Drabble: The Unforgivable Sin
The Unforgivable Sin
“Don’t even think about it,” says Crowley, voice promising worlds of pain to come.
Aziraphale throws the snowball anyway.
Chalk it up to physics, to surprise at having a direct command ignored-perhaps even to some
sort of unspeakable plan-but the fact remains that there follows a rush of air, an undignified
noise from an unidentified direction, and the satisfying crunch of an irresistible force making
cold contact with an unmoved object in a black Versace overcoat.
A moment of deafening silence. Then, quietly, dangerously, a low hissing sound.
“You know,” spits Crowley, “how I feel about wet spots.”
“Don’t even think about it,” says Crowley, voice promising worlds of pain to come.
Aziraphale throws the snowball anyway.
Chalk it up to physics, to surprise at having a direct command ignored-perhaps even to some
sort of unspeakable plan-but the fact remains that there follows a rush of air, an undignified
noise from an unidentified direction, and the satisfying crunch of an irresistible force making
cold contact with an unmoved object in a black Versace overcoat.
A moment of deafening silence. Then, quietly, dangerously, a low hissing sound.
“You know,” spits Crowley, “how I feel about wet spots.”