(no subject)
Apr. 8th, 2005 01:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nnySomething I found, while browsing through my computer:
*
Crowley winced as the curtain was ruthlessly yanked open. He peered over the back of the sofa, hair in disarray, and was greeted with the kind of sunny expression that the world reserved for holy men and half-wits. Some days, the demon reflected, Aziraphael managed to fit both categories to a tee.
"Good morning, Crowley!"
"Morning," he conceded. He'd never been much of a one for them. He collapsed backwards onto the sofa, hands pressed to a head that, considering how much he'd had to drink last night, should really be aching. There were advantages to being a demon.
"Lovely day, isn't it? The sun is shining, the birds are singing-"
"This is London, angel. Birds don't sing for fear of being mugged."
"-somewhere in the countryside... You're very grouchy this morning."
"I'm very grouchy every morning. Besides, you try sleeping on this thing." The ancient sofa creaked as he heaved himself to his feet, running a hand through his hair and blinking as he padded, barefoot, into the kitchen. Cup, tea bag, water... he was just reaching into the fridge for the milk when the blind rattled up, direct sunlight beaming straight into his eyes and making him hiss.
"You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"
Aziraphael widened his eyes. "I have no idea what you mean."
The angel wandered out of the room to allow more blessed sunlight into the house, and Crowley scowled at his back. "And you're out of milk!"
He hadn't been. But Aziraphael always insisted on doing things by the book and going to the shop for milk, and any added annoyances in the angel's day were small victories, of a sort. He realised he was being petty, but that was what he was for.
*
No, I have no idea where it's going. Or if it's going anywhere. But there it is, in any case.
*
Crowley winced as the curtain was ruthlessly yanked open. He peered over the back of the sofa, hair in disarray, and was greeted with the kind of sunny expression that the world reserved for holy men and half-wits. Some days, the demon reflected, Aziraphael managed to fit both categories to a tee.
"Good morning, Crowley!"
"Morning," he conceded. He'd never been much of a one for them. He collapsed backwards onto the sofa, hands pressed to a head that, considering how much he'd had to drink last night, should really be aching. There were advantages to being a demon.
"Lovely day, isn't it? The sun is shining, the birds are singing-"
"This is London, angel. Birds don't sing for fear of being mugged."
"-somewhere in the countryside... You're very grouchy this morning."
"I'm very grouchy every morning. Besides, you try sleeping on this thing." The ancient sofa creaked as he heaved himself to his feet, running a hand through his hair and blinking as he padded, barefoot, into the kitchen. Cup, tea bag, water... he was just reaching into the fridge for the milk when the blind rattled up, direct sunlight beaming straight into his eyes and making him hiss.
"You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"
Aziraphael widened his eyes. "I have no idea what you mean."
The angel wandered out of the room to allow more blessed sunlight into the house, and Crowley scowled at his back. "And you're out of milk!"
He hadn't been. But Aziraphael always insisted on doing things by the book and going to the shop for milk, and any added annoyances in the angel's day were small victories, of a sort. He realised he was being petty, but that was what he was for.
*
No, I have no idea where it's going. Or if it's going anywhere. But there it is, in any case.
