the hill on which i will not budge: the apocalypse, the spawning of the antichrist, the great war, and the whole ineffable plan was just god playing the long game so she could get crowley and aziraphale together after 6000 years of faffing.
see originally this was just written as pure nonsense, but i’ve thought about it now and am very definitely picturing good omens’ god as one of those fic writers using all the tropes to devise wonderful and impossible scenarios to get her ship together
only it never works because of that whole pesky free will malarkey
hotel receptionist: mister crowley, mister aziraphale, there appears to have been an error with your booking. you’ve somehow been booked into the same room – and there’s only one bed.
god: oh no
god: only one bed
god: what will they do?
god: hee hee hee
aziraphale: not to worry old boy, you take the bed while I read all night in the hotel lounge so as not to make you feel uncomfortable. angels don’t need sleep anyway, you know.
ALRIGHT i’m an ancient crone and good omens was one of my earliest online fandoms, so for those of you new or newer to this delightful shitshow than about 2008, to get you started or tide you over til the new wave of fanwork starts rolling in, please enjoy a selection of some of my favorites from back in the day. (i also wrote…like, two fics and did some art, including a stupid-ambitious like 8-page comic about the angelic/demonic origins of kissing under the mistletoe, but sadly it’s been lost to time and the LJ exodus.)
i’m particularly light on artists so if anybody else remembers some please let me know!! we had good artists in the fandom, i just have the worst brain. ENJOY!!!
Many people, meeting Aziraphale for the first time, formed three impressions: that he was English, that he was intelligent, and that he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide.
As a general rule of thumb, angels did not need to sleep—not in the same way humans did. But there was something restful about the ritual of a nightly routine which Aziraphale enjoyed greatly, donning his tartan flannel pajamas and brown comfortable slippers with all the reverence and solemnity of a monk preparing for midnight mass. If a midnight mass ever involved a hot cup of cocoa and a good book in front of a roaring fire. But there was something different about tonight, something that needled away under his skin like an itch that no amount of ritual familiarity could sooth. Not even his old flannel bathrobe and his favorite armchair—a measure he reserved only for the most fraught of occasions—was enough to quell the prickly chill working over his skin as the thought he’d been trying to avoid for some time came crawling to the forefront of his mind. Crawling being the operative word.
We can run away together, he’d said, Alpha Centauri, lots of space up there, no one would even notice us…
