HEY FUCKOS WHO WANTS THEIR HEART RIPPED OUT OF THEIR CHEST AND HUGGED? Here is a fanvid to the Pentatonix version of “Hallelujah” because we weren’t feeling enough of, y’know, The Exquisite Ache Of Tenderness
also oh my godddddd i am a fancy professional fantasy author and Hugo-nominated podcaster, and that means Perfectionism!!!!!!! and that is why I wrestled for TEN HOURS with just the two seconds of smashcuts at 4:05. TEN HOURS!! They kept being just a tiny little bit off and I couldn’t unsee it, but I have vanquished it so godfuckingdammit give me your wahoos, give me all your wahoos.
The original thesis of this video was “*princess bride voice* every time they sang Hallelujah what they really meant was I love you”
gather round me, children. and i will tell you all the story of an alternate world where aziraphale works at a christian gifts store at the local mall, directly across from where crowley works at a spencer’s.
That doesn’t sound like an AU. That sounds like a canonical dare.
wait, do people know about aziraphale and crowley’s new year’s resolutions
at some point neil gaiman and terry pratchett wrote these up and they’re very good
Crowley:
Resolution #1: I must accept that Super-Gluing valuable coins to the sidewalk and then watching events from a nearby café is not proper demonic activity.
Resolution #2: The same applies to rearranging the letters on wayside pulpits.
Resolution #3: Try to come up with something as good as cell phone ringtones, following one last stab at convincing Downstairs that cell phone ringtones are right up there in the whole Human Misery stakes. And iPods. Has anybody Down There even said thank you for iPods? Or “Googling yourself?” Frankly, I deserve some kind of award for “Googling yourself.”
Resolution #4: I must encourage greedy people to use the term, “Low-hanging fruit,” because that’s just like old times.
Resolution #5: This year, I will get a desk near the window.
Resolution #6: I will try to understand why Hell is a no-smoking area. I just think it’s ridiculous having to stand around outside the gates, that’s all.
Resolution #7: On the orders of Head Office I will encourage the belief in Intelligent Design, because it upsets everyone.
Resolution #8: Stop Googling myself.
Aziraphale:
Resolution #1: Spread peace and love and glad tidings of great joy throughout the world. Also try to get out more.
Resolution #2: I will be charitable to people who use the term “core values,” however difficult this may be.
Resolution #3: Notwithstanding Resolution #2 (above), I will redouble my efforts to have the utterance of the phrase “core values” classified as a deadly sin. I believe Himself is with me on this one.
Resolution #4: I will try to be nicer to the customers. They want to buy books; I want to sell them. It can’t be that hard. (Memo to self: Regular opening hours? Mark prices on books?)
Resolution #5: I will try to be polite to Gabriel, no matter what the provocation.
Resolution #6: Find out exactly what an “Internet” is.
Resolution #7: Really must resume dancing lessons. Learn the “Galloping Major,” the “Gay Gordons,” the “Mashed Potatoes.” Possibly even the “Twist”?
Resolution #8: Thwart Infernal Wiles (ongoing).
Resolution #9: I will try to understand why Heaven is a non-smoking area.
Resolution #10: On the orders of Head Office I will encourage the belief in Intelligent Design – despite the fact that the human airway crosses the digestive tract. Who thought that was intelligent?
Aziraphale had learned a dance called “the gavotte” in a discreet gentlemen’s club in Portland Place in the late 1880s. After a while, he had become fairly good at it, and was quite put out when, some decades later, the gavotte went out of style for good.
Somehow, the lack of buzz about this makes me think that no one checked what gavotte was (is?). It’s a pheasant KISSING dance where partners exchange kisses at the end. That he learned at A DISCREET GENTLEMEN’S CLUB.
WHY is no one talking about this at all?
WAIT WHAT
… this is one of those things I just assume everyone knows.
we all talk about az being out of touch w technology but what about crowley. when does mr. “crowley automatically assumed all vehicles he drove would have cassette players and therefore this one did” “he forgot abt speakers so his sound system just works perfectly without them” find out no one uses cassette tapes anymore. when does he find out fax machines are obsolete. does he know what body wash is, bc he doesn’t need to shower and he doesn’t go to the grocery store. has he ever seen a granola bar. does he know about automatic transmissions. if crowley hadn’t invented fruit roll-ups i don’t think he would know what they were. there are unplumbed depths here. crowley doesn’t interact with the world like a human any more than aziraphale does and i think we may have forgotten that
It’s also a huge and hilarious plot-point that Crowley’s computer is showy, but doesn’t do much, whereas Aziraphale’s is an outright fossil, but very functional. And he uses it to keep all those scrupulous tax records in which nobody can prove he’s getting away with murder somewhere.
y’all realize this means that aziraphale is canonically 99x better with computers than crowley. aziraphale keeps incredibly detailed tax records on a computer in the 80s. do you know what computer was the most popular – particularly for financial records – in the 1980s? the IBM personal computer.
this thing ran a text-only operating system. the screen couldn’t display any images unless they were ASCII (like the logo shown above). the first iterations didn’t even have a multicolor display – just the standard green on white text you see in retro vaporwave shit.
to use a text-based operating system, you need to know virtually every command you could conceivably need to run in order to do what you need to do. need to open a file? first you need to locate it. you need to type the right command to move to the right directory and then you need to type the right command to open it in a text editor or viewer. you need to either know all these commands, or (in 1983) have them written down in a goddamn book and look them up one by one.
in other words, most people even now wouldn’t have the first idea how to take a crack at one of these motherfuckers.
and of all people, aziraphale can use one – not only reasonably, but well enough to keep tax records SO DETAILED that the IRS DOESN’T BELIEVE THEY ARE REAL.
and crowley’s computer doesn’t do anything. because he doesn’t know how to use it. sure, he’d be able to use windows 10 today with some instruction (what the hell is a mouse for, anyway?) but aziraphale would almost certainly be able to read the error codes the damn thing spits out when crowley inevitably breaks something
Crowley: angel, help me, I need to find a new pair of cool leather jacket online, my last one just caught on fire.
Aziraphale with hacker voice: Leave it to me
agreed, but this is because when Aziraphale inputs a command, the computer always does exactly what he expected it to do.
Aziraphale talks to his computer like he’s talking to a person By this point his computer is probably a person
He types “show me the picture I took last saturday of a duck” and the computer’s like “you took two pictures of ducks last saturday, here they are.” and ignores the pictures of geese and robins with no tagging required
input: Play that one of Crowley’s cursed bebops I have lodged in my head, please.
input: It goes do do do do do do do.
output:
despite being equipped with a sound system only capable of generating motherboard emergency beeps, somehow a full orchestral & choral cover rendition of Queen’s Fat Bottomed Girls that had not previously existed
headcanon st. patrick actually drove crowley out of ireland specifically and now he’s not allowed back there
Okay but why am I imagining St Patrick chasing Crowley all the way to the Irish coast with a broom like my Irish grandmother when she sees a rat
imagine aziraphale wants crowley to go take care of something in ireland as per the Arrangement, and crowley has to explain that he Physically Cannot
“What do you mean you can’t go to Ireland? It’s only a minor miracle and I know you’ve got a tempting to do over there!”
Crowley doesn’t drop his head into his hands and groaned but it’s a near thing. Very near. They’re in Aziraphale’s shop—as usual—and although the weather outside suggests otherwise, it’s cold as space* inside the dusty book-filled place.
“Because,” is what he says after a moment, glaring at the angel. His signature sunglasses were tossed on the desk an hour after their arrival at the shop and Crowley somewhat wishes to put them back on. That would, however, infer to Aziraphale that he’s leaving and Crowley really doesn’t want to leave.
Even if this specific line of questioning sort of makes him wish to.
“That isn’t a good enough reason, Crowley.” The angel responds tartly, and Crowley wants to throw the nearest book at him. Unfortunately, considering his serpent-like nature, the heat makes Crowley quite sedate. The cold of the shop, too, does much the same.
He really can’t win when it comes to temperature.
“I’ll owe you for next time, angel,” Crowley tries, actually promising for once, and he hopes that’ll convince Aziraphale to drop it. Crowley offering him this olive branch of sorts.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t.
“I’ve performed every task we’ve been given in Ireland since the 5th century, Crowley. This is becoming a tad bit unequal,” Aziraphale says, standing directly in front of the demon sprawled on the sofa. It’s the only time the angel is taller than him and can look down at Crowley.
Crowley finds the sight quite enticing.
“I can’t go to Ireland!” Crowley snaps.
“Can’t or won’t?” Aziraphale snaps back, glaring down at the demon.
Crowley really doesn’t want to answer. Because he knows, if he tells Aziraphale the truth, the angel will honestly laugh. And… Well… Crowley likes hearing Aziraphale laugh but not about this. This is… It’s… It’s humiliating, is what it is.
“If I tell you…” Crowley trails off before sighing. “You’re going to laugh, angel.”
Aziraphale gasps, offended. “I would never!”
Crowley gives him a dark look. Never say never.
“You know that Saint fellow the Irish love, yeah? Think you met him once,” Crowley begins reluctantly. Aziraphale nods a little uncertainly until Crowley expands: “Saint Patrick.”
“Oh yes! Lovely chap! Performed a lovely set of miracles assisted by yours truly, absolutely grand man!” Aziraphale exclaims, frowning after a moment. “But what does he have to…”
Crowley nods. There we go. Connection.
“Oh.”
Aziraphale stares at him. Crowley stares back.
“Oh my.”
The angel’s head drops, he looks away. Aziraphale’s shoulders start to shake.
“Angel?”
Crowley sits up, tired sluggishness forgotten in the face of his angel in distress. He reaches out with a hand and touches Aziraphale’s arm.
He’s far enough forward now that he can peer up at the angel’s face, see the expression on it and Crowley blinks.
“Are you—are you laughing?”
That breaks the angel’s silence and loud laughter echoes around the shop.
“You absolute bastard! Stop laughing, angel!” Crowley stands up and grips Aziraphale by both arms.
“I’m sorry. I—it’s just,” Aziraphale hiccups out, still laughing. “You got chased—out of ireland—as a snake!”
Crowley hisses in frustration and it only makes Aziraphale laugh harder.
“I hate you, angel,” Crowley mutters. He doesn’t, not really, but he really really wants to in that moment.
__
* Space is, Crowley recalls, very fucking cold. Too cold to be entirely honest but still miles preferable to the muggy heat of London in summer. At least space doesn’t stink of boiled piss and sweaty humans.
