Fill: Challenge #243 (Good Omens)
Aug. 9th, 2023 11:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shivver posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
tenminutesadaySince it worked so well last time, I'm going to write into the DW editor again today! Maybe I'll get a whole new story out of it! Actually, it won't, because I know what I'm going to write and it's going to be maudlin character introspection and no one wants me to post that kind of crap. (Edit after writing: I got a more interesting idea, well, more interesting to me anyway. So instead of maudlin character introspection, it's... I don't know how to describe it. But it's still character introspection, so nothing postable.) (Edit after re-reading: Maybe I will post this one, too, if only because it's really weird.)
I did get the previous first draft done, late on Monday, and planned to start reviewing and editing this weekend, but then I got a new idea for the end today, so I guess first draft was today. Or maybe that's second draft. Anyway, I can never leave well enough alone.
Big, big spoiler warning for season two of Good Omens. Also, if you haven't seen either season of GO, big big warning that this is not going to make any sense at all. (And yes, this was entirely inspired by the word "rain".)
He was leaning against it again. A common occurrence, since he seemed to spend much of his existence leaning against things, but he felt different this time. It could always feel him, he burned so brightly, far brighter than all those other insignificant specks milling about, except for the soft one. The soft one burned, too.
Normally, he radiated smugness for himself, disdain for everything around him, and some amount of complacency with his life and his lot. When he touched it, tenderness flowed even when he wasn't thinking of it, and when the soft one was nearby, a light glimmered somewhere deep inside, which he always hastened to shade.
Today, he felt empty, as if he leant only so that his shell would not collapse to the pavement. If it felt anything else in him, it was regret.
It reached out, suggesting a long drive to the north, because that never failed to cheer him up, but he refused to hear. It then decided to wait. While it knew he cherished it, it understood it had limited influence, but they stood in the heart of the big city - where his heart lived in the big city - and if it waited long enough, the soft one would appear and all would be well. It liked the soft one. The soft one always treated it well and had smiled when it returned after the flames, and had just taken it on a trip. It had even been yellow for a span.
A minute later, the door to the shop opened and a man stepped out, one it had only seen once a quarter of an hour earlier. This one also burned, perhaps more brightly than he did, but he did not trust this man, that was clear, and if it could have shied away, it would have.
Behind him came the soft one, and he shifted against its roof ever so slightly. Anger, disbelief, embarassment, disappointment washed over it in waves. Aziraphale, you idiot. Snippets of memories floated by: a raised wing shielding the soft one from a rain of meteors, the grief of parents whose children were stolen from them as part of a bet made by their god, shades of grey in the eyes of a dying Scots girl, the persecution of an archangel who dared to fall in love. After six thousand years, angel, you still don't understand. And now you're gone.
The soft one glanced at him, then averted his eyes and crossed the road with the man and entered the pub on the corner. He threw its door open, slid in, and drove off. It hummed soothingly as it glided over the tarmac, but it knew that though this would likely be a long drive and possibly to the north, it would not end well.
I did get the previous first draft done, late on Monday, and planned to start reviewing and editing this weekend, but then I got a new idea for the end today, so I guess first draft was today. Or maybe that's second draft. Anyway, I can never leave well enough alone.
Big, big spoiler warning for season two of Good Omens. Also, if you haven't seen either season of GO, big big warning that this is not going to make any sense at all. (And yes, this was entirely inspired by the word "rain".)
He was leaning against it again. A common occurrence, since he seemed to spend much of his existence leaning against things, but he felt different this time. It could always feel him, he burned so brightly, far brighter than all those other insignificant specks milling about, except for the soft one. The soft one burned, too.
Normally, he radiated smugness for himself, disdain for everything around him, and some amount of complacency with his life and his lot. When he touched it, tenderness flowed even when he wasn't thinking of it, and when the soft one was nearby, a light glimmered somewhere deep inside, which he always hastened to shade.
Today, he felt empty, as if he leant only so that his shell would not collapse to the pavement. If it felt anything else in him, it was regret.
It reached out, suggesting a long drive to the north, because that never failed to cheer him up, but he refused to hear. It then decided to wait. While it knew he cherished it, it understood it had limited influence, but they stood in the heart of the big city - where his heart lived in the big city - and if it waited long enough, the soft one would appear and all would be well. It liked the soft one. The soft one always treated it well and had smiled when it returned after the flames, and had just taken it on a trip. It had even been yellow for a span.
A minute later, the door to the shop opened and a man stepped out, one it had only seen once a quarter of an hour earlier. This one also burned, perhaps more brightly than he did, but he did not trust this man, that was clear, and if it could have shied away, it would have.
Behind him came the soft one, and he shifted against its roof ever so slightly. Anger, disbelief, embarassment, disappointment washed over it in waves. Aziraphale, you idiot. Snippets of memories floated by: a raised wing shielding the soft one from a rain of meteors, the grief of parents whose children were stolen from them as part of a bet made by their god, shades of grey in the eyes of a dying Scots girl, the persecution of an archangel who dared to fall in love. After six thousand years, angel, you still don't understand. And now you're gone.
The soft one glanced at him, then averted his eyes and crossed the road with the man and entered the pub on the corner. He threw its door open, slid in, and drove off. It hummed soothingly as it glided over the tarmac, but it knew that though this would likely be a long drive and possibly to the north, it would not end well.