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I’m here to talk about a story, an ending, and what it means to me. There’s going to be some chat about my writing in ways that it relates to that story, some broad sweeps and some specifics, and a hopeful ending. This is my story of that story, telling a story to you directly rather than from behind a narrator and some characters like I usually do. It’s irreverent at times, serious at others, and always sincere, like all the stories I try to tell.
I loved the finale of Good Omens: I don’t think it was perfect, I don’t think it was the only way this story could have gone, but I loved it just the same. It was a story, a story that worked, and a story that left me satisfied. Not everyone felt the same, which is normal and human. Not every story works for everyone.
None of this means the ending we’re all talking about and having so many feelings for is just a story. It means it’s a story, the most important, wonderful, devastating, human thing of all. As a wise Doctor once said, we’re all stories in the end. It’s only natural that we cling to stories, that they mean so much to us, and that we seek every scrap of meaning from them we can. “People think that stories are shaped by people,” as Terry wrote in Witches Abroad, “In fact, it’s the other way around.”
And as anyone who’s ever worked with me in certain of my professional capacities will be tired of hearing me say, there’s always more than one way to tell a story.
To begin, I’m going to lay a few things out.
First, something that shouldn’t have to be said, but given the state of Discourse in the fandom at the moment, I’m going to say: everything here is my opinion, my interpretation, my views. I’m not trying to claim that my opinion is the only right one, that anything I think about Good Omens is The Facts, or that anyone else’s interpretation is any less valid than mine. Maybe something I have to say will influence how you think about it, but my goal isn’t to change anyone’s mind. I’m just here to talk about things that mean something to me, and if my perspective happens to help anyone untangle any of their own feelings, I’ll be honoured to have been of service. If not, that’s okay too.
Second, there are a lot of things I’m not going to talk about. This isn’t going to be a beat-by-beat breakdown of things I think were good or bad or in between and why. This is a higher-level commentary on the finale, focused on the ending, and why it works for me. I will not be speculating on what parts of the final version of the story we got came from Terry Pratchett, which parts came from That Man, which parts came from the other writers in the room at Amazon, or trying to hyper-analyse who (actors, director, etc.) might have made every tiny decision in the show, and what those decisions mean. I spend the majority of my professional life in the entertainment industry and I know how collaborative and incestuous these kinds of projects are: none of us is capable of unravelling all these decisions solely by watching the show. Also, micro-expressions are not a conscious thing. Anyway, moving on. If as you’re reading this you’re going BUT WHAT ABOUT— chances are I’ve probably left it out because it’s not vital to what I’m trying to say here. There also almost certainly things I wanted to say that have been left out because I’ve been thinking about this so long and I lost them. That doesn’t mean any of the above are unimportant.
Thirdly, I want to acknowledge that I’m someone who has always had the softest of spots for and the deepest devotion to stories where characters question the status quo/established way of things, often at their own expense. Stories where characters are forced to weigh the (sometimes faint) possibility of their individual happy ending against the greater good they could enact, or even strive towards, by being willing to give it up. Stories where characters are placed in impossible situations, and act with incomprehensible bravery. Stories where the characters didn’t have to do all that, but they did, because they’re part of something larger than themselves, they believe in something larger than themselves. Stories where characters must make difficult choices, even if to someone else the answer might seem obvious. Stories where a good ending, which may or may not also be a happy ending, doesn’t always mean everyone’s dreams come true. Sometimes everyone makes it out alive. Sometimes they don’t.
Eärendil and Elwing. Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee. Violet Sterling. Luke the Warrior. Ferdiad. Cordelia. If you’re not familiar with these characters, their stories, and their varied endings, go read a book. Or go watch my precious murder husbands in Hannibal or Loki’s entire arc in the MCU, lest I let you think the only characters I like in these types of situations are the “good” ones. And don’t even get me started on Star Trek and Star Wars and Doctor Who. All this to say, while this wasn’t necessarily the ending I was expecting (I went in with no committed expectations, to be honest), it was a kind of ending I’m personally predisposed to like.
One of the reasons I pushed myself to finish Avē Imperātor when I did (just under a month out from the finale), apart from the fact that it was eating my brain from the inside, was that I knew the ending was going to give people big feelings. That it was going to hurt them— I hoped, in the same way that my favourite stories hurt me; ways that remind you of your humanity, that bring on a catharsis that makes you ache for love of a story and its people, and for the beauty of an ending that means something, even if it isn’t a conventional happily ever after. Judging by the response, I think I achieved what I was hoping for, and that I was able to tell the story I’d had in my head all along. I knew that my ending was going to hurt people, and that whatever the ending of Good Omens was going to be, it was going to stir up a lot of big feelings too, and I wanted to get mine out there in time for people to start to read, process, and hopefully enjoy before the finale dropped. Little did I know just how strong the parallels in the endings were going to be.
When discussing the end of Avē Imperātor with a friend who’d been super invested in the story for a long time, I shared that this was always going to be the ending because there was simply no avenue for a traditionally happy ending in this story. At the most basic level, Crowley could never have been truly happy, or truly free, in Rome. No matter how kind and caring Aziraphale was as emperor, no matter how much they loved each other, the society and systems they were set in would not have allowed for Crowley’s happiness. And if Crowley was living a life that could not allow him to be truly happy, or truly free, could Aziraphale really have been happy about it in the long run? I don’t think so. And this Aziraphale was every bit the good emperor Crowley saw him for: he could not abandon Rome to whatever chaos would erupt if he ran away. He could not leave his people to the mercy of whatever opportunist might come next. The only way out was through: separated, Crowley gets to escape, to live, to return to the land of his birth. He gets to belong to himself, to live free for the first time since childhood, outside the society and systems of his oppression. He gets to grow old and wise in the home he made for himself, with the people that have become his, to find happiness in a way that doesn’t depend any one person. Of course it’s tragic that they’re separated. But that doesn’t mean it’s not a good ending. And the purple sail on the horizon in the epilogue? It can mean whatever you want it to mean.
I think the same thing is true for the Aziraphale and Crowley of Good Omens canon. They were existing in a universe and in systems that simply left no avenue for a traditionally happy ending, or the happily ever after as we might’ve fantasised about it. In a universe where Heaven and Hell wouldn’t leave them alone, where they were constantly being pulled back into conflicts between their Realms and trying to protect humanity from annihilation, where the Book of Life exists to wreak the kind of destruction we saw Michael do —and the kind of tinkering the Metatron got up to behind the scenes—, where God “plays an ineffable game of His own devising, which might be compared, from the perspective of the other players (i.e. everybody), to being involved in an obscure and complex variant of poker in a pitch-dark room, with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won’t tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time,” I don’t think there was truly a way for it to all end up happily ever after in the same universe it began. Perhaps if season one had really been the ending, it might have been possible to imagine. Or if season one had ended, as the book suggested imagining, with
“a figure, half angel, half devil, all human…
Slouching hopefully towards Tadfield….
…forever,”
there might have been no more story to tell. But that’s not the story we got. We got season two in all its delightful exploration, and we got the finale, in all its imperfect effort to give them, and us, the ending we deserve. From the moment Michael started burning up the Book of Life, any remaining remote possibility of a traditionally happy ending that was gone. When Crowley and Aziraphale arrived in the bookshop at the end of everything, they were all that was left. That universe was gone, not by their doing, but because of the blank cards and infinite stakes devised by the capricious Dealer. Faced with the options they had, when God finally showed Herself, I don’t see how they could have made choices other than those they did. The only way out was through.
“I only want one thing, and that’s not what this is about anymore,” is Aziraphale loving Crowley enough to let go of their impossible happy ending. “Even if there are no angels. No demons. No us. Ever again,” is Crowley loving humanity enough to let go of Aziraphale, and of himself. “We’ve come to a decision,” and “We know what we’re asking for,” are unity in the love of humanity and of each other. Of course it’s tragic that Crowley and Aziraphale don’t get to live happily ever after— but that doesn’t mean it’s not a good ending.
And who’s to say immortality is all it’s cracked up to be? Like it says in the book, “Crowley had always known that he would be around when the world ended, because he was immortal and he wouldn’t have any alternative.” They were immortal whether they liked it or not. But why? What for? What’s the point of existing forever, other than to become inured to the passage of time and to the mayfly lives of humanity? To be pawns in someone else’s game of chess, or the Lady in their Monte hustle? Why should they put the universe back the way it was so that everyone can go on living and dying under the Dealer’s House Rules, while they endure forever? Seems a bit too Godlike to me. A bit too much like going off to Alpha Centauri and leaving the people to goodness knows what awfulness. “That doesn’t matter,” as the response to the new, mundane universe being “Something that both of you will neither know or experience,” is indicative of reconciliation with the end of an existence. One story ends, so that another can begin: everyone getting a chance, as they both wanted. And in the end, it’s their choice. As Terry wrote in Wintersmith:
“This I choose to do. If there is a price, this I choose to pay. If it is my death, then I choose to die. Where this takes me, there I choose to go. I choose. This I choose to do.”
The choice to give up immortality as well as each other, to instigate the creation of a universe where free will is real, where the Dealer’s been locked out and the universe has had 14.8 billion years to figure itself out rather than 6000, is an act of love. Of weighing the balance between selfishly snatching at the faint hope of personal happiness under unconscionable circumstances, or ensuring that everyone gets a chance at real happiness. To set things right, or at least put into motion an outcome where they can be right. And even in choosing this, they did already have millennia together. That doesn’t mean a traditional happily ever after would have been in meaningless— but it does mean that they’ve had so much more time together than anyone actually gets. Their love is not erased by not having been shown in traditional or expected human ways: it’s been shown in everyday ways, in monumental ways; in every interaction, wordy or wordless, that demonstrates their knowledge of each other, their depth of intimacy, their care, the breadth of their trust and the lengths they are willing to go to protect each other. Love doesn’t always proclaim itself with that word; sometimes it arrives quietly and never leaves, gradually embedding itself in every fibre of a life, until it doesn’t need to demand to be seen, because there is no other option but to see it. Their love was powerful enough that God Herself always smiled about it. Sometimes, when the “Dealer who smiles all the time” was smiling, it might just have been at them.
And here’s another place where I’ve written an ending much the same. In the original fantasy series I’m always picking away at in the background, a central character is an elf who is ancient, far more ancient than everyone around her knows at first. Like most fantasy worlds, elves in this one are immortal— except the problem is, they weren’t supposed to be. The beings who are revered as gods in this universe came along and tampered with things, but they fucked it up. Elves started living forever, but their memories never fade, and the inciting problem of this story is that elves who are old enough, having never taken any of the options available to them to die, begin to go insane under the weight of their memories. This ancient character is older than this, but retains her sanity due to carrying the God of Death inside her (it’s a long story), and manages to work out what’s going on. Back in the long, long ago, before she became host to the God of Death, she had a beautiful life, a true love, and was uncrowned queen of their kingdom. All of that was wiped out in a conflict that resulted in the whole host thing. In the present day of the story, she has found ways to be happy, and another love, without anyone knowing who she really is. But once she figures out that she has the power to expel not only the God of Death but all his kind and their tampering, she chooses to give up her immortality and her life in order to make it happen. She embraces her lost identity, and gives herself in the service of all.
“God of Death,” she says, “in all your fear… I let you go.”
The whispers of her linger in the world for a moment, to say goodbye. Heartbreak and joy and wonder follow. A new day dawns. A new story begins.
Everything that went before isn’t gone, isn’t unimportant, isn’t forgotten just because the person or people who experienced it isn’t around anymore. Tragedy and doing the right thing can coexist. Heartbreak and happiness can hold hands.
Good stories, and good endings, take all kinds of complicated, wonderful forms. Isn’t that magic?
In the aftermath of finale day, a friend asked me how I felt about it, as the person who wrote Among the Stacks. After all, I gave Aziraphale and Crowley a very different ending in that story, and it has been my incredible, unbelievable honour to have many people tell me that Stacks their season three, ever since I finished writing it. I’m no less proud of that story, its ending, and the way that people have responded to it now than I was at the end of the miraculous month in which I wrote it. But remember back to the beginning of this commentary: there’s always more than one way to tell a story. In my mind, the finale and Stacks live in very similar philosophical places, even if we went about our stories differently.
Among the Stacks works, I think, because it’s operating on a fundamentally different premise than the universe of the canon finale. In Stacks, Heaven and Hell are largely out of the picture. Hell isn’t bothering Crowley and, although Crowley’s not to know it, before the story even starts, Heaven is no longer bothering Aziraphale. And in my story, the problem of the Second Coming has been solved much differently, which we only spend a few sentences on because that’s not what this story is about. With that resolved, I pretty much let the question of who’s running Heaven and Hell and what’s the Ineffable Plan now that the playbook’s been run out pass Stacks by. Perhaps my God is more benevolent that the God of canon, or perhaps Her caprice just takes a different form. It doesn’t really matter. That’s not what it’s about.
What it’s about is Crowley and Aziraphale having the chance to find each other, to get to know each other, and to fall in love again as if they were human, without the pressures and interference of their Realms. Crowley is obviously dealing with a lot, and we spend a great deal of time with his emotions and agonies and moral dilemmas, being the one who knows their situation isn’t what Azariah thinks it is. And once it does come out that he is a demon, and Azariah accepts both this and the idea that he was an angel called Aziraphale, together they have to learn how to fall in love all over again, in honesty. Love, under those circumstances, is what allows Aziraphale to return. Crowley was right about the va-voom all along, but it had to come from love and honesty. Love, and both the willingness and refusal to give it up, are what allow Aziraphale to take God’s wager; what allow Crowley to ask God to make him the same as Aziraphale; and for God to reveal that She cannot, and to give them their immortality, their powers, and their freedom, formally disbarred from Heaven and Hell.
You may also remember, if you were looking closely, that in Her release of them, God says “[Y]ou shall live in my Creation as long as you desire.” They can leave any time they want. If they ever decide they’ve had enough, they don’t have to go on living forever, until the end of the world, without any alternative. That’s not to say they will, I certainly don’t intend to write more of that story long enough to get to that choice, but they have it.
The idea that eternity might not be the best or only option, that forever might mean as long as you can have with the person you love, that a human life might be enough, is threaded throughout the fic, even though it turns out differently.
And as Crowley drove away into the darkening streets, he reflected on the true meaning of Christmas.
Old things die.
Forever circled in Crowley’s mind like wheeling crows, and he was impressed with the sense of this strange cycle of holidays, and human lives. Old things die. New ones are born.
I have a choice for you, then.
“Yes, Lord?”
I will return you to Earth. Not to your old life, but a new one. A human one. A life in which you will be happy, and know nothing of your angelic past.
“And Crowley?”
If it is meant to be, he will find you. And you will remember.
“If?” Aziraphale asked, thrown, “Don’t you know if it’s mean to be, Lord?”
No one can know everything, Aziraphale.
“But—” Aziraphale’s mouth opened, then closed. “And… and if he doesn’t?”
Then you will live a happy, mortal life.
Aziraphale was silent now, his head spinning with the choice that had just been presented to him. He gulped down panic, the uncertainty of the choice threatening to overwhelm him. To give over the entirety of his being, his past, his future, everything that he was, to chance? But it wasn’t to chance. It was to Crowley.
Are you willing to trust your fate to a demon?
Aziraphale looked up, and his eyes blazed with celestial fire.
“Yes.”
“Angel,” Crowley said as Aziraphale dried his hands, “I’ve been thinking.”
“Dangerous,” Aziraphale said archly, turning to lean against the sink, “About what?”
“Eternity.” The word seemed to suck all the air out of the room, creating a silence so absolute it muffled even mundane sounds, like the ticking of the fridge, and the crackling of the fire.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said finally, his voice soft and pained, “Anthony, my dear,” he crossed the scrubbed boards and reached out to Crowley, who took his hands, “Why worry about that? Isn’t it better to just enjoy the time we have? I know it won’t last forever, but…” Aziraphale trailed off, and Crowley sighed deeply.
“I know. But I have to think about it, angel. I can’t— look,” Crowley had thought he had the words, but was finding it difficult to make them come out, “If I had the chance to become mortal too, to just share that time with you, wouldn’t that be best?”
“Crowley, no.”
“Azi, listen to me,” Crowley gripped Aziraphale’s hands tight, “I— I’ve always wanted to spend eternity with you. But if I can’t, then what’s the point of eternity at all? I can’t do it alone. There could never be another you, and even if there was, watching the cycle of aging and death over and over only to be left alone again… no,” Crowley shook his head. “I want— if I could just have a human life— I would like to spend—” Crowley gulped, looking down at their joined hands. After a long breath he looked up, meeting the blue eyes that had magnified his existence into something more than meaningful, eyes that never lied, that pierced every part of him and made him whole. “Aziraphale, I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages of this world alone.”
Aziraphale’s eyes welled. Gently he cupped both sides of Crowley’s face, and bent his head to kiss him, even as a tear fell from his eye to Crowley’s cheek. It was a gesture of understanding, and letting go.
“How?”
Yes of course I ripped off that LotR quote. I even set it up earlier in the story with a comment about how film quotes were always coming out of Crowley’s mouth at the strangest times. What is fic if not a place for self-indulgence?
Anyway, the point is— the point is: choices. Free will. Accepting that all that is in your control is how you choose to respond to the circumstances in which you find yourself, and finding the power in that. Being afraid, and deciding to carry on anyway. Being part of something larger. Love. Above all, love, humanity, and hope. Dissolving with a kiss and a smile and joined hands, into something beyond anyone’s expectations, where anything is possible.
As stardust they fled, to quote myself, into the fiery birth of a new universe.
Personally, I don’t think that Asa and Anthony are Aziraphale and Crowley. I do sort of love the idea of “Time After Time” implying that they always meet, over and over again, in every time, in every universe. And knowing me, I’ll probably write that fic at some point, because there’s always more than one way to tell a story, and I look forward to exploring other versions. I’ve had a version of that type of story cooking in my brain for years for another fandom anyway; maybe it’ll find its way here instead. I also sort of love the reincarnation theories, and the ones where A & A are A & C in some way— which goes right along with how Aziraphale and Crowley in Among the Stacks are still Azariah and Anthony, and both and neither.
But perhaps more, for the finale, I love the idea that, time after time, given the chance, humans will find love and joy. That Asa and Anthony are who Aziraphale and Crowley might have been, given the chance. The kind of people, with the kind of messy, silly, predictable love that’s gotten millions of books and songs and poems and symphonies and paintings and sculptures and omegaverse AUs made about it. Given the chance, they can find and hold and keep that love. Given the chance, we all can. In all the randomness and free will of life, they, and we, can build a life that completes us; can, if we want, still find that someone. All this, and we still meet. Even in this imperfect world, we can get everything we ever wanted.
And isn’t that magic?
Now, whether you liked the ending or not, go and write your stories. Make your art. Make them extraordinary. Make them mundane. Most of all, make them human, which is both and neither and everything all at once. Sometimes they’ll hurt, and that’s okay. That’s how you know your heart is working. Make them messy, silly, and full of love.
“And what would humans be without love?”
RARE, said Death.
– Terry Pratchett, Sourcery