Happy Holidays, eldanis!

[goe_mod]

Title: And Pardon'd the Deceiver
Recipient: eldanis
Author: irisbleufic
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: R
Word Count: 3,000
Author's Notes: I'd love something with Aziraphale being a (possibly inept, but quite possibly not) Shakespeare fanboy and would-be thespian, as there is definitely evidence that he enjoys performing (Warlock's birthday party), happens to

Comments

[eldanis]

ldkjghghERH;AGH;HGJK.

My dear, you know how much I love this, but let me count the ways.

Little things, like the gift quilt from Madame Tracy, and Crowley's pickiness about fibers (one I share). And his fondness for bad TV. Picturing him tousled and sleepy-warm is far, far too lovely - no wonder Aziraphale couldn't resist.

He got Aziraphale to the theatre five minutes late, smug and somewhat short of breath.

Which of them was smug and out of breath? My guess is both.

And then, getting into the meat of things:

You already know what a sucker I am for Crowley without his glasses; add it being by accident and him being worriedly prickly about it, and I was already grinning -- and then I caught my breath right along with Rani when she got a good look at him. Aziraphale's protectiveness was perfect, too.

(And his scarf remaining around Crowley's neck thenceforth, constant warm reminder of it.)

And then, oh, oh, Aziraphale as Prospero (a Prospero you'd underestimate, and then be startled by to silence and respectful fear) and Crowley as Ariel (that shock of dark hair, that lanky grace, those eyes): I didn't know how badly I wanted this, how utterly perfect it would be, until you wrote it. I could hear every line as they spoke them, every subtle emphasis shift; see the taut invisible line drawn between them, aching to be closer, dancing near and away and near again.

The connections back to the book, to Crowley's past, and then him speaking Ariel's line: Hell is empty, and all the devils are here. - that gave me shivers, and still does; the comparative levity of the next progression, of them taking the subtext and running with it, was a welcome mood upswing, and also, wow, really really hot.

And then suddenly arriving at quiet and tenderness, and if I do not misread, shared remembered sorrow.

(My sorrow is that this version of the play does not exist, and I therefore cannot watch it. What I'd give for such a thing to be! Maybe I'll have to try my hand at directing someday...)

It came as no surprise that they didn't even make it to the door before falling to each other.

More little things: (cold sand, grit, and gravel glittering with frost underfoot) was particularly visceral, and Aziraphale's “My brave spirit,”, oh.

Just typing up this (verging on overlong) comment has me breathless again. Any attempt to surmise how this could be any more perfect fails utterly. A thousand times, thank you. ♥

[secret_kracken]

You know I'm relieved to hear you loved this, as I hadn't really planned on The Tempest being the play I was going to use or setting the story...where it's set, as it were, for that matter. I was going to use Hamlet and shoot for a historical stand-alone, something in Shakespeare's own time or shortly thereafter, but I sat down and re-read The Tempest once I'd watched the Julie Taymor film version again, and that scene between Prospero and Ariel stopped my heart with all of its potential subtext when handed to our favorite couple. So: it had to happen.

Little things, like the gift quilt from Madame Tracy, and Crowley's pickiness about fibers (one I share). And his fondness for bad TV. Picturing him tousled and sleepy-warm is far, far too lovely - no wonder Aziraphale couldn't resist.

I'm picky about fibers, too; won't wear anything synthetic, don't like blankets that are synthetic, either. As for River Monsters, it's actually a pretty fantastic series, but...well, the piranhas episode. I told you all about that. The autopsy photos included as part of the documentary portions are pretty terrifying. Nothing Crowley would be able to abide for more than a few short seconds. And nothing I will ever be able to forget, given my photographic memory *grim sigh*

Which of them was smug and out of breath? My guess is both.

The modifying phrase refers back to Crowley as the subject of that sentence, but, yes, actually: both of them are smug and out of breath, but Crowley most of all ;)

You already know what a sucker I am for Crowley without his glasses; add it being by accident and him being worriedly prickly about it, and I was already grinning -- and then I caught my breath right along with Rani when she got a good look at him. Aziraphale's protectiveness was perfect, too. And his scarf remaining around Crowley's neck thenceforth, constant warm reminder of it.

You've probably noticed I have a thing for Crowley randomly ending up in bits of Aziraphale's clothing these days (there's one other very near example from me, even, hidden in the recent haystack of posts on this comm). And, as it turns out, I owed you the reciprocal action of making sure he was without them...

As for the rest, regarding how uncannily well they fit these roles and your sorrow at this version of the play not existing: you know that it will. You know that you'll get to see it (or parts of it, at least). If I could just leave the ticker running, do nothing but sit here and write every moment I see, every moment I know in this strange shared world, I think I would (for you if for no other reason). And we have so many films and stage plays to direct together, you and I, don't we?

(A thousand times, you're welcome; six thousand times, yours.)