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nnyThe bits in italics are from Good Omens. I don't own the books, I don't own the characters, I make no money, you know how this works.
Inertia
Where one of the figures had been, there was something dreadful. He blacked out.
Strangely, it was the angel Crowley thought of first.
The exasperated look on his face when Crowley, just to be annoying, had tempted a customer into buying a book, and nothing the angel could say would dissuade her.
"I liked that one," he'd muttered, annoyed, as she made her way out of the shop. Crowley'd smirked at him, and the memory was so vivid he could almost feel his lips curving, and that was a start.
He remembered Paris, 1793. They'd been celebrating something, or commiserating over something, or possibly it'd been nothing but an excuse to meet up and have a particularly mediocre meal and some particularly good wine. He couldn't quite remember what they'd talked about, which was probably a good indication of the quality of the alcohol, but he remembered the weight of the angel's head on his shoulder. He remembered the arm he'd snaked around Aziraphale to keep him upright, keep him moving. He remembered the hand he'd shoved into a jacket pocket to find the key to Aziraphale's flat, and the angel's giggle at the look of disgust on his face when he'd got stuck to a fluffy sweet lying in wait.
Progress.
The angel's hand. It wasn't so much remembering, as being unable to forget. The angel's hand placed innocently on his leg as he pointed at something out the window of the Bentley, and the semi-hysterical thought that wasn't supposed to happen and demons have excellent control, it comes with the territory, so Aziraphale'd not noticed anything. But that hadn't stopped him putting his foot down, making the angel clutch the dashboard and send him a reproving glance, making the angel move his hand, making it possible for him to pretend nothing had happened, only he couldn't.
The memories built up, and coalesced, and with a mental twist he was back as he had been.
Crowley restored himself to his favourite shape.
'I hate having to do that,' he murmured. 'I'm always afraid I'll forget how to change back.'
Inertia
Where one of the figures had been, there was something dreadful. He blacked out.
Strangely, it was the angel Crowley thought of first.
The exasperated look on his face when Crowley, just to be annoying, had tempted a customer into buying a book, and nothing the angel could say would dissuade her.
"I liked that one," he'd muttered, annoyed, as she made her way out of the shop. Crowley'd smirked at him, and the memory was so vivid he could almost feel his lips curving, and that was a start.
He remembered Paris, 1793. They'd been celebrating something, or commiserating over something, or possibly it'd been nothing but an excuse to meet up and have a particularly mediocre meal and some particularly good wine. He couldn't quite remember what they'd talked about, which was probably a good indication of the quality of the alcohol, but he remembered the weight of the angel's head on his shoulder. He remembered the arm he'd snaked around Aziraphale to keep him upright, keep him moving. He remembered the hand he'd shoved into a jacket pocket to find the key to Aziraphale's flat, and the angel's giggle at the look of disgust on his face when he'd got stuck to a fluffy sweet lying in wait.
Progress.
The angel's hand. It wasn't so much remembering, as being unable to forget. The angel's hand placed innocently on his leg as he pointed at something out the window of the Bentley, and the semi-hysterical thought that wasn't supposed to happen and demons have excellent control, it comes with the territory, so Aziraphale'd not noticed anything. But that hadn't stopped him putting his foot down, making the angel clutch the dashboard and send him a reproving glance, making the angel move his hand, making it possible for him to pretend nothing had happened, only he couldn't.
The memories built up, and coalesced, and with a mental twist he was back as he had been.
Crowley restored himself to his favourite shape.
'I hate having to do that,' he murmured. 'I'm always afraid I'll forget how to change back.'
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Date: 2005-03-02 09:04 am (UTC)I admire your ability to do that -- to take the canon and dig and see what might be there.
Thanks for sharing this, dear. :)
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Date: 2005-03-02 09:07 am (UTC)Thankee-sai, Meggo. I'm glad you liked it.
*hugs*