One Odd Duck to Another (RP, Aziraphale and the Doctor)
mood: melancholy
It was a bit of a cliche, but Aziraphale had found since his stress-induced near meltdown that he had his good days and his bad days. The better ones he passed more or less normally, sometimes even cheerfully; on the others he simply filled his time with whatever distractions came to mind, trying not to wear himself out with pointless fretting until Crowley went to bed, then spent the night within the Presence.
This was turning out to be one of the latter days, and his chosen distraction this afternoon was sitting in the grass near the castle, feeding the ducks. He'd got over the strangeness of having possibly been one of them for a time, and he really did quite like the little birds. Very uncomplicated creatures, ducks. He was certain it didn't matter one whit to any of them where (or indeed who) they might be, or why. As long as they had a pleasant place to swim and the supply of bread crumbs held out, they were perfectly content. Besides, they reminded him of St. James' Park and home.
"Perhaps you've got the better bargain, after all," he observed to a young female whom he had dubbed Alice, as she was always the first to come waddling up when he appeared, though of course he had no way to identify them apart from the usual duck features.
Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?
"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," he murmured, and smiled when the somewhat fussy little bird permitted him to stroke her feathers.
It was a bit of a cliche, but Aziraphale had found since his stress-induced near meltdown that he had his good days and his bad days. The better ones he passed more or less normally, sometimes even cheerfully; on the others he simply filled his time with whatever distractions came to mind, trying not to wear himself out with pointless fretting until Crowley went to bed, then spent the night within the Presence.
This was turning out to be one of the latter days, and his chosen distraction this afternoon was sitting in the grass near the castle, feeding the ducks. He'd got over the strangeness of having possibly been one of them for a time, and he really did quite like the little birds. Very uncomplicated creatures, ducks. He was certain it didn't matter one whit to any of them where (or indeed who) they might be, or why. As long as they had a pleasant place to swim and the supply of bread crumbs held out, they were perfectly content. Besides, they reminded him of St. James' Park and home.
"Perhaps you've got the better bargain, after all," he observed to a young female whom he had dubbed Alice, as she was always the first to come waddling up when he appeared, though of course he had no way to identify them apart from the usual duck features.
Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?
"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," he murmured, and smiled when the somewhat fussy little bird permitted him to stroke her feathers.