Good Omens drabble.
Again, requested by cygny
It was really Crowley's fault...or that's what Aziraphale told himself for the first week. After all, if Crowley had told him how much trouble he was in right after the whole Armageddon fiasco, Aziraphale would have..would have...thought of something to do. Some way to help.
Alright, so technically Crowley was the enemy but really, he was a good person. Deep down. Well, very very deep down, Aziraphale was sure he was a decent person. After all, Crowley cared about humanity. He did his job, tempting and spreading sin but Aziraphale remembered the furtively kind gestures. Crowley had always blustered or evaded the issue when called on it.
Six thousand years of moulding and guiding humanity. They'd been...well, friends for most of it too. And now Crowley was gone and Aziraphale had looked all over the planet for him (even Australia, although he'd held his nose the whole time). No sign of him and while Crowley was very good at being sneaky, six thousand years had given Aziraphale enough practice that he couldn't hide from the angel for very long.
Which left only one place really for Crowley to be...
Why he had been called down to Hell, Aziraphale didn't know. Of more concern, was that he didn't know if Crowley would ever be coming back and so he worried and fretted, neglecting his work as he watched for thin young men feeding ducks or the gleam of a vintage Bentley in the flow of London traffic.
And every evening, he set one of the pale blue candles in the window and lit it. Then he sat down with a book and a fresh cup of tea and waited, listening for the familiar purr of the old-style engine. Tonight, the book stays closed and the tea steams away it's heat beside it.
Earth's guardian angel watches the wax soften into a glistening trickle along the smooth side of the candle. His eyes don't seem to be working right and he rubs at them, looking at the damp skin in bemusement when he lowers them. He feels cold and alone as he looks into the dark night. The words slip from his lips without him meaning to say them. A wish. A prayer and apology.
"I need you, Crowley."
Ack, sorry cygny. Don't really like this.
It was really Crowley's fault...or that's what Aziraphale told himself for the first week. After all, if Crowley had told him how much trouble he was in right after the whole Armageddon fiasco, Aziraphale would have..would have...thought of something to do. Some way to help.
Alright, so technically Crowley was the enemy but really, he was a good person. Deep down. Well, very very deep down, Aziraphale was sure he was a decent person. After all, Crowley cared about humanity. He did his job, tempting and spreading sin but Aziraphale remembered the furtively kind gestures. Crowley had always blustered or evaded the issue when called on it.
Six thousand years of moulding and guiding humanity. They'd been...well, friends for most of it too. And now Crowley was gone and Aziraphale had looked all over the planet for him (even Australia, although he'd held his nose the whole time). No sign of him and while Crowley was very good at being sneaky, six thousand years had given Aziraphale enough practice that he couldn't hide from the angel for very long.
Which left only one place really for Crowley to be...
Why he had been called down to Hell, Aziraphale didn't know. Of more concern, was that he didn't know if Crowley would ever be coming back and so he worried and fretted, neglecting his work as he watched for thin young men feeding ducks or the gleam of a vintage Bentley in the flow of London traffic.
And every evening, he set one of the pale blue candles in the window and lit it. Then he sat down with a book and a fresh cup of tea and waited, listening for the familiar purr of the old-style engine. Tonight, the book stays closed and the tea steams away it's heat beside it.
Earth's guardian angel watches the wax soften into a glistening trickle along the smooth side of the candle. His eyes don't seem to be working right and he rubs at them, looking at the damp skin in bemusement when he lowers them. He feels cold and alone as he looks into the dark night. The words slip from his lips without him meaning to say them. A wish. A prayer and apology.
"I need you, Crowley."
Ack, sorry cygny. Don't really like this.