|GO Ficlet: Written on the spot, now with title and rating...
||[May. 26th, 2010|11:39 pm]
(lives between pages)
Title: Major Failings
Rating: PG-13, maybe R for the brief gore-factor.
Notes: I was in a black mood. That's kind of all there is to say.
Summary: Sometimes, ineffability takes things a step too far.
It was quick and messy, the sort of thing that took you off-guard no matter how many beheadings, torture stints, and vivisections you'd seen otherwise. Actually, Crowley wasn't certain how many of any of those he'd actually seen. He tended to lower his eyes or look away at the last second. This was also a major failing in a demon.
One moment, she'd been walking only a few paces ahead whilst Aziraphale nattered on about nothing in particular—Southbank Centre, art and poetry series, something something—and the next, there'd been the screech of tyres, a pair of glassy blank eyes staring up at Crowley. Blood on the headlights. Brains on the pavement.
"Good gracious!" Aziraphale's arm tightened on Crowley's. "That could've been..."
They were part of the gawking crowd that had already begun to form. The cabbie had been taking a shortcut, no doubt, and hadn't been thinking of the pedestrians he'd encounter at the spot where his intended path severed the pavement before meeting up with New Oxford Street. At least someone had dialled the ambulance.
"Could it really, angel?" Crowley asked, stealing one last glance.
He took a shaky breath. Whoosh. They were gone. So far gone, in fact, that they'd bypassed both Crowley's front door and the staircase leading up from the entryway and into the living room (much more lived-in than it had once been).
"There's nothing for it now," Aziraphale was saying, as he puttered about Crowley's kitchen. "Far too many hangers-on. I'm not certain how I could have explained—"
Crowley bit the tip of his tongue, but it was no use.
"Would it have helped if she'd been on a bike?"
Aziraphale appeared in the doorway, glaring at him over Crowley's French press.
"There's no need for that," he snapped. "The poor girl's dead."
"Didn't have to be," murmured Crowley, bitterly. He sank back further into the sofa.
And then Aziraphale said, softly and somehow entirely without malice:
"Would it have helped if she'd been a bird?"
Crowley closed his eyes. Yes, a major failing indeed.