Why Do I Have A Constant Sense Of Impending Doom? Sure The Entire Universe Could Implode At Any Instant

Why do I have a constant sense of impending doom? Sure the entire universe could implode at any instant but what. 

What am I gonna do to prevent it?

Worry ???

Oh and we did

The only good thing about this quarrentine is that a bunch of people are like "Might fuck around and get back into Merlin (BBC)" and I think that's very Sexy of them

Neil Gaiman did a ‘where are they now’ for the Good Omens characters and apparently Crowley and Aziraphale are living out in a remote cottage in the English country side.

I believe in my heart that Crowley and Aziraphale tried really hard to make the cottage work. They really, very definitely honestly did. Fell Cottage* had a kitchen that was barely touched, a parlor that saw a great deal of traffic by  villagers fascinated by the arrival of two eccentric Londoners—it was a very small village, and Aziraphale had given up scowling at people since it seemed to have little effect—and a library full of poetry, prophecy, and various first editions that defied the actual breadth of the space it occupied.**

Aziraphale took to gardening, in that he spent a lot of time puttering in the garden and it definitely had plants in it. Some of them ate the small dogs who had the bad sense to widdle on them. Unfortunately, Aziraphale had very little structured knowledge of plants (it was mostly ethereal instinct) and absolutely no concept of restraint; a botanist stumbling into Aziraphale’s garden in —shire would very likely be baffled and then either delighted or driven mad by the sheer impossible biodiversity.

“I think that’s cheating,” Crowley said once when they were talking a walk through the garden. He nodded to a bush blooming with deep purple flowers that hadn’t been seen on Earth since another and rather more famous garden was around.

Aziraphale blushed. “Oh, well. There was a bush right by the Eastern Gate, I always liked them.”

Crowley had a thriving side-business doing what might, in a very posh sense, be called Automotive Repair. In an actual sense, he did things with cars. Cars, unlike houseplants, were high-strung things that didn’t tolerate a regime of fear; as a consequence, Crowley spent a great deal of time reading books like Nervous Nellie No More: How I Beat Anxiety and figuring out how to speak in a calm, soothing voice. A lot of Ford Fiestas in the village of —shire were really only desperate for a bit of teatime chat about how Mrs. Margo leaned too hard on the breaks pedal and Johnny Margo ruined the suspension cruising over speed traps. Really, what Crowley had done was single-handedly invented the motor oil klatch.

And for a while, it was better than Heaven.***

But despite being bucolic and domestic (&tc other things ending in ‘ick’) it doesn’t last. To both their surprise, it’s Aziraphale who gets itchy feet first—Crowley catches him popping back from Poland, because he heard there was a new restaurant there one had to try. Shortly afterwards, Crowley nudges Aziraphale’s foot with his own, and asks whether he’s ever been to the actual Casablanca. Aziraphale asks if he’s ever had borscht from…? And Crowley replies, well no, but I always wanted to see…

It devolves from there. Neither Heaven nor Hell is speaking to them these days—they’re not not speaking to them, since that would imply something had happened; but there’s a silence. So Aziraphale and Crowley go on what Aziraphale refers to as a ‘grand tour’ and what Crowley refers to as a honeymoon. The cottage sits empty for decades, collecting dust and horror stories, and then, quietly, dissolves into the grass one moonless night. Everyone in the village talks about it, since they can remember the—well, not their faces, or their names, but they know someone lived their once. Someone full of green, and magic.**** 

“Do you miss it?” Crowley asks once, when they’re in Japan. Aziraphale had wanted to try real sushi. “Fell Cottage? I miss it sometimes.”

“Not often,” Aziraphale says, helping himself to the nori. He isn’t especially thinking when he says, “You were always the best part of it, and you followed me here.”

When he looks up, Crowley’s eyes are yellow and bright over the rim of his sunglasses. “Well,” Crowley says, and his voice is raspy, low. “When you put it like that.”

(The next morning, they’re in Morocco. They watch the sun come up, and Crowley says, like that first one, and Aziraphale says, yes.)

* Crowley had picked it. “Does this mean you’re taking my name?” Aziraphale had asked, with a painfully studied casualness. Crowley tentatively touched his shoulder to the angel’s—they were working on that, the touching thing—and said, “More like, that’s what we share. You’re Fell and I’m Fallen.” (…as readers, we shall draw a veil over what happened next. It was private.)

** As this describes most libraries, no one much noticed.

*** No one had to watch The Sound of Music.

**** There is an unexpected resurgence in fairytales and folklore in South Eastern England; it’s baffling, unless you know that  there were a couple strangers in a cottage in —shire, and they made the world interesting, before they went.

[STRIKES MY WIZARD STAFF ON THE GROUND AND IMMEDEATELY DUCKS BEHIND A ROCK]

I think probably the saddest part of season 5 for me is that Merlin is so closed minded about Mordred, even when he knows there’s nothing he can do. It makes me so sad because they were so similar and in such similar situations that they could have been great friends.

And all that was taken by Kilgarrah’s prophecy or Merlin’s destiny or whatever the hell you want to call it.

This question and its answer from The New York Times work advice column is W I L D.