Good Omens: Alphabet challenge
A silly little challenge gacked from louiselux: "The idea is to write a story where each sentence starts with the next letter of the alphabet, so sentence 1 beings with a, sentence 2 with b and so on."
===
Aziraphale was not impressed.
"Bugger me," muttered Crowley under his breath, trying hard not to snigger too obviously.
"Crowley? Did you say something?"
Even the murderous glint in the angel's eye wasn't enough to keep Crowley's poker face steady. For a moment, he was sure the being was going to kill him - well, discorporate him - just to stop the sound of demonic laughter, but then, without warning, Aziraphale joined in. Giggling in an increasingly hysterical manner, he had to clutch at Crowley's shoulder to stay upright.
"Hey! I'm not a- a- a hat stand, you know."
"Ju- just a moment," Aziraphale gasped, now leaning heavily on Crowley's shoulder. "Keep still," he added, as the demon shifted uncomfortably beneath his hand. Letting the angel touch him for a moment was one thing - Crowley had trained himself not to flinch at that within few hundred years of The Arrangement - but prolonged exposure made his skin ache and crack with dryness as various unwanted demonic reflexes kicked in.
Mentally dismissing the pain, his eyes drifted back to the scene in front of them. Now the paint had dried, the colour scheme looked, if anything, all the more lurid. Only the knowledge that if he started laughing again he probably wouldn't be able to stop kept him from matching the angel's choked sobs of amusement - or possibly hysteria.
"Puce!" Aziraphale whispered, his voice rough from laughter. "Quite a charming shade of mauve, too."
"Red," Crowley added. "'Snot done to forget red."
"True." Utterly dishevelled but finally able to contain his amusement, the angel removed his hand from the demon's shoulder. Very soon, the skin stopped aching, the dryness itself disappearing within moments. With a small start of surprise, Crowley found he missed it. Xeroderma - angelically inspired or not - didn't normally come with withdrawal symptoms.
"You'd better hurry up," he said, "we're late as it is."
Zebra stripes of puce, mauve and red paint from the walls of the bookshop reflected in Aziraphale's shining eyes as he nodded, visibly shrugging off the actions of the work experience boy, and decided to accompany his friend to dinner.
===
Aziraphale was not impressed.
"Bugger me," muttered Crowley under his breath, trying hard not to snigger too obviously.
"Crowley? Did you say something?"
Even the murderous glint in the angel's eye wasn't enough to keep Crowley's poker face steady. For a moment, he was sure the being was going to kill him - well, discorporate him - just to stop the sound of demonic laughter, but then, without warning, Aziraphale joined in. Giggling in an increasingly hysterical manner, he had to clutch at Crowley's shoulder to stay upright.
"Hey! I'm not a- a- a hat stand, you know."
"Ju- just a moment," Aziraphale gasped, now leaning heavily on Crowley's shoulder. "Keep still," he added, as the demon shifted uncomfortably beneath his hand. Letting the angel touch him for a moment was one thing - Crowley had trained himself not to flinch at that within few hundred years of The Arrangement - but prolonged exposure made his skin ache and crack with dryness as various unwanted demonic reflexes kicked in.
Mentally dismissing the pain, his eyes drifted back to the scene in front of them. Now the paint had dried, the colour scheme looked, if anything, all the more lurid. Only the knowledge that if he started laughing again he probably wouldn't be able to stop kept him from matching the angel's choked sobs of amusement - or possibly hysteria.
"Puce!" Aziraphale whispered, his voice rough from laughter. "Quite a charming shade of mauve, too."
"Red," Crowley added. "'Snot done to forget red."
"True." Utterly dishevelled but finally able to contain his amusement, the angel removed his hand from the demon's shoulder. Very soon, the skin stopped aching, the dryness itself disappearing within moments. With a small start of surprise, Crowley found he missed it. Xeroderma - angelically inspired or not - didn't normally come with withdrawal symptoms.
"You'd better hurry up," he said, "we're late as it is."
Zebra stripes of puce, mauve and red paint from the walls of the bookshop reflected in Aziraphale's shining eyes as he nodded, visibly shrugging off the actions of the work experience boy, and decided to accompany his friend to dinner.