(no subject)
Okay, never written a Good Omens fic before, so please be gentle.
Title: Talk
Author: Bastloki
Genre: General, introspection, missing scene, slight crossover
Characters: Adam, and Sandman!Lucifer, pre-'Season of Mists'
Summary: Brief words are exchanged.
If you want to imagine the future, imagine a boy and his dog and his friends. And a summer that never ends…
If you want imagine the summer, imagine an old soccer ball, grimy-white, faux leather peeling off, trailing beige threads as it is kicked about in the summer grass, by a rough white sneaker attached to rough blue jeans by a young body inhabited by an old, old soul.
The ball makes a soft tck noise as it connects with the sneaker.
Listen.
Tck.
Tck.
Grey eyes framed by locks of bright blonde hair glance to the skies as the air is filled with the sound of great wing beats, then resumes intent concentration on the ball. There is a sound like new leather creaking and rustling as the wings are folded neatly against a black clothed back.
“That was a good trick, boy.”
A faint smile, but the younger one doesn’t look up. Tck. Tck. “It wasn’t really a trick - not the way you’d pro’ly think.”
An answering smile appears, this one sharp enough to cut light. “How do you figure?”
“I just do."
The creaking, rustling noise is heard again - it sounds like tight canvas straining in a gale. “It’s gotten everyone all blathered and bothered, you know. They don’t know what to make of it, except maybe Him.”
An inquiring tilt moves the blonde head, but still the boy doesn’t look up. “What ‘bout you?”
Birds and small animals take flight for miles around as a laugh tears the air, sharp and abrupt as breaking glass. “Me? I think it’s funny as hell, as it were. They don’t understand what we’re like.”
A lip curls, slightly. “An’ what’s that, then?”
Silence.
Then, “You know, boy, don’t you."
It’s not a question, and a longer silence wanders in the air before being sliced by a quiet, “Yes...”
Finally the child turns, and grey eyes meet a pair the colour of clear skies before dawn for the longest of long times, and an understanding is reached, and boundaries are drawn and the taller one nods.
And for the most fleeting of seconds, a genuine smile passes like summer lightning across his face.
Then the sound of great and terrible wingbeats fill the air once more, and the child is left alone once more, with his ball, a wide, simple smile and the last word.
“…father.”
Tck.
Tck.
Tck.
THE END
Title: Talk
Author: Bastloki
Genre: General, introspection, missing scene, slight crossover
Characters: Adam, and Sandman!Lucifer, pre-'Season of Mists'
Summary: Brief words are exchanged.
If you want to imagine the future, imagine a boy and his dog and his friends. And a summer that never ends…
If you want imagine the summer, imagine an old soccer ball, grimy-white, faux leather peeling off, trailing beige threads as it is kicked about in the summer grass, by a rough white sneaker attached to rough blue jeans by a young body inhabited by an old, old soul.
The ball makes a soft tck noise as it connects with the sneaker.
Listen.
Tck.
Tck.
Grey eyes framed by locks of bright blonde hair glance to the skies as the air is filled with the sound of great wing beats, then resumes intent concentration on the ball. There is a sound like new leather creaking and rustling as the wings are folded neatly against a black clothed back.
“That was a good trick, boy.”
A faint smile, but the younger one doesn’t look up. Tck. Tck. “It wasn’t really a trick - not the way you’d pro’ly think.”
An answering smile appears, this one sharp enough to cut light. “How do you figure?”
“I just do."
The creaking, rustling noise is heard again - it sounds like tight canvas straining in a gale. “It’s gotten everyone all blathered and bothered, you know. They don’t know what to make of it, except maybe Him.”
An inquiring tilt moves the blonde head, but still the boy doesn’t look up. “What ‘bout you?”
Birds and small animals take flight for miles around as a laugh tears the air, sharp and abrupt as breaking glass. “Me? I think it’s funny as hell, as it were. They don’t understand what we’re like.”
A lip curls, slightly. “An’ what’s that, then?”
Silence.
Then, “You know, boy, don’t you."
It’s not a question, and a longer silence wanders in the air before being sliced by a quiet, “Yes...”
Finally the child turns, and grey eyes meet a pair the colour of clear skies before dawn for the longest of long times, and an understanding is reached, and boundaries are drawn and the taller one nods.
And for the most fleeting of seconds, a genuine smile passes like summer lightning across his face.
Then the sound of great and terrible wingbeats fill the air once more, and the child is left alone once more, with his ball, a wide, simple smile and the last word.
“…father.”
Tck.
Tck.
Tck.
THE END