tropes
in
millirific
(no subject)
consumed
author: Josephine
rating: PG-13
Written for 15 minute ficlets, post-breakage, don't kill me if you want to stab yourself from the angst.
It's odd, this feeling of being alone in a place in which he had spent solitary centuries.
It doesn't quite make sense, really. It's a Monday like any other Monday.
He wouldn't be here, anyway. It doesn't matter, really.
Aziraphael slowly and steadily arranges his books, hands beyond shaking now, 24 hours (fifty-seven minutes, twenty-three seconds, twenty-four, twenty-five) after Crowley walked out of the room at Milliways.
He sits at his counter and drinks his tea, a very strong Earl Grey (no apple tea for a while, he thinks, and has to suppress a giggle which is almost certainly hysterical), and works his way methodically, blindly, through a stack of books, cataloguing them, arranging them, assessing their condition, until his hand pauses with a slight tremor.
Neruda.
He drops the book, and does not hear the crack of the spine as it hits the floor.
I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.
He walks briskly to the kitchen, and very carefully places the mug in the sink. His grip on the counter is white-knuckled.
I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and fails to shut out the visions of blood and bruises and sex that assail his senses.
Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.
He won't cry anymore; crying won't do any good. Tears change nothing.
In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.
Breathing slowly through his nose, he walks back out to the front room and sits down. The books are still waiting to be catalogued, arranged, assessed.
The slim volume of Neruda lies there, its pages flopped open, the spine irreprarably broken, ignored.
author: Josephine
rating: PG-13
Written for 15 minute ficlets, post-breakage, don't kill me if you want to stab yourself from the angst.
It's odd, this feeling of being alone in a place in which he had spent solitary centuries.
It doesn't quite make sense, really. It's a Monday like any other Monday.
He wouldn't be here, anyway. It doesn't matter, really.
Aziraphael slowly and steadily arranges his books, hands beyond shaking now, 24 hours (fifty-seven minutes, twenty-three seconds, twenty-four, twenty-five) after Crowley walked out of the room at Milliways.
He sits at his counter and drinks his tea, a very strong Earl Grey (no apple tea for a while, he thinks, and has to suppress a giggle which is almost certainly hysterical), and works his way methodically, blindly, through a stack of books, cataloguing them, arranging them, assessing their condition, until his hand pauses with a slight tremor.
Neruda.
He drops the book, and does not hear the crack of the spine as it hits the floor.
I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.
He walks briskly to the kitchen, and very carefully places the mug in the sink. His grip on the counter is white-knuckled.
I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and fails to shut out the visions of blood and bruises and sex that assail his senses.
Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.
He won't cry anymore; crying won't do any good. Tears change nothing.
In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.
Breathing slowly through his nose, he walks back out to the front room and sits down. The books are still waiting to be catalogued, arranged, assessed.
The slim volume of Neruda lies there, its pages flopped open, the spine irreprarably broken, ignored.