Drabbles
For penknife:
It can't possibly be hard, Aziraphale thought, staring down the blank sheet of paper in his old typewriter. I've read thousands of novels. He cracked his knuckles and stared at the paper some more. Too old-fashioned, he decided, and turned on his computer.
After three hours of watching the cursor blinking against the black screen, he turned it off. Too modern. He found paper and a nice pen he'd stolen from Crowley.
Ten hours later, Aziraphale was using clay tablets and sharpened reeds. All in all, it was a relief when Crowley finally dragged him away from the writer's life.
For trobadora:
"If the Light wins," Bran said slowly, "what happens to us?"
Crowley stretched lazily, staring at the sky. "Nothing good, I should imagine. Not for us or anyone."
Bran thought about that, wondering about the tone. "And if the Dark wins?"
"Same answer," Crowley said. "Same answer for Heaven, same for Hell. Sorry."
There was something pushing at Bran's mind, like an insistent dog, but if he looked at it full-on it would be gone, like Cafall. "If I wanted to fight for something else? Like - Britain?"
"Ah, now that's a different story," Crowley said.
His tone was deeply satisfied.
For puddingcat:
The Quabarl household was again set by the ears when Mrs Quabarl made the grave error of engaging a German tutor. Alas, the young man quickly proved to be as much a devotee of the Schartz-Metterklume method as the false Miss Hope. From morning to night the children's voices were raised in Teutonic tones until they quite seemed to have forgotten how to speak English.
Mrs Quabarl called a halt to proceedings on discovering Wilfred being instructed in telepathic attack, a skill she felt unbecoming. The next tutor, she was sure, would be more satisfactory. Even if he were American.
It can't possibly be hard, Aziraphale thought, staring down the blank sheet of paper in his old typewriter. I've read thousands of novels. He cracked his knuckles and stared at the paper some more. Too old-fashioned, he decided, and turned on his computer.
After three hours of watching the cursor blinking against the black screen, he turned it off. Too modern. He found paper and a nice pen he'd stolen from Crowley.
Ten hours later, Aziraphale was using clay tablets and sharpened reeds. All in all, it was a relief when Crowley finally dragged him away from the writer's life.
For trobadora:
"If the Light wins," Bran said slowly, "what happens to us?"
Crowley stretched lazily, staring at the sky. "Nothing good, I should imagine. Not for us or anyone."
Bran thought about that, wondering about the tone. "And if the Dark wins?"
"Same answer," Crowley said. "Same answer for Heaven, same for Hell. Sorry."
There was something pushing at Bran's mind, like an insistent dog, but if he looked at it full-on it would be gone, like Cafall. "If I wanted to fight for something else? Like - Britain?"
"Ah, now that's a different story," Crowley said.
His tone was deeply satisfied.
For puddingcat:
The Quabarl household was again set by the ears when Mrs Quabarl made the grave error of engaging a German tutor. Alas, the young man quickly proved to be as much a devotee of the Schartz-Metterklume method as the false Miss Hope. From morning to night the children's voices were raised in Teutonic tones until they quite seemed to have forgotten how to speak English.
Mrs Quabarl called a halt to proceedings on discovering Wilfred being instructed in telepathic attack, a skill she felt unbecoming. The next tutor, she was sure, would be more satisfactory. Even if he were American.