(no subject)
It's snowing gently, and it's early enough in the morning, on Boxing Day no less, that Aziraphael's footprints rarely cross others. His nose is tucked into his long green scarf, but passersby would be able to hear that he's singing softly to himself.
Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum
To lay before the King, pa rum pum pum pum...
His wanderings eventually bring him to an unobtrusive door, set into an otherwise blank brick wall. There are no signs, no doorbell, no number - nothing that indicates what it might be. There's nothing so interesting as magic, here; it's only that the makers of the door, whoever they might have been, had turned unobtrusiveness into something of an art form.
There's a quick burst of light and heat and noise, and then silence again in the suddenly empty street. A moment or two later, another of those strange flickers of noise.
"Er," says Aziraphael, smiling, "welcome to London."
And then he tucks his nose back into his scarf again. It's cold.
Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum
To lay before the King, pa rum pum pum pum...
His wanderings eventually bring him to an unobtrusive door, set into an otherwise blank brick wall. There are no signs, no doorbell, no number - nothing that indicates what it might be. There's nothing so interesting as magic, here; it's only that the makers of the door, whoever they might have been, had turned unobtrusiveness into something of an art form.
There's a quick burst of light and heat and noise, and then silence again in the suddenly empty street. A moment or two later, another of those strange flickers of noise.
"Er," says Aziraphael, smiling, "welcome to London."
And then he tucks his nose back into his scarf again. It's cold.