angelgazing (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
angelgazing) wrote2005-02-20 05:00 am
angelgazing) wrote2005-02-20 05:00 am
Entry tags:
ficlet: good omens, crowley (crowley/aziraphale if you squint)
Hey, I wrote something that is not what I should be writing! Let's all die of shock! Also, I totes fixed my twin up on her birthday with the layout. Bwahha, take that LJ, I defeat you with my mad detail editing skillz!
title: Fin
rating: R
words 688
disclaimer: not mine. I own nothing. I might almost own Julian McMahon as Crowley, but mostly that's just in my head and I want everyone to get on that train.
summary: The world is ending. No, really.
notes: Twin wanted me to make a ficlet for the icon she made. Also, F in the Alphabet ficlets series.
The end of the world is nigh, they say.
Crowley's fingers peek out from under the covers to wiggle in the direction of the radio. The shouting voices stop, quickly replaced by something smooth, slick and sleek. Its got notes like Crowley walks; he likes it more than he should.
---
Humans shiver cold inside their coats, and, well, Crowley is a demon and no self-respecting demon would ever shiver, that's just nonsense. The angel doesn't notice, just a little too politely, as he feeds the ducks and Crowley tries to sink them.
The grass is wet, that's the only reason the American in the dark suit slips. Crowley is looking at Aziraphale when Aziraphale turns to look at Crowley.
There are signs that they can't ignore, but they aren't happening now.
He says, "They won't make the mistake of telling us again."
And Aziraphale can't argue with that one, really.
---
The world will end, he can feel it in bones that aren't his own but are almost all he's known since… since too long now to even really remember.
The angel sighs, the sound disappearing before the cloud of his breath in the air. This isn’t the way of things, but, well, that's the least of Crowley's troubles, isn't it?
He spreads his hands out, fingertips barely touching the edges of… Of he isn't sure what. Some things it takes you more than six thousand years to learn correctly.
Aziraphale's jumper is scratchy, and his breath catches, and that's the sound that makes Crowley sigh too. It's the angel's fault. He's the one that makes the noises.
---
Leaves fall dead gold and red, they crunch beneath his snakeskin boots because he likes the sound on crisp autumn days.
He amuses himself with making storm clouds follow above the miserable people he passes until there are just one and one and four too many.
He grinds dead leaves back into the ground with the heel of his boot as though that'll teach it. Teach the bloody Earth to keep dying on him, let it learn its lesson but good.
---
Crowley knows secrets that no one else does.
He knows the age of the earth and the way to live in it in something like contentment—not that a demon should be content, got a reputation to keep after all—and the true inventor of sunglasses. He knows the way feathers feel softer in the air and what really happened to Atlantis before Adam got the whole sinking idea and made it be.
He knows the type of effort the angel prefers to make and the type of lies Aziraphale tells himself to keep going on.
He knows what falling is, he's done it and caused it and he knows what it looks like because he's watched it. He remembers, more than anything, the way it sounds.
It's not like the whistle of a bomb coming down angry, not the shot of a bullet flying. It's knuckles clenched white and eyes closed, lashes dusting across angelic cheekbones in a way that is softer than it should be and one little hitch of breath before letting go.
One thing he's managed to learn in all his time is how to see the end as it approaches.
---
Aziraphale is soft, the way all angels are, maybe, except Crowley remembers then and he remembers then and he knows better. Angels and demons are really just the same, made from the same stuff and playing the same games. Only difference is location, maybe.
Except that he and Aziraphale are both here, so that is either the worst example or the best.
Aziraphale drinks his favourite wine slowly, he savours it and has half of Crowley's pudding after his own.
Afterwards, when they're walking back to the Bentley, the angel takes his hand and says, "This isn't the 25th hour."
It is, of course, or it will be when Adam isn't running things anymore.
Right now it's Christmas Eve and snowing, the way that children dream and he doesn't want to point out again that they're living on borrowed time.
ETA: The beginning! ::facepalm:: This is why a person shouldn't try and code at 5 in the morning.
title: Fin
rating: R
words 688
disclaimer: not mine. I own nothing. I might almost own Julian McMahon as Crowley, but mostly that's just in my head and I want everyone to get on that train.
summary: The world is ending. No, really.
notes: Twin wanted me to make a ficlet for the icon she made. Also, F in the Alphabet ficlets series.
The end of the world is nigh, they say.
Crowley's fingers peek out from under the covers to wiggle in the direction of the radio. The shouting voices stop, quickly replaced by something smooth, slick and sleek. Its got notes like Crowley walks; he likes it more than he should.
---
Humans shiver cold inside their coats, and, well, Crowley is a demon and no self-respecting demon would ever shiver, that's just nonsense. The angel doesn't notice, just a little too politely, as he feeds the ducks and Crowley tries to sink them.
The grass is wet, that's the only reason the American in the dark suit slips. Crowley is looking at Aziraphale when Aziraphale turns to look at Crowley.
There are signs that they can't ignore, but they aren't happening now.
He says, "They won't make the mistake of telling us again."
And Aziraphale can't argue with that one, really.
---
The world will end, he can feel it in bones that aren't his own but are almost all he's known since… since too long now to even really remember.
The angel sighs, the sound disappearing before the cloud of his breath in the air. This isn’t the way of things, but, well, that's the least of Crowley's troubles, isn't it?
He spreads his hands out, fingertips barely touching the edges of… Of he isn't sure what. Some things it takes you more than six thousand years to learn correctly.
Aziraphale's jumper is scratchy, and his breath catches, and that's the sound that makes Crowley sigh too. It's the angel's fault. He's the one that makes the noises.
---
Leaves fall dead gold and red, they crunch beneath his snakeskin boots because he likes the sound on crisp autumn days.
He amuses himself with making storm clouds follow above the miserable people he passes until there are just one and one and four too many.
He grinds dead leaves back into the ground with the heel of his boot as though that'll teach it. Teach the bloody Earth to keep dying on him, let it learn its lesson but good.
---
Crowley knows secrets that no one else does.
He knows the age of the earth and the way to live in it in something like contentment—not that a demon should be content, got a reputation to keep after all—and the true inventor of sunglasses. He knows the way feathers feel softer in the air and what really happened to Atlantis before Adam got the whole sinking idea and made it be.
He knows the type of effort the angel prefers to make and the type of lies Aziraphale tells himself to keep going on.
He knows what falling is, he's done it and caused it and he knows what it looks like because he's watched it. He remembers, more than anything, the way it sounds.
It's not like the whistle of a bomb coming down angry, not the shot of a bullet flying. It's knuckles clenched white and eyes closed, lashes dusting across angelic cheekbones in a way that is softer than it should be and one little hitch of breath before letting go.
One thing he's managed to learn in all his time is how to see the end as it approaches.
---
Aziraphale is soft, the way all angels are, maybe, except Crowley remembers then and he remembers then and he knows better. Angels and demons are really just the same, made from the same stuff and playing the same games. Only difference is location, maybe.
Except that he and Aziraphale are both here, so that is either the worst example or the best.
Aziraphale drinks his favourite wine slowly, he savours it and has half of Crowley's pudding after his own.
Afterwards, when they're walking back to the Bentley, the angel takes his hand and says, "This isn't the 25th hour."
It is, of course, or it will be when Adam isn't running things anymore.
Right now it's Christmas Eve and snowing, the way that children dream and he doesn't want to point out again that they're living on borrowed time.
ETA: The beginning! ::facepalm:: This is why a person shouldn't try and code at 5 in the morning.