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(Untitled)
He tells himself that it's a fit of temper; that that's why he snatches up Aziraphael's ugly overcoat from the coat rack and pitches it out the window, fingers fumbling and furious on the sash. When he slams it down again, before Aziraphael can appear on the street below, the glass rattles reproachfully in its frames ( Read more... ) -
(Untitled)
It's a picture-postcard sunrise as Crowley ghosts back through the streets of L.A., headed towards Raguel's apartment, and it gives his face a little colour. He feels strange - flattened and insubstantial, like nighttime in the desert has eroded something out of him, worn it away with cold and dust, from right around the time when he found that it ( Read more... ) -
(Untitled)
It's Christmas morning, and the darkness provided by the blinds isn't quite complete. It's dark outside, too, but the faint orange glow of streetlights bounces off the thin rime of not-quite-snow crusting over London and filters in around the edges of Crowley's bedroom window. It's not completely quiet, either - every so often a brighter flare of ( Read more... ) -
(Untitled)
A ways outside the dim glow of the refueling station, a low, greyish building that squats sullenly in the rain-sodden muck of Jubilee, something flickers in the dark.
fiat lux
