Gabriel walked, amused at the bells. It reminded him of that movie that they showed all the time at Christmas. He was wearing a long black duster, a black shirt and black pants. His gaze flicked around the bookshop, smiling a little. He rather liked bookstores.
Oh, no. His voice was female. He cleared his throat and tried desperately to deepen it, which he knew was hopeless anyway since his usual voice wasn't deep at all. It wasn't as if he could ignore the archangel. Aziraphale was mostly sure that lying to a superior was offensive, somehow.
"In here," he said, his voice so quiet he could barely hear it himself. It was still a feminine sound, though. He wondered if he could teach himself sign language before he got his old body back.
He touched his hair nervously, and then realized what he was doing, and wondered if it would be such a crime if he walked out into the middle of the street and lay down. It might take a few cars - he couldn't help the healing - but it was worth it, right? He paused, shivered, and said a quick prayer. Not that desperate.
He remembered his guest and opened his mouth again. "Gabriel, I'm in the back. Is there something you needed?"
Oh. He was going to sic Crowley on those angels from the boutique. They had to give him a female body with a female voice.
( ... )
"I'm-" his voice squeaked and he cringed, slightly, "fine."
He coughed, a delicate little cough that he absolutely hated. It sounded like the bell on his shop door. "Really," he insisted, a tone creeping into his voice that he wasn't sure he liked, "I am. I've tea, books, a tank top - it didn't really fit, I'm more of a 'slightly soft' type, apparently." Aziraphale cringed again, thinking of soft things that had come with the body. He was gay. He didn't understand the attraction to breasts, and now that he had them... Um.
He would need intensive therapy after this. A nice wine would likely suffice, though.
He squinted in the dark, long dark-blonde lashes making themselves known and shielding his grey-blue eyes. The candlelight didn't extend very far. "Are you coming back here?" he wondered aloud, sounding like a romantic comedy star might when wondering to themselves out loud if their love interest is really telling the truth about loving them. He frowned; he didn't mean to sound like this. Frustration edged into his face.
Comments 17
"Aziraphale?"
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Oh, no. His voice was female. He cleared his throat and tried desperately to deepen it, which he knew was hopeless anyway since his usual voice wasn't deep at all. It wasn't as if he could ignore the archangel. Aziraphale was mostly sure that lying to a superior was offensive, somehow.
"In here," he said, his voice so quiet he could barely hear it himself. It was still a feminine sound, though. He wondered if he could teach himself sign language before he got his old body back.
He touched his hair nervously, and then realized what he was doing, and wondered if it would be such a crime if he walked out into the middle of the street and lay down. It might take a few cars - he couldn't help the healing - but it was worth it, right? He paused, shivered, and said a quick prayer. Not that desperate.
He remembered his guest and opened his mouth again. "Gabriel, I'm in the back. Is there something you needed?"
Oh. He was going to sic Crowley on those angels from the boutique. They had to give him a female body with a female voice. ( ... )
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"I was coming to see how you were doing." He tried to keep the amusement out of his voice, really he did. He managed to succeced. Mostly.
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He coughed, a delicate little cough that he absolutely hated. It sounded like the bell on his shop door. "Really," he insisted, a tone creeping into his voice that he wasn't sure he liked, "I am. I've tea, books, a tank top - it didn't really fit, I'm more of a 'slightly soft' type, apparently." Aziraphale cringed again, thinking of soft things that had come with the body. He was gay. He didn't understand the attraction to breasts, and now that he had them... Um.
He would need intensive therapy after this. A nice wine would likely suffice, though.
He squinted in the dark, long dark-blonde lashes making themselves known and shielding his grey-blue eyes. The candlelight didn't extend very far. "Are you coming back here?" he wondered aloud, sounding like a romantic comedy star might when wondering to themselves out loud if their love interest is really telling the truth about loving them. He frowned; he didn't mean to sound like this. Frustration edged into his face.
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