[ right, so, you — leopold fitz — are dead. your life on earth has ended and you are now in the next phase of your existence in the universe.
that's not possible. if he was dead, he wouldn't be here. don't you worry now. you're in the good place. there should be nothingness. that's all there is. his mum always said to never be afraid of death because it's just like the way life was before you were born — which wasn't that bad, was it?
all that tech you invented? it saved lives. your work is worth thousands of points, by our metric.
fitz thinks he would have remembered this place. in fact, he knows he'd recall the dandy doctor-who-type showing him around. the pastel colours and spotless streets. not to mention, the soulmate. daisy, he's told, but by then he's already coughing up his chocolate froyo because hold on a bloody minute. a soulmate? someone to spend the afterlife with. the explanation like the flower follows, as if he doesn't have two phds or basic listening skills. a soulmate. wow.
no word on how he died yet. it's better not to lead with that, which okay, fair, but it feels more bad than good, pacing about in his home (perfectly designed for him and the 'ol eternal love of his life; cottage exterior and modern, cosy interior; complete with a glorious study... in which he can't reach 50% of the bookshelves and can't seem to find a ladder or a stepstool to rectify the problem). it leaves him plenty of time to chart out the hundreds of ways he could have died and theories for how this place even exists. god, he hopes that milton from accounting didn't do him in. drives like a maniac and always parks over the line of fitz's spot. wanker.
americans are the worst.
whenever daisy arrives, fitz is pacing about the sitting room. underneath the general existential crisis, he's almost... pleasantly nervy about the soulmate thing. it's weird, but it's also awfully romantic, isn't it? eternity with the person you're mathematically meant to be with has a certain appeal. despite the odds, he'd always thought there might be someone just right out there. taking a deep breath, he adjusts his collar, crisply folded under the top of his blue jumper. bit brighter than what he would have worn in life, to be honest. guess that's part of the good place shtick.
he hears the door creak, turning around to face it with his best smile (which is only a half-excited and half-skittish, at the moment). oh, god, should he hug her? he clasps his hands and then unclasps them. kiss her? christ, no, definitely not. shake her hand? fitz wipes his hands on his trousers, stepping forward without knowing how to proceed. ]
Hi. [ offering his hand. ] Leopold Fitz. My friends call me Fitz, but, ah — [ a laugh bubbles over. ] — I suppose you call me whatever you like.
[ the so-called good place has been arguably so-so thus far. the overly familiar white-haired man had been a little too handsy for daisy's comfort level, the streets a little too clean, her wardrobe just a hint too far on the side of preppy with more color than she's seen in — jesus, probably a half-dozen years.
adding a soulmate into the mix is just plain weird. at the mention, daisy splutters her dulce de leche-vanilla twist all over the front of michael's crisp white shirt, splattering it with small droplets of soft beige that disappear infuriatingly fast. what the hell do you mean, soulmate, she'd demanded, all business even as she hurried to wipe her own mouth.
well, of course. the one mathematically perfect match for every person in the good place. you know, the reason all your relationships failed back on earth.
wow. talk about a buzzkill. and now she's supposed to meet said soulmate, dolled up in plum rainboots that make her feel like she's roleplaying a six year old, going to their house. the same house they're supposed to spend eternity — eternity?! — in together.
cool. cool cool cool cool.
it'd probably be easier if he wasn't so cute. granted, it feels almost like a bit of a letdown to find out she's somehow contributed to the goodness of the world enough to deserve the "good place" but not good enough to be mathematically assigned to a super hottie. damn, universe. couldn't do her a solid?
not that he's bad to look at. just — well, it's pretty obvious they're both feeling a little unsure about this whole thing. daisy just happens to mask her own insecurities with terrible humor and sardonic smiles. ]
Fitz, then. [ obviously. leopold sounds like a fucking stuffed bear's name. god, they really are going to shake hands, aren't they? ] Do you usually shake hands on a first date or is this the soulmate special?
[ the first thing he notices is the wellies. maybe that's because he's scottish and lived in them for half his life, or because they look like something meant for an upbeat musical number, not the afterlife. (although this afterlife has elements of a glossy stage number, in fairness.) then, he realises she's pretty. like, stupidly so. a level of pretty that suggests a mismatch may be at work, today. his stomach flips. figures fitz would manage to feel anxious in heaven, of all places. he reckons none of his friends would be surprised by that development.
and, oh boy, do his eyes widen a fraction as he registers her accent. his soulmate is american — not that there's anything wrong with that — it's just he never pictured himself with an american, even after moving to the states. the math is sound, he'd been assured. how sound, michael? is it sound enough that it knows him better than he knows himself? ]
[ a startled laugh. ] Er, no. We could — hug? [ pulling a face. ] No, that's equally unromantic, isn't it? [ he drags a hand across his jaw. after a beat, his smile peaks out, sheepishly amused. ] Knew I should've written up some cue cards about how you're perfect, at least according to Michael's algorithm.
[ according to michael's algorithm, of course. mr leopold fitz had been so very cautious in cushioning the statement with a nerd qualifier, but daisy had never been one to favor wishy-washy language. either he did or he didn't, right? if he did, they could get right to business — whatever business was in heaven.
wait — did people actually have sex in heaven? or was this place too clean for that? wait. was she supposed to have sex with her soulmate? and not other people? wait! was she supposed to want to have sex with her soulmate? and what did it mean if she kind of maybe did?
fuck.
she really was in over her head. her friends back home would lose their shit to hear this kind of internal debate from 'less talking, more action' daisy johnson. ]
[ for at least thirty seconds second, fitz wishes the floor would open and swallow him whole, sending him straight to the bad place. does she really want him to say it again? he doesn't know that she's perfect, couldn't possibly after trading a few sentences, but he believes in the system — in maths and logic — so daisy johnson should be perfect for him and he for her, if heaven's all it's cracked up to be.
then she offers him the most half-hearted assessment back with a g'vna... who says that... and to an obviously british person at that, jesus christ. maybe they are perfect for each other, if they're going to phrase things so bizarrely. he starts laughing, fast and loud despite his attempts to stifle the sound with both hands. ]
Sorry, yes — [ no, fuck, he's laughing again. ] — yes, you are perfect, and I'm not bad. [ another wheeze. ] Glad we're on the same page, soulmate.
[ his laughter is bright and loud, contagious in its surprising volume; after a half-second of rapid blinking confusion, daisy's lost to her own fit of giggles, two hands covering most of her face as they overlap across her mouth to muffle the noise.
they're a right pair, aren't they? the memory of an episode of some baking show pops into her head, one only watched as the after-effect of a night spent babysitting a drunken girlfriend after too many shots at the bar. i'm well chuffed, i am! better than positively gutted, in any case.
and then, mouthing the words, she fucking loses it all over again, laughing so hard she thinks she might fall over. ]
God. [ she's still laughing. she's trying to get it together, but she's still laughing. ] I don't think we're even in the same book, to be totally honest with you.
[ there's just no way. ]
But, I mean. [ a breath, an attempt at Totally Casual Seriousness. ] If you're in the market for a heavenly handjob in the Good Place Tunnel of Love, we can probably work something out.
[ is she serious? or is she just trying to make his eyes pop out of their sockets? WHO KNOWS. it's a mystery. ]
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soulmate au! SOULMATE AU!
give me your cold hands, put them on my heart
we are going to live tonight like there's no tomorrow
because we are the afterlife —♪♫
what a JAM
that's not possible. if he was dead, he wouldn't be here. don't you worry now. you're in the good place. there should be nothingness. that's all there is. his mum always said to never be afraid of death because it's just like the way life was before you were born — which wasn't that bad, was it?
all that tech you invented? it saved lives. your work is worth thousands of points, by our metric.
fitz thinks he would have remembered this place. in fact, he knows he'd recall the dandy doctor-who-type showing him around. the pastel colours and spotless streets. not to mention, the soulmate. daisy, he's told, but by then he's already coughing up his chocolate froyo because hold on a bloody minute. a soulmate? someone to spend the afterlife with. the explanation like the flower follows, as if he doesn't have two phds or basic listening skills. a soulmate. wow.
no word on how he died yet. it's better not to lead with that, which okay, fair, but it feels more bad than good, pacing about in his home (perfectly designed for him and the 'ol eternal love of his life; cottage exterior and modern, cosy interior; complete with a glorious study... in which he can't reach 50% of the bookshelves and can't seem to find a ladder or a stepstool to rectify the problem). it leaves him plenty of time to chart out the hundreds of ways he could have died and theories for how this place even exists. god, he hopes that milton from accounting didn't do him in. drives like a maniac and always parks over the line of fitz's spot. wanker.
americans are the worst.
whenever daisy arrives, fitz is pacing about the sitting room. underneath the general existential crisis, he's almost... pleasantly nervy about the soulmate thing. it's weird, but it's also awfully romantic, isn't it? eternity with the person you're mathematically meant to be with has a certain appeal. despite the odds, he'd always thought there might be someone just right out there. taking a deep breath, he adjusts his collar, crisply folded under the top of his blue jumper. bit brighter than what he would have worn in life, to be honest. guess that's part of the good place shtick.
he hears the door creak, turning around to face it with his best smile (which is only a half-excited and half-skittish, at the moment). oh, god, should he hug her? he clasps his hands and then unclasps them. kiss her? christ, no, definitely not. shake her hand? fitz wipes his hands on his trousers, stepping forward without knowing how to proceed. ]
Hi. [ offering his hand. ] Leopold Fitz. My friends call me Fitz, but, ah — [ a laugh bubbles over. ] — I suppose you call me whatever you like.
no subject
adding a soulmate into the mix is just plain weird. at the mention, daisy splutters her dulce de leche-vanilla twist all over the front of michael's crisp white shirt, splattering it with small droplets of soft beige that disappear infuriatingly fast. what the hell do you mean, soulmate, she'd demanded, all business even as she hurried to wipe her own mouth.
well, of course. the one mathematically perfect match for every person in the good place. you know, the reason all your relationships failed back on earth.
wow. talk about a buzzkill. and now she's supposed to meet said soulmate, dolled up in plum rainboots that make her feel like she's roleplaying a six year old, going to their house. the same house they're supposed to spend eternity — eternity?! — in together.
cool. cool cool cool cool.
it'd probably be easier if he wasn't so cute. granted, it feels almost like a bit of a letdown to find out she's somehow contributed to the goodness of the world enough to deserve the "good place" but not good enough to be mathematically assigned to a super hottie. damn, universe. couldn't do her a solid?
not that he's bad to look at. just — well, it's pretty obvious they're both feeling a little unsure about this whole thing. daisy just happens to mask her own insecurities with terrible humor and sardonic smiles. ]
Fitz, then. [ obviously. leopold sounds like a fucking stuffed bear's name. god, they really are going to shake hands, aren't they? ] Do you usually shake hands on a first date or is this the soulmate special?
no subject
and, oh boy, do his eyes widen a fraction as he registers her accent. his soulmate is american — not that there's anything wrong with that — it's just he never pictured himself with an american, even after moving to the states. the math is sound, he'd been assured. how sound, michael? is it sound enough that it knows him better than he knows himself? ]
[ a startled laugh. ] Er, no. We could — hug? [ pulling a face. ] No, that's equally unromantic, isn't it? [ he drags a hand across his jaw. after a beat, his smile peaks out, sheepishly amused. ] Knew I should've written up some cue cards about how you're perfect, at least according to Michael's algorithm.
[ jokes!! ]
no subject
You think I'm perfect?
[ according to michael's algorithm, of course. mr leopold fitz had been so very cautious in cushioning the statement with a nerd qualifier, but daisy had never been one to favor wishy-washy language. either he did or he didn't, right? if he did, they could get right to business — whatever business was in heaven.
wait — did people actually have sex in heaven? or was this place too clean for that? wait. was she supposed to have sex with her soulmate? and not other people? wait! was she supposed to want to have sex with her soulmate? and what did it mean if she kind of maybe did?
fuck.
she really was in over her head. her friends back home would lose their shit to hear this kind of internal debate from 'less talking, more action' daisy johnson. ]
You know, you're not so bad yourself, G'vna.
[ kill her. ]
no subject
then she offers him the most half-hearted assessment back with a g'vna... who says that... and to an obviously british person at that, jesus christ. maybe they are perfect for each other, if they're going to phrase things so bizarrely. he starts laughing, fast and loud despite his attempts to stifle the sound with both hands. ]
Sorry, yes — [ no, fuck, he's laughing again. ] — yes, you are perfect, and I'm not bad. [ another wheeze. ] Glad we're on the same page, soulmate.
no subject
they're a right pair, aren't they? the memory of an episode of some baking show pops into her head, one only watched as the after-effect of a night spent babysitting a drunken girlfriend after too many shots at the bar. i'm well chuffed, i am! better than positively gutted, in any case.
and then, mouthing the words, she fucking loses it all over again, laughing so hard she thinks she might fall over. ]
God. [ she's still laughing. she's trying to get it together, but she's still laughing. ] I don't think we're even in the same book, to be totally honest with you.
[ there's just no way. ]
But, I mean. [ a breath, an attempt at Totally Casual Seriousness. ] If you're in the market for a heavenly handjob in the Good Place Tunnel of Love, we can probably work something out.
[ is she serious? or is she just trying to make his eyes pop out of their sockets? WHO KNOWS. it's a mystery. ]