the shore and crawled onto the sand, where her fin transformed back into legs, and where her lover awaited her tearfully and with many kisses.
And he wonders—and he hopes—and he orders the crew to follow the sound despite their warnings. Sirens, they warn him, knew what you desired most. It was a trick of his imagination. He is still grieving, should he not—
But he prevails.
And the sound becomes clearer. And now the others too recognise the voice and they wonder and fear. They try to stop Stede when he climbs down into a dinghy, but he ignores them and rows after the voice, after Ed—
He finds him trailing after the ship in the water. Seaweed in his hair, shells entangled with kelp, and slits in his neck; the remnants of Stede’s nightgown, the red one, the one Ed loved so much, clinging to him like a second skin. Stede sees the tail, long and scaled, red and purple, glittering in the sunlight, and he sees the tears on Edward’s face—but Edward does not see him, looks right through him, staring at the ship that Stede can barely make out anymore in the distance—
And Stede calls his name. “Ed,” he calls, half-whispering, half-sobbing. “Ed. I’m so sorry. There are no words adequate enough for me to express how deep my shame runs, how guilty I feel. Please, Ed, come back to me. Please. I beg you. Please, Ed—”
And he singing stops. Dark eyes focus on Stede and burn deep into his soul. But Ed does not speak and shadows seems to fall onto his face, his features twisting into an expression so pained and desperate that tears Stede’s heart in two. You left me, it seems to say, you left me, you did not come, you did not come—
And Stede takes Ed’s hands calloused and wrinkled from the waterand kisses his knuckles, one at a time. Tears mingle with the seawater as they drop from Stede’s eyes, as he crumbles in on himself, held aloft only by the boat and Ed—Ed who still does not speak, but also has not pulled away. “I’m sorry,” Stede repeats, over and over again. “I’m sorry. I left you. I wanted to but—” He takes a deep breath. “I love you, I love you so much, and I do not deserve it but I do and I wish I was there sooner. I wish I was there for you. To hold you and to kiss you. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, Ed, I love you, please—”
And calloused hands rise to cup Stede’s cheeks and lift his head, guide him until Stede looks into the eyes of Ed, Ed who looks at him as if he is unsure whether he is awake or dreaming, as if he is afraid of blinking, lest the image disappears. And tears run down both their faces, but Ed’s eyes seem lighter, now, and he willingly follows as Stede moves backwards in the boat. Allows Stede to pull him out of the water, long tail hanging over the edge, and falls into Stede’s arms, head against his chest—and he sobs, loud and broken, and keens and whimpers as Stede holds him, apologising over and over and over again—
When Stede rows back, hours, days or months later, he cannot tell, some of the crew had already begun preparing a dinghy to come and rescue him. And he calls up to them, asking for help, and together they lift Ed up on deck, tail stretched out between Stede’s legs. And they wonder, and they shout in alarm and awe, and they don’t trust their eyes, but Stede pays them no mind. He holds Edward, rocks him gently, and whispers sweet nothings into his ears until exhaustion overtakes Ed and he falls asleep in Stede’s arms.
Someone, maybe Lucius, maybe Jim, pours water down Ed’s neck and tail, just in case, and wraps something warm around Stede’s shoulders. And after Stede falls asleep too, they gather around, bringing all the pillows and blankets they could find, and they spread around their captains, close enough to touch.
In the morning, Stede awakes and does not remember at first what happened. But then he looks down, and sees Ed, still asleep, legs where they should be, and he remembers. And he smiles, and cries, and hugs Ed closer, and when Ed wakes up he cries too, and sobs—
But they would heal, one day, and calm seas lay in their future.
be christ-like this christmas. gather a crowd and inspire them to anarchism. beat a politician with a whip. help out your local sex workers. preach equality.
The Them AREN’T aged up, but they’re PLAYED by 17-and 18-year olds trying to be passed off as “eleven”
Aziraphale is cast as an older, overweight actor and the fandom reacts by starting to ship Crowley with Newt
Aziraphale and Crowley are cast as very talented actors of color who are perfect for the roles and perform them flawlessly but the fandom reacts by pulling a TFA and zeroing in the only white guy/white guy ship in the cast and now 80% of the new fandom content is Pollution/Famine
Benedick Cucumberbatch
They replace the Bentley with a muscle car because an antique Bentley doesn’t look “cool” enough
This
Crowley wears a skirt but it’s treated like a joke and Aziraphale makes transmisogynistic comments
Crowley and Aziraphale lean in to kiss at the Ritz but then pull back and scoff at how silly it would be if two males were involved that way.
There’s a joke thrown in with something about ancient Rome or something but it’s clear the writers are uncomfortable with the chemistry and try to diffuse romantic tension.
Anathema doesn’t actually want to have sex with Newt but Newt pressures her into having sex with him “because of the prophecies”
No Queen in the soundtrack
People start shipping Agnes Nutter and Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery Pulsifer
Here’s a hc. Aziraphale 100% plays the piano you can’t convince me otherwise and sometimes he’ll play Queen cause he learned some songs out of curiosity cause Crowley keeps obsessing over them and one day Crowley come over to the book shop and is like “play something” and Azi’s like 😎😎 and starts playing feckin Bohemian Rhapsody is something and Crowley has just never been more in love in his entire life.
I can totally picture this. Now this makes me want to look up Bobemian Rhapsody for piano just to see what it sounds like!
I can picture him playing a slower version of Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy and seeing how long it takes Crowley to catch on.
-his first thought when aziraphale said they were drowning Mesopotamia is the children
-it was his idea to raise Warlock together
-when raising warlock he chose the role of a nanny who would be closer to his upbringing than a Gardner (you could say it was him trying have a more hellish influence on the boy but come one let’s be real)
-he’s shown repeatedly how much he loves humans and how he projects his own falling on to other things
If his anger at himself and his falling is projected to the plants than what do you think happens when he sees the children who are lost and forgotten? The ones who are bad not because they’re inherently like that but because that’s what everyone’s told them to be? You’d think he’d give them the same treatement heaven (just shut your face and die) would? No no sir. Mr. Anthony “just try to mess with one of my kids I fucking dare you” Crowley is there with a tire iron and the promise to fuck up anyone who tells you you’re naturally bad
Most might have looked upon the destruction of consecrated ground as devastating, especially an angel like Aziraphale. But in the centre of the smoking rubble, amongst the desecrated remains of St. Dunstan-in-the-East, the site becomes a blessed place of epiphany, a radiant spot of love, and a sanctuary for his heart.
But even so, one does not simply miracle a church back together, especially not one blown to smithereens by demonic intervention.
So Aziraphale does the next best thing. He preserves what little of it remains. It takes countless minor miracles shifting favors in the bureaucratic circles of the City of London to stall the dismantling of the ruins, and some creative accounting to make enough room in the council budget for its upkeep. Finally, after 26 years, the City converts the ruins of St Dunstan into a public park. Of course, a certain A. Z. Fell & Co. is brought in to manage the job, and manage it he does.
It becomes his passion project away from the bookstore, whenever he needs a bit of fresh air. Trees push their green-laden boughs in through empty windows that once held stained glass, and vines wind and drape themselves over the surviving stone walls. Flowers are planted and greenery is spoken to with many tender, caring words so they are plumped up with love, flourishing despite the less than ideal air in the city. A burbling fountain, a flagstone path and stone circle in the middle surrounded by wooden benches complete his secret garden, a beautiful, tranquil oasis of green in the middle of a city that never stops hurtling forwards in time.
It was not, as conventional secret gardens are, hidden away from the eyes. It becomes, for many who work and live in the city, a brief reprieve from the world. The public comes and goes, bankers take their sandwich lunches to munch within its walls, and many a couple have their wedding pictures taken amongst the lush greenery.
For Aziraphale however, it remained secret because in 1967, when the garden was, at long last, ready for eyes other than his own, he was bound by circumstance to finally give Crowley a thermos containing a substance that might cause him to lose his companion forever.
That is, until the apocalypse that wasn’t came to pass.
When they finally go on their long-awaited first picnic, Crowley is puzzled when Aziraphale forgoes St. James Park and tells him to meet him at Tower Hill tube station on a Sunday morning. They stroll through the eerily quiet streets absent of the hedge fund types and corporate drones that form the weekday crowd, wicker basket in hand until they come down St Dunstans Hill.
The angel spies a flicker of recognition in Crowley’s eyes as they approach the church they had once stood in the smoking wreckage of, but still the demon says nothing. They pass children playing in the small churchyard outside the ruined stone walls, and a middle aged gentleman lounging in a patch of sunshine, perched on a bench with a book in hand. This is when Aziraphale chooses to take Crowley’s hand and lead him through what would have once been the church’s main doors and into the garden he’s been cultivating for half a century.
Crowley half remembers the burning sensation of consecrated ground on the soles of his feet, but the thought is quickly washed away by the love that envelops him the moment he steps inside. It radiates from every leaf, every blade of grass, every paving stone in the ground. It shines out at him from the lilies that bloomed in the bushes, and in the birdsong coming from the trees.
He turns to look at his angel who is gazing at him with such a soft, shy smile that the world seems to slow to a stop without any miracle on either of their parts.
“For you” Aziraphale whispers.
Crowley knows, at that very moment, that the angel had fallen for him the day he’d diverted the bomb to St. Dunstan-in-the East. And after six thousand years of his falling for Aziraphale, the angel had finally caught him.
St. Dunstan-in-the-East is an actual public garden in the City of London, surrounded by the stunning ruins of a church that was bombed by Germans in WWII. Based on the establishing nighttime shot in Ep. 3 of the church in which Crowley saves Aziraphale from the Nazis, the location and surroundings (read my location breakdown in this earlier reblog I made if you’re curious) make it very probable that St. Dunstan might its real-life counterpart.
FYI if you see two of these posts going around, I deleted the original cuz tumblr did something weird to the tags and I couldn’t fix it through editing.
Listen, I’m still so upset about Crowley’s reaction to the Flood and to the Spanish Inquisition. Obviously it’s a normal and appropriate reaction to be horrified by these kinds of events, because they’re horrifying, but I think it’s particularly telling for Crowley to be so appalled. Especially when you contrast one against the other.
The Flood… the Flood is divine cruelty. It’s God or Heaven or Somebody in a position of authority deciding that these particular humans suck and responding by exterminating the whole lot. It’s a (super)natural disaster. And Crowley’s absolutely nauseated by the callousness of it all, the unilateral devastation of it…
…but he’s Fallen, okay, he knows how unfeeling and unmerciful God’s justice is. It’s sickening to him, but once he gets his head around the fact that it’s happening at all, it’s not surprising. He processes Aziraphale’s bad news and goes “okay yeah that tracks, that’s how God/Heaven act when they disapprove of someone, fair enough” and watches in quiet despair of it all when the rains come.
But the Inquisition is a different matter entirely. This isn’t divine wrath, this is human cruelty, and it’s a whole different animal entirely.
By the time the Inquisition got rolling in the late 1400s, Crowley had already spent five and a half thousand years falling in love with Earth and with humanity. He loves humans because he sees something of them in himself, I think. Not all good, not all bad, just sort of something in between— and, critically, with the power to choose what they want to be. I suspect he envies them that freedom to choose. Immortals within the GO universe aren’t allowed to choose what they want to be. You either are or you aren’t, end of story, and Crowley and Aziraphale both have been staging small, tiny, almost unnoticed rebellions against that black and white dichotomy since Time got going. Crowley doesn’t have the stomach for cruelty, for “true evil” so he gets creative in his rules-lawyering so that Hell doesn’t come for his ass, and Aziraphale… well, that’s a whole other post in and of itself.
The point is, Crowley loves this world and all the strange, complicated humans in it. And it’s not that he’s got rose-colored glasses on. He knows humans are just as capable of doing evil as they are of doing good. But the scope of something like the Inquisition, the rabid hatred and fear-mongering and the cruelty of what’s being done to innocent people… that’s a viciousness he just can’t stomach at all. It’s not something he can watch and assimilate and quietly grieve over the way he did with the Flood; he goes straight home and spends upwards of a week trying to give himself alcohol poisoning just to cope with how horrible it is.
It makes me wonder how many other times throughout history Crowley’s accidentally gotten credit for some act of human evil, and how he’s coped with that over the years. Angels and demons are supposed to be… kind of impartial. They do their jobs, sowing faith and chaos respectively, but they’re not supposed to care. And both Aziraphale and Crowley are different, they’ve both been “corrupted” so to speak by their long exposure to humanity up close and personal, and it’s brought those seeds of human compassion in them both to full flower… but the thing is, Crowley was always like that, wasn’t he? And it hurts me deeply to see how that plays out.
i can’t decide if he’d bully it like his plants if it wasn’t vacuuming quickly enough, or alternatively, he’d TRY to bully it but then it beeps at him and he can’t bring himself to and it just becomes his Pet Roomba That He Loves But Won’t Admit That He Loves Because He Is A Demon And It Is A Robot
yes. he tries to get rid of it but he can’t bring himself to so now the roomba is just terrorizing him in his own home. but at least his floors are clean
Aziraphale LOVES the roomba. He thinks it’s cute, he wants to get one for the shop, but he’s worrried it would knock piles of books over or something. He ‘feeds’ it crumbs and tells it it’s a “good roomba”.
Crowley just glares at it through all of this, knowing he won’t be believed if he complains about how much its victimising him and watches it acting all innocent.
Aziraphale leaves, Crowley gets up and feels a pain in his ankle. “You are not a good roomba.” he growls.
I’m pretty sure there’s something in the book about machinery they use working according to their belief (like how Crowley’s sound system doesn’t have any speakers but works anyway because he doesn’t know you need speakers)
So really there’s two possibilities here:
(Humorous) Crowley believes the roomba is out to get him (possibly because it unknowingly bumps into his feet a few times the first night), and so, therefore, it is. Aziraphale believes the roomba is very cute and reminiscent of a small, loving pet, and so, around him, it is.
(Angst) It’s Crowley’s roomba, which makes it attuned to his thoughts and perceptions of the world, and so it treats people differently according to how much Crowley likes them.
