No, said Aziraphale, it's ineffable.

I just love the fact that it seems like anytime Crowley tries to do anything even remotely evil/ annoying to the general public it pretty much always ends up inadvertently biting him in the back somehow. Have all of the local phone lines go down? Make the M25 a literal demonic sigil? Always ends up screwing him over in some way. Honestly it seems like the only time it doesn’t happen is when there some kind of catch to it, like him directing a bomb into a church, a sacred and important location for both humans and Heaven, that just so happens to be infested with nazi scum. Or having some workers let off some steam with real guns only to make sure no one would get killed or probably even seriously injured thanks to some miraculous escapes. I don’t know, I just find this to be a really interesting part of Crowley’s character that’s displayed pretty well throughout the show.

queenburd asked:

sometimes when Crowley and Aziraphale are having a Moment, whether it be simply kissin time or more, Crowley will keep chanting "holy, holy, holy," under his breath. Aziraphale is a little unsure about it, it's pretty damn blasphemous, but he and crowley have gotten into the whole "made in the image of god, but imperfect, don't attempt to worship me" bit before and Crowley refuses to stop because he means it really sincerely

[well now you’ve gone and made me feel poetic @queenburd ]

Though Shalt Not.

Oh Crowley had heard it many times. For the longest while, before the beginning, it’d been nothing but Though Shalt Not’s. Shalt not question Her authority. Shalt not attempt to understand ineffability. Shalt not this, shalt not that, and so on.

Until one day it all culminated into Though Shalt Not Return.

Following the whole corporate restructuring, Crowley had grown to see the words as more of a challenge than anything. Like a child told not to play with a toy that wasn’t theirs, or warned not to stick a fork into an electrical socket. It was a nasty way of coping, but Crowley had become rather good at being nasty, and getting better at it every century.

Especially when the big sods upstairs chopped out the meat of it into ten easy steps. It was like they’d constructed the perfect opposite end of a Venn Diagram, with all the seven sins in the other one, and seeing where they all met in the juicy, raw middle. With enough hard work and sweat and tears and venom, Crowley practically made both circles into one. At least when see from a proper angle [from the other angle, it looked more like Dante’s perspective].

Except for the second one. That bullet point always seemed to elude him.

Worshiping dieties always seemed so redundant by the time the Red Sea parted. God was one thing, but Crowley knew damned well that other religions thrived long before Her. Bless it all, he’d met quite a few of them in the stars before the whole falling mess, smiling benignly over China and India and the Americas, long before the molten rock solidified into greenery and time. All full of promises, the lot of them. Empty ones. Just like Her.

What was wrong with worshiping somebody else? It wasn’t like the results were any different.

So, rather than spread that bit around, he pocketed it. Kept it close. Momentarily peaked at it every time a pair of blue eyes crinkled at him. Saw it in the reflections of dinner plates and wine glasses. Heard it’s prayer with every awkward, peeling laughter shared with furled wings and strange understandings.

It didn’t dawn unto Crowley, until several years after the End That Never Ended At All Really, That he quite liked saving that little rule for himself to break. And break it he did.

“You shall’nt make f’y’self a carved image,” Crowley drawled against satin pajamas, face practically melding with the warm fibers, swirling the sweet and acrid culprit of his oncoming [allbeit preventable] hangover in his left hand, bottle dangling over the edge of the couch. His voice was haggard, hoarse, warm, and dreadfully too Honest. “Or ‘ny likeness of ‘nything that is in heav’n above….. or that‘s ‘n the earth, or that‘s ‘n the water…”

“You shall not bow down to them nor serve them,” a light, equally exhausted, equally honest, though far more sober voice provided, not too far from above where Crowley’s head was trying to burrow.

“Sumthin’ like that,” Crowley groaned, dropping the bottle to wrap his arms around the body that held the voice. Caressing the temple that held the very soul he was breaking the second commandment with.

Aziraphale chuckled. A vocal equivalent of a fond, disdainful eyeroll. Crowley took great pride in swallowing that chuckle with a sloppy, unpracticed kiss. But that was hardly Crowley’s fault, for while Hell housed all the musicians, Heaven had the choreographers, and Aziraphale knew every step to this dance of theirs.

“For I,” the words sang in the back of Aziraphale’s mind, forgotten as he held the wrongfully deviled temple of the serpent in his own arms, the both of them a messy tangle of quilts and pajamas [though not for long] on the couch, “The Lord your God, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children to the third and fourth generations of those who hate Me, but showing mercy to thousands, to those who love Me and keep My Commandments.”

Crowley would never say it to [his] angel’s face, but in spite of everything, he couldn’t help but notice Aziraphale, too, was like god. They both lied. They both coveted creatures that didn’t deserve it. And worst of all, they were both too blessedly warm for their own good.

The big difference, blessedly [or perhaps not], was that one of them was always within arm’s and prayer’s reach.

See, that’s what the app is perfect for.

good omens photo recap ep 5