Good omens fanfic!
Title: Little Children.
Fandom: Good Omens.
Pairings: Crowley/Aziraphale, Famine/Wensleydale, Pollution/Brian, War/Pepper, DEATH/Adam.
Rating: PG-13 for mention of sex.
Summary: The Four Horsepeople watch four particular little children age; blood isn't always what binds you.
Little Children.
The Four Horsepeople love little children.
Famine likes them especially young, when their mouths are bigger than their stomachs as they scream for food that will never come, when their bellies start to distend with malnutrition, when their limbs are rickety and thin from starvation. He likes them as they grow older as well, susceptible teenage girls afraid of getting fat and so refusing to eat their food- or even more wasteful, consuming it then forcing themselves to throw up again. The boys are good at that age as well, bulking up on muscle, cramming any sort of sports drink or bar into their mouth. Famine finds it fun to watch them grow stronger, and stronger, still not find it enough, turn to steroids and then lose all their gains.
Wensleydale’s never been like that, more’s the pity. He’d always eaten up everything on his plate obediently, greens and all, tucking into his food with all the solemn concentration of a gourmet. And indeed, when he grew older, a gourmet was exactly what he turned out to be, a teenager telling his friends about the great new restaurant he found that serves authentic Sri Lankan cuisine, savouring every mouthful even as the Them gulped down the hot dishes as if the spices would burn less that way. He didn’t grow fat though, just remained solid, perhaps a little stolid as he became a young man in his twenties sipping at wine thoughtfully and pronouncing judgments as to the vintage while the other three lounged on the floor and built pyramids of beer cans.
Wensleydale didn’t mind that, though. What he mourned was that he could never keep a favourite restaurant for long -they always seemed to go out of business after a few of his visits.
~*~
Pollution likes little children.
Pollution loves little kids -the way they pick their noses and smear snot on the underside of desks, their fascination with their own private parts, their constant forgetfulness when it comes to washing their chubby little hands and dirtied fingernails. He laughs when they pee in the pool, and applauds approvingly the babies that projectile-vomit on their tired, breast-feeding mothers. And the things developed to sterilize their living environments, oh my! Pollution could tell you stories about the factories used to create baby wipes, and the damage they do to the environment, but he’d rather keep his delightful little paradox for himself and continue to watch the children benignly.
Brian - ah, Brian is like a dream come true for him. He tracks mud everywhere, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. His room looks like it’s been burgled repeatedly by people looking for the Holy Grail and thus too pious to take anything, but too busy to tidy up after themselves. It only gets worse when he goes to university; there’s mould in his fridge, and his bathtub is the most disgusting shade of yellow imaginable. Crumbs litter the floor and although he probably has a bed somewhere in there, it would be difficult to find it under the dirty clothes that pile mountain-high in his room.
Brian couldn’t care less about that; he’s always liked it up against the wall, hard and fast and dirty in a way that has nothing to do with shame.
~*~
War likes little children.
War adores kids before grown-ups get to them with ideals of pacifism and playing nicely. She prefers them when they’re too young to know it’s wrong to hit each other over the head with toys repeatedly to solve arguments, but she appreciates them as well when they’re old enough to know it, but do it anyway. She likes to see the little boys fight, all flailing arms and legs and that terrible, childish anger that is more stubbornness than anything else. She likes it even better when the little girls fight, because they bar no holds -kicking, biting, screaming and hair-pulling are all fair tactics when it comes to the question of whose Barbie is prettier. War doesn’t like Barbies, but she does like seeing the little girls destroy them as a rite of passage to teenagehood, likes seeing the heads pop right off and the plastic melt under the judicious application of wax-headed matches.
Pepper’s never had any Barbies to burn, but the first thing she does when she enters college is get her hair buzzcut, flame-red waves falling away to reveal a surprisingly fragile-looking skull, shaped as delicately as a bird’s. Being Pepper, she doesn’t stop there; she asks the barber to shave a peace symbol into the back of her head, and he does it. War watches and laughs as Pepper walks out into the street where the Them are waiting. Heads turn to look at the hippie-punk in black jeans and a black tank top (but her lips and nails are red), and soon, the fighting begins.
Pepper’s never wanted to be popular; she’d rather fight the boys than have them fighting over her.
~*~
Death likes little children.
They can see him. Even though they confuse him by asking awkward questions and insist on calling him a’skellington’, he still likes them. They’re refreshingly uncomplicated and can be bribed with sweets quite easily. He doesn’t really like having to take them away; were he more sentimental, he might claim it hurts to have them trust him so readily, sticky soul hands sliding into his confidingly as he walks them to a place from which they’ll never return. He prefers watching them grow old, live happy, satisfactory lives and eventually die painlessly in their sleep.
He’s never expected to see the Antichrist age though, and can’t help but watch with a morbid fascination as Adam turns into a personable, friendly teenage, then a charismatic young man with an engaging smile. He wonders if Adam will die with that same smile on his face, full lips (but they’ll be wrinkled with age by then) curved upwards right at the last, eyes still holding that hint of knowing laughter that hides the potential for darkness that lurks in the depths of his gold-brown gaze.
The sand in Adam’s hourglass is gold, not that it means anything; Death finds the sound of the grains falling endlessly against each other (the top bulb will never empty) a counter to thoughts of Adam’s lips.
~*~
The Four Horse People have always like little children, but they’ve also always played favourites.
The Them are interesting as children, but only from a professional standpoint. As teenagers - as adults - they provoke the sort of obsession that immortals never want to admit to having.
At the End, when they all meet once more, each of them has another with them, and it’s Crowley who remarks in his sardonic drawl, “What, is the Apocalypse now a spectator sport?”
Aziraphale squeezes his hand in a reminder to play nice, and the Them merely glance at each other with knowing smiles, each standing a little behind and to the right of their respective Horsepeople.
Even immortals need their Muses.
~Fin.~
Fandom: Good Omens.
Pairings: Crowley/Aziraphale, Famine/Wensleydale, Pollution/Brian, War/Pepper, DEATH/Adam.
Rating: PG-13 for mention of sex.
Summary: The Four Horsepeople watch four particular little children age; blood isn't always what binds you.
Little Children.
The Four Horsepeople love little children.
Famine likes them especially young, when their mouths are bigger than their stomachs as they scream for food that will never come, when their bellies start to distend with malnutrition, when their limbs are rickety and thin from starvation. He likes them as they grow older as well, susceptible teenage girls afraid of getting fat and so refusing to eat their food- or even more wasteful, consuming it then forcing themselves to throw up again. The boys are good at that age as well, bulking up on muscle, cramming any sort of sports drink or bar into their mouth. Famine finds it fun to watch them grow stronger, and stronger, still not find it enough, turn to steroids and then lose all their gains.
Wensleydale’s never been like that, more’s the pity. He’d always eaten up everything on his plate obediently, greens and all, tucking into his food with all the solemn concentration of a gourmet. And indeed, when he grew older, a gourmet was exactly what he turned out to be, a teenager telling his friends about the great new restaurant he found that serves authentic Sri Lankan cuisine, savouring every mouthful even as the Them gulped down the hot dishes as if the spices would burn less that way. He didn’t grow fat though, just remained solid, perhaps a little stolid as he became a young man in his twenties sipping at wine thoughtfully and pronouncing judgments as to the vintage while the other three lounged on the floor and built pyramids of beer cans.
Wensleydale didn’t mind that, though. What he mourned was that he could never keep a favourite restaurant for long -they always seemed to go out of business after a few of his visits.
~*~
Pollution likes little children.
Pollution loves little kids -the way they pick their noses and smear snot on the underside of desks, their fascination with their own private parts, their constant forgetfulness when it comes to washing their chubby little hands and dirtied fingernails. He laughs when they pee in the pool, and applauds approvingly the babies that projectile-vomit on their tired, breast-feeding mothers. And the things developed to sterilize their living environments, oh my! Pollution could tell you stories about the factories used to create baby wipes, and the damage they do to the environment, but he’d rather keep his delightful little paradox for himself and continue to watch the children benignly.
Brian - ah, Brian is like a dream come true for him. He tracks mud everywhere, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. His room looks like it’s been burgled repeatedly by people looking for the Holy Grail and thus too pious to take anything, but too busy to tidy up after themselves. It only gets worse when he goes to university; there’s mould in his fridge, and his bathtub is the most disgusting shade of yellow imaginable. Crumbs litter the floor and although he probably has a bed somewhere in there, it would be difficult to find it under the dirty clothes that pile mountain-high in his room.
Brian couldn’t care less about that; he’s always liked it up against the wall, hard and fast and dirty in a way that has nothing to do with shame.
~*~
War likes little children.
War adores kids before grown-ups get to them with ideals of pacifism and playing nicely. She prefers them when they’re too young to know it’s wrong to hit each other over the head with toys repeatedly to solve arguments, but she appreciates them as well when they’re old enough to know it, but do it anyway. She likes to see the little boys fight, all flailing arms and legs and that terrible, childish anger that is more stubbornness than anything else. She likes it even better when the little girls fight, because they bar no holds -kicking, biting, screaming and hair-pulling are all fair tactics when it comes to the question of whose Barbie is prettier. War doesn’t like Barbies, but she does like seeing the little girls destroy them as a rite of passage to teenagehood, likes seeing the heads pop right off and the plastic melt under the judicious application of wax-headed matches.
Pepper’s never had any Barbies to burn, but the first thing she does when she enters college is get her hair buzzcut, flame-red waves falling away to reveal a surprisingly fragile-looking skull, shaped as delicately as a bird’s. Being Pepper, she doesn’t stop there; she asks the barber to shave a peace symbol into the back of her head, and he does it. War watches and laughs as Pepper walks out into the street where the Them are waiting. Heads turn to look at the hippie-punk in black jeans and a black tank top (but her lips and nails are red), and soon, the fighting begins.
Pepper’s never wanted to be popular; she’d rather fight the boys than have them fighting over her.
~*~
Death likes little children.
They can see him. Even though they confuse him by asking awkward questions and insist on calling him a’skellington’, he still likes them. They’re refreshingly uncomplicated and can be bribed with sweets quite easily. He doesn’t really like having to take them away; were he more sentimental, he might claim it hurts to have them trust him so readily, sticky soul hands sliding into his confidingly as he walks them to a place from which they’ll never return. He prefers watching them grow old, live happy, satisfactory lives and eventually die painlessly in their sleep.
He’s never expected to see the Antichrist age though, and can’t help but watch with a morbid fascination as Adam turns into a personable, friendly teenage, then a charismatic young man with an engaging smile. He wonders if Adam will die with that same smile on his face, full lips (but they’ll be wrinkled with age by then) curved upwards right at the last, eyes still holding that hint of knowing laughter that hides the potential for darkness that lurks in the depths of his gold-brown gaze.
The sand in Adam’s hourglass is gold, not that it means anything; Death finds the sound of the grains falling endlessly against each other (the top bulb will never empty) a counter to thoughts of Adam’s lips.
~*~
The Four Horse People have always like little children, but they’ve also always played favourites.
The Them are interesting as children, but only from a professional standpoint. As teenagers - as adults - they provoke the sort of obsession that immortals never want to admit to having.
At the End, when they all meet once more, each of them has another with them, and it’s Crowley who remarks in his sardonic drawl, “What, is the Apocalypse now a spectator sport?”
Aziraphale squeezes his hand in a reminder to play nice, and the Them merely glance at each other with knowing smiles, each standing a little behind and to the right of their respective Horsepeople.
Even immortals need their Muses.
~Fin.~