(no subject)
It's rather chillier outside than it has been thus far. Autumn, it would appear, is very much underway, and Aziraphael stands for a moment to watch a couple of novices raking leaves from the grass. There are faint frown lines between his eyebrows, but he's most certainly not shirking his duty, or delaying carrying out what Crowley's asked of him. He wouldn't think of doing something like that, of course. Which would be why he shrugs his shoulders abruptly, an odd uncomfortable movement, and sets off across the grounds again.
It would be easier, that's all. If the power were his own and something that could be rather more relied upon. But God, he reminds himself - as he enters the area reserved for guests and raises his fist to knock on the correct door - works in mysterious ways. Ineffable, and all that sort of thing.
Three sharp raps echo in the hallway, then he tucks his hands into his pockets and hunches his shoulders ever so slightly.
He does so hate getting people's hopes up.
It would be easier, that's all. If the power were his own and something that could be rather more relied upon. But God, he reminds himself - as he enters the area reserved for guests and raises his fist to knock on the correct door - works in mysterious ways. Ineffable, and all that sort of thing.
Three sharp raps echo in the hallway, then he tucks his hands into his pockets and hunches his shoulders ever so slightly.
He does so hate getting people's hopes up.