Dean said he’d be there for Sam every step of the way.

Bobby said time works differently in heaven.

What if Dean didn’t go directly to heaven? What if when he got there, it only took a song in a journey in the impala for Sam to arrive because Dean had only just left him? But because times works differently, Dean doesn’t remember his spirit being on earth. What if his spirt was tied to the impala on earth because that car meant so much to him and Sam that even burning Dean’s body on the pyre didn’t get rid of him?

What if Dean was standing there beside his brother as the flames rose higher and Sam’s tears fell further?  What if he was there when Sam fell off the radar, drowning himself in drink oblivious to Dean screaming at him that this is not what he wanted for him. What if he was there when Sam met his future wife, the one who could never replace what they had, but was the first person to make Sam smile, and anyone to make Sam smile was an instant plus in Dean’s books.  Plus she was hot, so go Sam! 

What if he was there for their wedding, Sam needing a moment alone, looking at himself in the mirror in his smart suit, a genuine but sad smile that was drifting from his face as he’d sigh, put the smile back, and say to his reflection, “Wish you were here Dean.” For he loved his lady, very much, she brought him back from the brink of what he’d told Dean he would never do, and Dean would reach to brush a stray hair from Sam’s eyes, only for nothing to move.

What if Dean was there to see the birth of his nephew, and the now happy tears in his brothers eyes as he held his son for the first time, the tiny hand grasping onto Sam’s little finger as Sam chokes out a, “Hey little Dean.”, and the ghostly figure beside them would look to Sam with an expression that could only be read as pure love, and pride, as he’d stand over them both like a protector.

What if Dean was there for his nephews first steps, cheering along with Sam as Sam whisked his son into his arms with a huge grin, and the little Dean would laugh and giggle…and then look at Dean, grinning directly at him. 

What if little Dean ran around the house, Sam telling him and his “imaginary friend” to be careful as Dean chased his laughing nephew as they pretended the floor was lava, Sam oblivious to the relationship forming between his son and his ghostly brother.

What if Dean was there when Sam told his older son all about the life he’d led before he met his mother, the life with his uncle Dean and the world of the supernatural, getting the protective tattoo on his son and all the while the not so little Dean looking at his imaginary friend, that he still had even at his age, and knowing that is not what he was.  

He’d still smile at him though.

What if Dean was there for it all?  Right to the end, where Dean jnr would stroke his fathers grey, flyaway hair from his head, and then turn sadly to ask his uncle, “Is it time?”

What if Dean nodded, “Tell him its okay, that he can go now.”, and he’d try one last time to brush another stubborn bit of grey hair away, nothing happening as usual, those familiar words falling from his nephew as Sam placed his hand on his sons on his chest.

What if Dean whispered quietly to his nephew “Take care kiddo”, before taking one last look at Sam just before his final breath, and fading into the shadows, leaving Sam’s final thought to be how did his son know those words? He’d never plucked up the courage to tell him of those final few moments together with his brother, it was something secret, and sacred, and part of his heart meant only for one other…….

What if Dean hugged Sam on that bridge, so hard, so tightly, because it had been first time he’d been able to touch him in far too many long and painful decades.

Decades?

But….it had only been the length of a song, hadn’t it?

Say Goodbye With a Smile, Dear

Some conversations can only come to pass through misty eyes. It’s more comfortable that way, to lay one’s self out in the open, to become vulnerable in the most dangerous way two people can. There is security in doing so behind a mist. It helps to fog up the glass, to write the words carved into your heart through the condensation, holding out false hope that once the tears have dried and the fog has lifted that such things can be taken back as they disappear. But look at a bus window one day when the sun shines through the glass. The words remain.

So two bodies sat side by side, eyes clouded, in a flat in Mayfair. It was late, the room dark. Neither had the energy to do much else but collapse beside each other on the couch, a piece of paper lying on the table in front of them.

It had been deciphered already on the bus ride over. Thanks to the book, Aziraphale had become familiar with Angnes’s style of warning. There was a plan in place, ready to be set in motion in the morning.

But of course, Agnes did not say if it would work. It was implied, why else would she give them a chance if it was inevitable? Agnes herself had played with fire and lost. Just because they would survive an execution didn’t mean there wouldn’t be another attempt. Crowley knew how deep the pits of Hell could be. If Crowley Aziraphale didn’t burn, who was to say that this still wasn’t goodbye? Aziraphale knew Gabriel sought justice in any way he could. What was to stop him from keeping Aziraphale Crowley in Heaven as some sort of eternal paper-pusher?

There was no way of knowing. All they knew was that tomorrow, they would go out with each other’s face and pray.

Crowley still prayed, Aziraphale knew, no matter what the demon said otherwise.

They sat gazing out the window at the yellow lit windows of other lives. The lives that no longer needed to grieve, not that they ever knew they had any reason to. They had not spoken since they arrived. The only sounds in the flat were gentle sniffs and the occasional hitch of their breathing. Cloth rustled as Aziraphale lifted his hand to wipe his eyes. Crowley let his own be, the water sliding down his cheeks to dampen his collar.

As the light of a window winked out, Aziraphale let out a sound that may have once been a laugh.

“What?” Crowley asked, hushed.

Aziraphale shook his head. “Nothing. It’s a little…morbid.”

“World almost ended,” Crowley pointed out, watching another window darken. “What’s more morbid?”

The angel closed his eyes, another tear escaping his lashes. “I was thinking about last words.”

Crowley swallowed. “Are you planning some?”

Aziraphale shrugged.

“It’s going to work,” Crowley vowed. “You won’t need them, I promise it will work.”

Aziraphale opened his eyes to look at his companion. “I have no doubt we will survive,” he said. “But it could still be the end for us anyway.”

Crowley shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “Don’t say that, please don’t say that.”

“Crowley,” the angel whispered, resting a hand upon the demon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. Please have hope, but you know how I am. I need to prepare for the worst. If anything should happen and I’m not prepared for it-” the angel broke off, swallowing the lump in his throat. “It will destroy me.”

Crowley, eyes still closed, rested his hand over Aziraphale’s. “So do you have them?”

Aziraphale squeezed. “Not yet. I’m debating.”

“On what?”

“Whether or not to be brave.”

Crowley opened his eyes, turning to face Azirpahale. “You already are. I’ll know it no matter what.”

Aziraphale smiled slightly, bottom lip trembling. “Maybe you’ll inspire me. What will yours be?”

Crowley entwined his fingers with Aziraphale’s. “’Last words are for fools who haven’t said enough.’”

“Marx?”

Crowley shrugged. “He had a lot of ideas, but that one wasn’t so bad.”

Aziraphale pulled their closed hands down onto his lap. “But I’ve never said enough, have I?”

“Neither have I,” Crowley murmured, blinking slowly. “Guess we’re even.”

Silence reigned once more. The lights outside began to disappear again, paving the way for a few defiant stars. Aziraphale ran his thumb over Crowley’s knuckles, trying to calm the demon’s shaking hand.

“What were the first?” the angel asked the dark.

“The first what?” 

“The first words we said to each other, what were they?”

Crowley shifted, sitting up slightly to see the crease of Aziraphale’s brow. “I remember yours. You asked me a question.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I suppose I did.”

“The first question of the world. It wasn’t a profound one, but it was still a shock.”

Aziraphale turned towards Crowley. “You spoke the first simile.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “Did I?”

“Yes, you did. It wasn’t a profound one as you say, but it was still a simile.” The angel rested his other hand over their entwined fingers. “Did you know you would inspire poetry?”

“Don’t romanticize it,” Crowley grumbled, shifting to rest his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’m no poet.”

“Perhaps last words are silly,” Aziraphale murmured. “We didn’t begin with hello, why should we end with goodbye?”

Crowley hummed. “We may not get to say anything anyway. If they come, when they come. Probably won’t have a chance to say anything eloquent.”

“I suppose not.” Aziraphale sniffed. “We could always…well, we could always say them now.”

Crowley felt a tear track down his throat. “I’d rather hope.”

“Then I’ll say something hopeful,” Aziraphale whispered. “Something very brave, and very hopeful.”

“And how will you do that?” Crowley asked quietly.

The angel rested his cheek against Crowley’s hair. “I’ll pretend it’s not the end. I’ll pretend it’s the beginning again.”

“Ask me a question?”

“Only for you, dear.”

A window went dark. Crowley felt Aziraphale shudder beneath him.

“I’ll pretend too then,” Crowley murmured. “Poetry, like you said.”

Aziraphale let out a quiet sob, turning to press his lips to Crowley’s hair.

“I’ll set the stage, yeah?” Crowley could feel his own breathing beginning to hitch. “It’s…we’re together, okay? No matter what we’re together.” He swallowed. “So it’s a sunny day. We’re at the park and we’re walking together. Completely out in the open because, because we can.”

Crowley’s voice cut out as he closed his eyes against the coming tears. He could feel wet droplets pooling in his hair from Aziraphale. The angel had ceased trying to contain his grief, and Crowley could feel the angel shaking beneath him.

“So we’re together, and they’re coming towards us. But you’re so brave, angel you don’t even run.” Crowley sniffed. “So you look at them, then you look at me and…and it’s just like the beginning just like you said. So you just say…”

Aziraphale took in a shuddering breath. “Will I be seeing you tomorrow?”

Crowley choked out something between a laugh and a sob. He felt Aziraphale’s arm wind around him, holding him together lest he break.

“You’ll see me the way I’ll see you,” Crowley whispered. “Like two stars, watching each other fade into the dawn.”

All the windows in Mayfair were dark. Yet something still glimmered. Between two trembling figures, fierce and fragile, a light remained. To passerby, it looked like starlight. To an angel and a demon, it felt like hope.

________________________________________________________________

AN: Sorry loves! It was sad boy hours! They’re okay though! We know they’re okay!

I am forever and always obsessed with whatever could have happened that night at Crowley’s flat. Here is yet another one of my takes on that. The title is of course from We’ll Meet Again sung by Vera Lynn.

Since this may be my last fic for a long time (I delayed posting this as long as I could), I struggled to think of an appropriate (temporary!) goodbye. But it is so very hard to say goodbye to someone or something you love, even if you know you’ll see it again. Quite fitting for our ineffable duo.

As always, thank you all for being so dear to the fandom and to me. I really do cherish every kind word. Inbox is always open for prompts (when I’m back) or questions or whatever I may be able to assist with! I may not be writing right now, but I’ll still be here in any way I can be.

As always, be kind, and be well. We’ll meet again 💛

I will be posting a comic page a day for May as part of the Good Omens Celebration- From 1st May for the publication of the Book, and 31st May for the TV series!

(I honestly drew this before the Lockdown vid)

LINK: http://cargocollective.com/naniiebimhbd/Starlightand-Tartan-Comic

Annotations and text under the cut.

Keep reading

“Realistic” art of @writingelizabeth‘s beautiful creation, Snekley. I for one am going to headcanon this as Crowley’s true form from now on.

Character A tilting Character B’s chin up to get a better look at their face and the evidence of the fight. A delicately thumbs away the streak of blood by B’s mouth, saying nothing as they examine it. After a brief pause, B’s heart skips a nervous beat as A looks them dead in the eyes. Their voice is quiet and tense, their anger barely restrained.

“Who did this to you?”

#i am a weak and simple woman okay

Um, absolutely.

oh my god they were enemies

The 1969 Easter Mass Incident

Content Warnings: Religion, food, symbolic cannibalism, symbolic gore, penis mention, Blasphemy, SO MUCH BLASPHEMY, weapons, war mention.  Mind the warnings and your health always comes first. Its a HILARIOUS story, I promise.

As always, all the names have been changed to protect people’s identities.  This is a long one, so Press J now if you want to skip it.

When my dad was a young man and still a practicing catholic, he participated in a small church communion that nearly got him and six other people excommunicated.

Father Patrick ran a small church outside of California Polytechnical and tended to be… rather more liberal in his interpretations of scripture than most of the church was, which made him something of a hit with the local students and liberally-inclined populace.  Pat went to all manner of civil demonstrations, condemned the shit out of the vietnam war and the politics that lead to it and so on.  In January of 1969 a series of incidents lead him to start exploring “nontraditional” means of holding Mass as a means of reaching out to his community and exploring his own faith, which ultimately culminated in the 1969 Easter Mass Incident.

For those of you who weren’t raised catholic, Communion is this ritual where you become one with Jesus by eating a really horrible bland wafer cookie and taking a shot of wine (called hosts), which then *literally* become the flesh and blood of jesus in your mouth, allowing him to become one with you.  It’s big McFucking deal, and you have the opportunity to take communion at every mass.  All this had to be explained to me second-hand because after this and Dad’s 51 days in the army, Dad decided he wouldn’t inflict religion on any children he might have in the future.

“Hey dad,” Six-year old me asked the first time he told me this story after my practicing friends were talking about getting wine at church. “Isn’t that cannibalism?”

“We’re getting to that.”  He waved.

The First Incident in January when, due to a serious cock-up by the church, all the hosts Father Pat received were moldering and spoiled and probably would have killed someone if he’d actually fed anyone them.  But it was the first mass of the year, when a peak number of people came in after vowing to got to church more for new year’s.  He couldn’t NOT have communion.

“I’ll bake.” offered Maria, the parish secretary and probably the best baker in the county. “So we have hosts.  Jesus will understand.”

Father Patrick, not one to pass up the chance at Maria’s cooking, immediately agreed.

A Host is supposed to be composed solely of unleavened wheat flour and water, which is why they taste terrible.  It’s a theological point of some importance relating to Exodus or something but Maria had an important theological counterpoint: Jesus both divine and loves all his children, ergo, Jesus would neither be a nasty bland cracker nor want his children to suffer as such and so instead, she made Mexican wedding cookies.

They were a SPECTACULAR hit.  Many praises were heaped upon father patrick for the Much Better Wafers and that they’d be sure to show up next week as long as Maria kept making them.  Father Patrick figuring that hey, anything that gets people in the doors is good and really, if it was turning into Jesus once inside the parishioner, did it really matter what the wafers were made of?  So he continued to let Maria bake the Hosts, and encouraged her to try out new flavors, like nutmeg and cinnamon.

This went on swimmingly for a few weeks until The Bishop showed up for a surprise visit the same week Maria decided to experiment with rainbow sprinkles.

Dad remembers hearing the bishop through the windows roaring “THE HOLY BODY OF CHRIST DOES! NOT! CONTAIN! RAINBOW! SPRINKLES!”

The matter went clean up to The Archbishop, who decided that while Pat was probably right to not feed spoiled hosts to his parish, he should attend some remedial classes to remember what Communion was all about, so that if it happened again, he’s come up with a more suitable substitute.

Father Patrick returned in late March, full of spite and some fascinating new ideas.

“Is this where the Cannibalism happens?” Six-year-old me asked, eager to get to the good parts.

At his remedial classes, the teacher had stressed the importance of transubstantiation, aka “That bit where the wafer and wine, Actually, Literally, become the flesh of Jesus Christ and we expect you to swallow.”  Also on the syllabus was understanding the importance of Christ’s suffering and sacrifice.

“So, I was thinking about Easter Service.”  Said father Patrick one afternoon while dad was doing his computer science homework at the church because his dorm was a barely-standing fire hazard and the library was where you went to have sex.

“Well, we do re-enactments for christmas.  Why not on easter?  Why not re-enact the crucifixion of Christ right here? Make it real for everyone.  Trauma’s great for bonding a community together.”

“Who’s playing Jesus?” asked Maria, always one for a good laugh.

“That’s the thing- A Host, it doesn’t look much like flesh, right?  Doesn’t look like much of anything, really.  Not great for reinforcing one’s belief.

What if, instead, we- and I mean you, Maria, I can’t cook to save my life- make a man-sized loaf of bread, maybe in the shape of a T, and we have some of the boys dress up as romans and whip the bread and we pour the wine on so it’s bleeding and them- then we make a big wooden cross and actually nail the bread to it with, I don’t know, railroad spikes, more wine all over. And we raise the cross, all while telling the story of the crucifixion.”

He paused to take a drink, Maria slowly crumpling onto the floor in horrified laughter and Dad now thoroughly distracted from his homework.

“Then we lower the cross, and invite everyone who wants to take communion up to tear a hunk of Jesus off.  Just descend into his corpse like vultures.  I think that’d really be a good bonding experience for the church.”  he nodded thoughtfully.  “The hard, part, I suppose, will be finding enough romans.”

“I WANNA BE LONGINUS.” bellowed my father, barreling into the room.

And so, the plan was hatched.  Dad hit up every other guy in the Church and eventually rounded up four more romans, three of them from the Education Department of Cal Poly, and one guy from Chemistry, who just liked to watch things burn.

This, being a play, naturally meant that there was a rehearsal, and test Bread jesus.  Maria had decided that if they were going to start being extra-literal, she needed to make the most lifelike Bread jesus possible, and made a distressingly buff and human-proportioned Jesus by Advanced bread-braiding, complete with plaited hair, quail’s-egg-and-raisin eyes, bready muscle groups, and an eight-pack because why not make the lord completely shredded?*  She also made the important theological decision that since Jesus loves everyone and was happy to die in spite of all his suffering, he should be smiling, and had a toothy corn-kernel smile.  He was Wonderful and Terrifying all at once.

“Maria,” asked Father Patrick after a few minutes of delighted and horrified cooing over Jesus’ toothy grin and abdominals. “Why is he wearing a tea-towel?

“Well, he’s the Son of God. A Man.  With all that entails.”  She said, pointedly staring at Father Patrick while everyone stared at the suspiciously lumpy tea-towel.  “And he might have… burnt, slightly.”

Everyone nodded and agreed that the tea-towel was the best course of action.  The rehearsal goes splendidly and everyone agrees that this is the most delicious Jesus they’ve ever had.

Easter Sunday arrives and the Church is PACKED, from the more lapsed Catholics showing up for a high holiday, parents visiting for spring break and a whole horde of newcomers who had gotten wind that something was up and they ought to come.

Dad is a lanky as hell 21-year old composed mostly of technical jargon and acne but he is STOKED to be playing Longinus, the roman that speared Jesus on the cross, because he gets to do the BEST technical effect in the whole parade.  Since he came in at the end me missed a good portion of the sermon, but did hear the “oooh” from the crowd as the massive cross was dragged in by the other Romans, followed by horrified gasps and high screams and a discernible “What the FUCK” as they brought in Bread Jesus 2.0, whipping him enthusiastically, and hammering him into the cross, the sound of wine splashing onto the floor loud in the terrified silence of that Parishioners.

Finally Father Patrick gets to the part about Longinus, and Dad comes sprinting down the aisle as hard as he can, because in order for Bread Jesus to be seen by everyone, his middle had to be about 10 feet off the ground, so Dad had to run, shrieking latin curses,  down the length of the church, with a big honking spear and take a flying leap at Jesus in order to spear him in the gut.

Please take moment to imagine you are some normal god-fearing catholic who has decided to visit little bobby or maybe patricia at college and you’re all going to church together like a nice family and this Fucking madman has decided to go all Silence of the Lambs on mass and now there’s some sort of underfed translucently pale man in ill-fitting Roman armor and cape flying at a horrifying glutinous effigy of your lord and savior, with an actual fucking spear, screaming like a madman.  Don’t you feel yourself drawing closer to God already? Defensively, perhaps, like an octopus trying to ooze itself into a crevice against the horrors of the ocean.

However, two things happen that were not planned on

1. Dad misses.  In his defense, Bread Jesus is close to but not quite the size of a man- more like the size of a doughy teenager, and his middle is a small target 10 feet up in the air and dad is has a computer science minor, not an athletics scholarship.  He misses by about 8 inches and instead very solidly stabs Bread Jesus right through the groin, leaving a big hole in Maria’s tea-towel and the spear jutting out at a decidedly… attentive angle, as Bread Jesus’s Bread Dick drops to the floor with a splat.  Nobody notices this, however because

2. In rehearsal, Dad had managed to get the spear right in jesus’s navel but neither Father Patrick nor the other romans could get the wine up there to make his middle appropriately bloodied.  

Maria come up with the Genius solution that since wine is made of grapes and Jam is made of grapes, she could make a jelly-filled Jesus for Dad to stab.  There was a normal-sized test loaf and when dad stabbed it on the table, it had a nicely gooey dribbling effect.

However, this time the loaf was torso-sized, still hot from the oven and upright, so when dad speared the very end of the loaf, all the steam-pressured jam had collected at the bottom and a spray of lukewarm smuckers exploded out from bread jesus, turning the first three pews into a splash zone of symbolic entrails.

There was  a hot, sticky minute of complete silence in the church after that. 

Then, Father Patrick indicated it was time for the cross to be lowered, and continued on with the normal preparations of the Host, he himself covered in hot smuckers, as though nothing particularly ordinary was occuring, quietly kicking the bread-dick under the altar. At the end of it all, Father Patrick and invited everyone up with the Last Oration:

“Thou, O God, has kindly allowed us to have a part in this Holy Sacrifice; for this we give Thee thanks. Accept it now to Thy glory and be ever mindful of our weakness. Amen.”

…And everybody came up, shuffling like terrified zombies, pinching off tiny bits at first but then the madness took them and they began tearing apart bread jesus by the handful, weeping as they partook, scattered prayers and begging for forgiveness.  The whole congregation was kneeling about the altar, tearful and united in their guilt and their need for God.

“IS CHURCH ALWAYS LIKE THAT?” six-year-old me asked, absolutely stoked.  I’d convert on the spot if I got a show like that.

“No, it’s normally bland wafers and lots of chanting in latin.”

“Well that’s boring as hell.” I remember muttering and Dad snorting the coffee he was drinking out of his nose.

As people filed silently out of the Church to a gloriously sunny California afternoon, faces wan and smeared with wine and jam, Father patrick turned to Maria and asked “You don’t think that was too much, do you?”

“No.”  Said Maria with a sarcastic deadpan so intense it was hard to tell from sincerity.

It was the exact same tone she used when the Archbishop and Six other high clergy showed up, clutching a letter someone had written, Livid and almost foaming at the mouth, demanding to know if such blasphemy had transpired.

“No.  That’s crazy.”  She said, staring down the archbishop like he was an idiot.

“Such imaginations some people have!” Said Father Patrick, much less convincingly.

“And you-  you didn’t…  Spear an effigy of our lord and savior?”  the archbishop demanded of my father.

“Do I look like I can jump that high?”  Dad asked, having in the interim been drafted for 51 days then nearly died of pneumonia from it, and therefore no longer afraid of the Church, the Law or God.

Somewhat relieved that he’d only received the extremely detailed ramblings of a doddering parishioner, the Archbishop sat down and complemented Maria on her most excellent Mexican Wedding Cookies, may he please have another plate for his nerves? Perhaps the ones with sprinkles?

Dad went on to help build the internet, Father Patrick converted to Buddhism and Maria became a Nun.

*For those of you wondering, Jesus was made of Challah.

If you got a laugh out of this, please consider donating to my Ko-Fi or Paypal, as telling stories on the internet is my only source of income right now.  Thank you very much and I hope you enjoyed it!

Seeing as how it’s a) nearly Easter and b) Easter 2018 is April Fool’s Day, this seems appropriate.

Quick reboggle because, due to the special convergence of holidays, the apparent popularity of this story, and after consulting with several bakers, I will be attempting to make a Bread Jesus on April 1st, 2018.

Given that I only have a regular-size oven, it’s going to have to be somewhat scaled down version. 

A Baby Bread Jesus, if you will.

So did you?

I DID.

Happy Easter everyone, we’re in a pandemic lockdown, there’s a blizzard outside and my baking skills may have improved! Let’s see what happens this time.

I just spent, like, two weeks drawing a ‘they were roommates’ joke. No one is as sorry as I am.

I’ve seen the “get thee to a nunnery” scene done where hamlet has no idea he’s being spied on and just goes off on ophelia because he’s hangry. I’ve seen the “get thee to a nunnery” scene done where hamlet knows he’s being watched from the start and the whole thing’s an act. I’ve seen the “get thee to a nunnery” scene done where hamlet figures out he’s being watched half way through and gets super mad at ophelia for betraying him. now I want to see the “get thee to a nunnery” scene done where ophelia covertly nods at where polonius and claudius are hiding, hamlet gets the idea, and they’re both in on the performance the whole time. I want classically trained shakespearean actors to give us their best best show of bad acting. I want ophelia to mouth some of the most cutting lines to hamlet before he says them. I want hamlet to frown exaggeratedly at her and for her to take this as a cue to start crying. I want hamlet to go grab her by the wrist, her to wince, and him to automatically loosen his grip. I want them to stage hamlet dragging her around by the ear using classic stage-fight techniques. I want them to be aggressively in cahoots with one another because they know each of their bastard father-figures are watching. 

I want this for the lols of seeing them trying to fake-fight on the spot, to give ophelia more to do than just be the victim, and so it never crosses ophelia’s mind that hamlet’s actually losing it a little bit.

that is, until she hears how her father died.

Oh my GOD.

…

OPHELIA [talking just a bit too loudly and clearly] Good my lord, How does your honour for this many a day?

HAMLET [distracted, not quite getting it yet] I humbly thank you; well, well, well.

OPHELIA [even louder, pointedly so] My lord, I have remembrances of yours, That I have longed long to re-deliver; I pray you, now receive them.

HAMLET [caught off guard and genuinely perplexed] No, not I; I never gave you aught.

OPHELIA [exasperated silent sigh, meaningful stare] My honour’d lord, you know right well you did; And, with them, words of so sweet breath composed As made the things more rich: their perfume lost, Take these again; for to the noble mind Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind. [in an undertone, gesturing with her head to where her father and his uncle are hiding:] There, my lord.

HAMLET [after a second or two of silent realization, loud and theatrical] Ha, ha! are you honest?

OPHELIA [exaggeratedly startled] My lord?

… and so on. 

You’re a genius

When you think about it Crowley and Aziraphale must have experienced all of those ancient rituals of kinship and affection throughout History. Like. When people kissed and held one another without a second thought. When it was overall easier to express affection between family, friends, or lovers, regardless of gender, to the point that they must be pretty confused--and disheartened--by modern days' general prudishness

Like. Imagine them in 5th century BCE Persia, where men kissing each other on the mouth was a sign of respect, of being equal to one another ; imagine them wordlessly kissing for the first time like that, instead of their usual colder, disrespectful kiss on the cheek ; because they've accepted that they're not enemies anymore, that they're the same in many ways, but they can't articulate that openly, so they seal the knowledge of their growing respect and affection with a kiss of equals

Imagine them in ancient Rome, where kissing was like shaking hands, only with a million little rules and customs ; imagine them practicing the osculum (close-mouthed platonic kiss between acquaintances and friends) for the longest time, until crowley says something infinitely sweet and impossibly good one night after one too many cups of wine, and in his surprised happiness, aziraphale grabs him by the ears and gives him a basium (open-mouthed kiss of strong affection on the lips, sometimes erotic), making crowley promptly fall over his bench and into the Tiber ; they keep saluting one another with a basium from then on, along with affectionate then-platonic kisses on closed eyelids, brows, necks- up until the practice falls out of fashion along with the empire

Imagine them exchanging kisses of peace when the first Christians start greeting one another with them, as the apostles once did ; Crowley vehemently refusing to call them 'holy kisses' in case his mouth spontaneously melts whenever it meets the angel's, and Aziraphale always indulging him, laughing on his lips while they chastely kiss hello and goodbye

Imagine them during the middle ages, when kisses are not so freely-given anymore, having become so much more important in their symbolism ; crowley kissing aziraphale's hand like a vassal or knight does his lord or lady, reverently, fervently, chastely, with all the wordless loyalty he already feels for him, refusing to admit that all the romance of courtly love has gone to his head but being perfectly aware of it nonetheless ; and it's with a kiss on the lips that contracts are signed at this point of History, and so that's how they seal their Arrangement, finally reaching for each other as one for a long-missed embrace that feels too much like a reunion after the sobering Crusades

Imagine them post-renaissance, during the georgian/regency Era even, in Europe where affection and love between men have become heavily guarded and codified : when they feel their bond and affection the most ardently after millenia of learning to know and love each other, but unable to express any of it ; when suspicions of homosexual love is punishable by death in England, so they have to act distant and stiff and pretend they don't remember what it felt like to sit in each other's laps in Persian courts or taste wine through the other's lips during Bacchus feasts. There are hidden places where they could meet, Molly houses and ungentlemanly balls and back gardens, but somehow it seems like the English ways got to Aziraphale, because it doesn't seem proper anymore to say 'please, I'm begging you, come to a place of ill-repute and risk discorporation with me, because in these desperate times, I'm terrified I'll forget how good it felt to kiss you'. Instead, he doesn't say anything, and hides himself in secret clubs, silently waiting for crowley to stop likewise hiding in his century-long sleep.

Imagine them during a summer of love, catching a glimpse of the other among thousands of bodies dancing and singing, being driven together like orbiting moons until they crash into one another, embracing and laughing and yes, kissing in relief, two mouths who have been parted for far too many centuries, holding each other, rocking into each other's arms while the music plays on, aziraphale laughing against crowley's beatifically smiling lips that he never knew how much he had missed the Adamites before this moment ; the both of them not knowing of the riots coming soon in Stonewall, but wordlessly, desperately hoping, hoping, hoping.

Imagine them now, a lifetime later, finally learning all over again what the other feels like, now free to express the love they've been feeling for ever, with kisses, with touches, with words ; not just because humanity is finally starting to get over itself, but because heaven and hell are as well ; there are no more self-imposed inane rules, no more weight on their shoulders, and they know they can't--won't be judged ; neither on this plane nor the next. And they can learn how to kiss, like it's that first time in Persia, all over again.