(no subject)
Aziraphael knows what he's doing, and what he's doing is panicking - quietly, certainly, but panicking nonetheless. His mind has never felt so disorganised; snippets of information, articles he's read, piles upon piles of dusty books because he collects knowledge like others collect butterflies but it's no longer pinned neatly in place and he knows what he ought to be doing but he's not sure where to start because louder than everything keeps repeating -
(His skin is cold.
Possibly that's the hardest. To live through.
His skin shouldn't be cold.)
- not this. Not again.
He flails out a hand and catches hold of someone.
"You have to help me." And his voice is entirely steady and far more commanding than anyone who knows him could have believed possible. There's no refusing it.
And then he looks up. A faintly hysterical laugh catches in his throat and nearly chokes him.
This is what you might call dramatic irony.
(His skin is cold.
Possibly that's the hardest. To live through.
His skin shouldn't be cold.)
- not this. Not again.
He flails out a hand and catches hold of someone.
"You have to help me." And his voice is entirely steady and far more commanding than anyone who knows him could have believed possible. There's no refusing it.
And then he looks up. A faintly hysterical laugh catches in his throat and nearly chokes him.
This is what you might call dramatic irony.