I do not own Good Omens.
I love it. So much.
The Man Who Fell
The Thing, In That Movie, With the Lady, And The Cake
It's the Ritz again, all white tablecloths and crystal wineglasses.
Softly playing music and prim and proper servers.
Lavish four courses.
And decadent desserts.
His angel is eating one now, the very last bite.
He took his time with that, with every single one, if Crowley has ever been at a meal with him.
Well, every time except . . .
Not very sophisticated and classy then, were you, angel.
No, you were a sublime, savage beast.
. . . that first time in Job's bottom room.
Our first times are often such.
No carefully cultivated self-control yet and all that.
But this time, ah, after five thousand years of practice . . .
". . . was scrumptious."
"Mmm . . ."
You don't say . . .
But it's not like it isn't true.
Aziraphale, neat and prim waistcoat, vest, tartan tie.
Posture a proper comely gentleman at a fine dining establishment.
The angel's innocent, generous face a picture of barely contained ecstacy.
And Crowley the Demon sees himself from the outside, as a neighboring table may have.
Positively draped over the table at his angel.
One hand to his mouth, glasses shielding enlarged serpentine unblinking eyes as they drank in the spectacle before him.
Always did enjoy watching Aziraphale really enjoy something.
Especially with his mouth.
Ahem.
But it's not like it isn't true.
The demon.
And his angel.
And the latter, more amnesiac counterpart suddenly shifting on his feet.
Face pinkening, eyes darting here and there.
As if what he's seeing is making him feel uncomfortable.
And Crowley wonders if his memory is trying to break through again.
"Wot? Wot is it?"
And the man seems to want to hesitate to answer.
"Why are you . . . why are you looking at me . . . as though-"
Voice dropping to an unnecessary murmur, as though the even in the invisible bubble in which they are encased such inappropriate words must be whispered.
"- as though you wish to . . . know me?"
And Crowley is momentarily taken at a loss.
"Know you, of course, I know you, I've been trying to tell you I've known you for centuries, angel, millennia-"
"No. I mean, know me know me. As in . . . Biblically."
And Crowley still remains bewildered beyond all reason, frustrated beyond all reason.
"Biblically?! Of course we know each other Biblically, we were angels together, we saved blameless Job and his idiot goats and children together, we-"
And then the metaphorical lightbulb haloes his head in blinding clarity and mortifying shame.
"Oh. You mean . . . oh."
And he backpedals so fast he almost falls over himself whilst standing still.
"No, no, I just, I mean, I was only . . ."
And he bursts forth in confessional speech, metaphorical lightbulb a beacon of self-realization now glowing over his head bright than a -
No, not halo. Bollocks, you-
"I mean, you were an angel and I was a demon and I was tempting you and, well . . . I mean, look, you should have tried watching yourself eat that! There was a mousse and a, a, a, a cream and-"
And he just manages to reign himself in before the metaphorical lightbulb sprouts thumbs and starts posting on social media.
"Look, let's just try again, this is obviously not working, I'd've thought angels had purer constitutions than that, but after that oxrib- never mind - rraahhh-"
Soft piano music.
White tablecloths
Divine elegance, aromatic smells.
"Didn't we already do this one? Are we on playback?"
It's not a VHS tape, you idiot. We're all on digital now.
"Oh, no, I see. Your hair is different in this one."
Satan save us, he's gone full Clockwork Orange, how bad am I at this-
But he's come this far, he's giving it all he's got, cap'n, and he's certainly . . .
"Azira- Abedooley- listen-"
"Yes, yes, just watch. You keep saying."
". . . think none of this would have worked out if you weren't, at heart, just a little bit of a good person."
Always had me pegged, angel. Against my will, you did.
". . . enough of a bastard to be worth knowing."
And his still stubborn amenesiac angel turns to him.
"Is it always like this?"
Crowley looks back, wishing he could get through to him, touch that soft heart he's always had.
"Like wot?"
A vague gesture.
"Some insult, some push past what this . . . me . . . wishes to be? You keep calling me -him-, 'angel' but you don't really want him -me- to be."
"Wot? No. I - I only . . ."
And he grits his teeth so hard it's a wonder they don't poof to dust right there in his mouth.
"I only ever wanted you to be who you were. Are. Could be. Beyond the reach of Them."
"Them? What Them? Who Them? They Them?"
"Who- wot? No! Don't you see? It wasn't all . . . it wasn't all . . ."
He growls at himself in frustration, low in his own throat.
He's been speaking since the Before the Beginning, he's always been very loquacious, that was considered one of his problems, his ability to talk, to question, to give give opinions that had not been asked of him by Anyone In Charge As They Already Knew Everything Themselves and Did Not Appreciate His Propensity For Unsolicited Advice, Do You Understand?
So why can't he speak now?
"It wasn't all like you think it was, angel! You're cherry-picking-"
"Cherry picking? I'm not cherry-picking, you're the one choosing these flashbacks, hallucinations, whatever you want to call them-"
"Memories! They're called memories, Azira-Whatever-The-Hell-You're-Calling-Yourself-These-Days! And they're some of the best I have!"
". . . the world."
"To the world."
"GrrrrRRAAHHH!"
The title is referencing the Merovingian restaurant scene in the Matrix Reloaded.
Because that's exactly what it was.
As for the rest of it, well, talk about being in the weeds.
Either them or my writing.
Or both.
;)