bursts through your front door like the hounds of hell have been on my heels for miles, all the while baying for blood. sweat is beaded across my forehead, my chest heaves for oxygen. "Good Omens/Our Flag Means Death crossover," I gasp.

"Crowley half-heartedly tries to provoke Stede into greater acts of piracy while Aziraphale works to hem Blackbeard's reputation into something that, in the right lighting, looks almost heroic, even noble." I decline the cool glass of water you're trying to force into my hand.

Crowley and Aziraphale are relieved to move themselves to the sidelines and watch the unfolding relationship drama like it's addictively terrible telly, but they're embarrassed to be so fond of these idiots, and so cannot stop themselves from performing subtle mechanations.*

(* "You had him fall on his own sword? Crowley, that's ghastly." "What's ghastly is imagining Bonnet in prison. He'd have hardened criminals weeping and sending tearful apology letters to their mothers. Terrible for our side if he starts to reform every murderer we've got. Simply couldn't be helped.")

biz you magnificent mind

yes