Pics from London
Hallo, everyone. I haven't yet posted anything here, so I figured some photos from my recent trip to London would be a good start (including captions of an educational nature). I'm afraid they aren't nearly as good as the ones from the Soho/Mayfair trip - I was with a group so I sort of took pictures of things as I passed. I'm also not much of a ( Read more... )
"Of all the bars, in all the towns, in all the world, you had to walk into mine," Crowley muttered, staring down at his wine.
"Really, my dear, why did you run away to Ireland, of all places?" Aziraphale asked. "And with your own bar, no less. I thought you were out of the inn-keeping business after all that business in Bethlehem."
Crowley muttered something indistinct, and downed his entire glass with wide eyes. The demon didn't look well.
"I didn't quite catch that, dear," replied Aziraphale, and sipped his Bailey's.
"He won't come to Ireland. You know."
"Islington?"
"Don't say his name!" Crowley hissed, his eyes bulging, his neck struggling to get out of its hip, slim tie. "He'll know...he's still waiting."
"What on earth could have convinced you to work with him?" Aziraphale asked.
"I figured, a fallen angel who's nutters can't be very difficult to deal with, and he didn't seem to have any qualms about...well, anything," replied Crowley with a shudder. He looked imploringly at Aziraphale. "Can't you..."
"I already gave him a talking-to," said the angel, taking Crowley's hand and patting it. "He can understand why you may have been frightened."
"Alarmed," Crowley replied, snatching his hand back. "I was alarmed, is all." He looked away, and swallowed.
"Now now. He won't be bothering you again. You can come back now. I've got the plane tickets back here," Aziraphale said, putting them on the table. "We can be on a plane tonight."
"Really?"
"Yes," Aziraphale said, smiling.
"Angel..."
Aziraphale shushed him, saving Crowley a bit of pride. "Really, it's unseemly. St. George already drove all the snakes out of Ireland, remember?"
"Let's just say my departure is fashionably late," Crowley replied with a smile, and snapped his fingers. The Wurlitzer started playing "A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square," and he poured a glass of wine for the both of them. "Here's looking at you, kid."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Nobody will understand this story if they haven't read Neverwhere. Sorry. This, however, is not the Islington story I promised.
Reply
*looks at t3h shiny*
Can I pet t3h shiiiny, please? *looks at vampie6 with the big olde puppy eyes*
Reply
Erm, sure. XP
Reply
Reply
Reply
Oh my god, so much love.
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment