Aziraphale’s long since guessed that Crowley hasn’t been hanging on to the remnants of his hair as a keepsake. But the little twist of pain it evokes is still a surprise. Even though it’s no more than dead cast-off bits of his corporation, it’s still a part of Crowley in some sense.
Still, a measured breath pushes the sting away. He has a keepsake of his own, tucked away in his sleeve, and more than that he has Crowley here with him for a whole three months. And this is important to the angel, a way of pushing off some of the terrible weight Heaven has laid on his shoulders.
He manages a small smile.
“Toss it over,” he says, and when Crowley does Aziraphale waves a hand to change the trajectory of the bag’s arc through the air so that it lands on the stone as well.
This time the smell is a touch worse. There aren’t yet words to describe some of the notes in the awful perfume of hellfire—in centuries to come Aziraphale will realize that it smells like burning tires, like a chainsmoker’s dirty laundry, like a ruined microwave. It’s all of those things and more, and itself in a way no other description can quite articulate, and the smell of burnt hair on top of that does not noticeably improve the sulfurous stink.
But at some point after they’ve left this sunny green space behind them, the wind will shift. Rain will roll in from some other corner of the world and wash away whatever ash or lingering stench might be left behind. The air will forget this moment; so will the land. The memory of this smell will fade from their own minds in time, its edges blunted by time.
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timeasmymeasure
He’s been a mom, he gets fire safety. ;)
Date: 2020-07-01 12:18 am (UTC)Still, a measured breath pushes the sting away. He has a keepsake of his own, tucked away in his sleeve, and more than that he has Crowley here with him for a whole three months. And this is important to the angel, a way of pushing off some of the terrible weight Heaven has laid on his shoulders.
He manages a small smile.
“Toss it over,” he says, and when Crowley does Aziraphale waves a hand to change the trajectory of the bag’s arc through the air so that it lands on the stone as well.
This time the smell is a touch worse. There aren’t yet words to describe some of the notes in the awful perfume of hellfire—in centuries to come Aziraphale will realize that it smells like burning tires, like a chainsmoker’s dirty laundry, like a ruined microwave. It’s all of those things and more, and itself in a way no other description can quite articulate, and the smell of burnt hair on top of that does not noticeably improve the sulfurous stink.
But at some point after they’ve left this sunny green space behind them, the wind will shift. Rain will roll in from some other corner of the world and wash away whatever ash or lingering stench might be left behind. The air will forget this moment; so will the land. The memory of this smell will fade from their own minds in time, its edges blunted by time.