The Angel's Book. (Not a Bible)|
[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 10 most recent journal entries recorded in
Aziraphale (An Angel, and part time book dealer)'s LiveJournal:
|Friday, July 29th, 2005|
|Thursday, July 28th, 2005|
((Everyone welcome, of course, particularly Rosie and Crowley.))
Aziraphale was hiding.
It wasn't something he normally did, and he rather didn't like being forced to hide. But really, he was too embarrassed to do anything else.
It had started when Up Above couldn't locate his former body. Granted, it was a little worse for the murder, having had parts of his skin removed and all with a dull knife - not an exaggeration, he quite clearly remembered the sawing motion - and he had been exhausted after succeeding in his mission so it probably did sustain more damage than he could remember, but he knew that body.
He could use it effectively. It was terrible when you got new bodies; they were so unused that it took ages before grace set in.
Not that the one he had right now was bad, when it came to grace. It was just that he preferred his old body, the one he was familiar in.
The one that was male.
Aziraphale sighed and glanced down at himself (herself?). It wasn't too unlike him, the outfitters in the Boutique for Angels Up Above had assured him - it had blonde hair, curly, and grey-blue eyes, and it was nice and soft, and looked good in tartan/glasses/etc.
He still didn't like it. Worse, he was terrified of it. Bodies tended to do things, unwanted things. He reviewed his mental checklist.
Tea. Feelings towards tea all in order, and same towards chocolate.
Tartan. All there.
My, it was warm in here, wasn't it?
Aziraphale willed his body cooler and then scowled petulantly when he realized what he was doing. On the bonus side, his feelings were intact, physical feelings as well. On the minus side, he thought he'd prefer Crowley liking him while he was male, because Aziraphale had been male for ages and was going to be again very soon.
Silly thoughts. He reviewed his situation.
He was still wrapped in a blanket and his own wings, curled up in the back of his bookshop. He found some clothes but wasn't sure how to make them fit, so he'd just taken a blanket and some slightly too-large tartan pjs and found his glasses and curled up. He was having a read, even though his new body's hair - blonde, but natural, ta ever so - fell down past his face. He was in the back room of the shop, in a large chair. It was late at night but he had a candle burning.
It was far past the time he told Crowley he would be back at the flat. Several days, in fact. Oh dear. He tried to push the nagging thought out of his mind, and continued reading, working hard at avoiding all the other sounds. He hadn't really spoken to Rosie, either. Or his friends. He wasn't sure if he could face them, just yet. After all, he'd just returned earlier that day.
Aziraphale was simply embarrassed. He really didn't want to see anyone while he was like this, but when he heard the shop's door's bells tinkle as someone pushed it open, he realized, with some fear, that he would have to.
|Friday, July 22nd, 2005|
1.) Copy and paste this into your journal:
<*font color="yourusername"> <*b>yourusername<*/b> <*/font>
2.) Eliminate the asterisks.
2 1/2.) Replace "yourusername" with your user name.
3.) See what color you are ineffableangel
((WTF? What about blue, or grey, or something angelic? o.0))
ETA: Crowley's is bright green. Like, NEON.
|Thursday, July 21st, 2005|
The practise of not-swearing for the past six millenia (or probably more like one millenium, as that was when I finally understood what the words meant) brings me here.Oh dear.
|Sunday, July 17th, 2005|
It was a perfectly normal day with the sun shining and the sky blue, until an owl came and rapped on his back-room store window.
Aziraphale sighed and debated not answering it. He drank the rest of his tea in contemplation, and just as he swallowed the last sip, humming a pleasant tune to drive off the stirring feelings of guilt and resentment - Heaven had a new tactic, and this barn owl was clearly one of the archangels, probably one near the top of the Bureaucracy Up There - the barn owl was stunned to see the window's glass vanish momentarily.
It had seen odder things, however, and dove inside, dropping the parchment with its shining ink on Aziraphale's back room desk. It perched on the mantel and waited. It knew Aziraphale, and it knew biscuits would be forthcoming.
The angel sighed and reached over to pick it up, unrolling it to find exactly what he expected.
The owl hooted softly as the curly-haired being read it over and looked thoughtful.
"Well done, Mercury," Aziraphale told it, smiling. The owl hooted again and found a pile of treats at his clawed feet.
Aziraphale turned back to the scroll as Mercury, affectionately called "Hg" by some of the more acclimatized angels, regurgitated something that may or may not have been mouse bones and fur, and left. "I'm sure it did something to deserve that," the angel told himself with an amused smile. "Scared a few humans into swearing over the Ineffable, perhaps."
He studied the orders once again. Scotland. Oh dear. He'd have to tell Crowley he wouldn't be at their - Crowley's
- flat for a bit.
((Go ahead and comment, he's in the back room.))
|Wednesday, July 13th, 2005|
|One demon in particular, thinks the angel.
Aziraphale can tell when the clouds knit together that the storm is a demon-binger. A demon-binger, for those unused to Aziraphale's world, is like a harbinger, only far more loud, dangerous, and unsubtle. Well, perhaps unsubtle is the wrong word. This demon can be very subtle when he wants to be.
There is nothing yet, only wind and the leaves it whips by. Aziraphale thinks he may know better than to assume it's going to be a quiet night.
He wants to pull out his wings and welcome it, and is only stopped by few reasons, like the loss of the tweed jacket he is wearing.
Instead, he smiles into his tea, alone in the darkening bookshop, and listens for the quiet purr of the familiar, 1926, mint-condition (even for all the reckless driving - Crowley wouldn't have it any other way), black Bentley.
And he thinks he is faintly excited.
|Tuesday, July 12th, 2005|
|The Shop is Open
((Open to all!))
It was becoming close to dusk when he found stormclouds brewing in the skies. Aziraphale sighed and shuttered his windows; thankfully, he'd just seen a man about renting the upstairs temporarily instead of abusing his poor old flat. He had just about sold the flat, anyway; the couple looked so cold and they were homeless and didn't have money for a hotel while they looked for a home... The last landlord had been needlessly cruel, and the poor father-to-be needed to be in London in order to get to his job. It was a simple matter of extracting payment over the flat, something he rather didn't want to do unless they could properly afford it.
Aziraphale sighed and found a good novel amongst the stacks, pulling it to the front of the bookshop to his desk by the front store window, and settled in for a long read.
It had been a quiet day, despite all the new friends he had made, and he was starting to become accustomed to the life as a multiverse Sage. He and the Other Two (they weren't quite identical, for instance the other angel could have stawberries without being intensely allergic) had talked and sorted things out, and a book party was coming on Friday night. He was rather looking forward to it.
And Rosie had had quite the adventure. He was just beginning to get a glance of what had happened, but apparently it concerned an escaped serial murderer named Jane and a boy named Jonathon.
Aziraphale placed a bookmark in the book. He hadn't sold any books today, which really made it a Good Day, but he felt that any day without Crowley - the absence still nagged at him - was a Bad Day. Perhaps if he ran into a few more friends before the end of the day it would just turn out to be a Nice Day. Er. Despite the approaching weather. Oh dear. He felt himself growing disappointed.
|Monday, July 11th, 2005|
|An Imaginary Friend|
Your score was 62 in Unbelievability!
|You are your author's imaginary friend, but you're not really the type of character fiction writers should aim for. |
You're more than a little out of the ordinary. You might have had some really crazy experiences, or have an unusual talent or two. Maybe you were even born with a tail. Whatever it is that makes you unique, it does the job well, because there are very few people like you on this planet.
A novel with you as a character would be a guilty pleasure to read. It would be considered intellectual junk food, of course, but damn fun to read nonetheless. Even if many people didn't want to pay actual money to read about you and your exploits, surely it would be checked out from the library at least... once every couple of months.
|My test tracked 1 variable How you compared to other people your age and gender:|
||You scored higher than 99% on Implausibility|
|Sunday, July 10th, 2005|
|A Somewhat Worried Angel
((Go right ahead and reply, everyone welcome!))
Aziraphale moved to the front of the store, still a bit tired. He'd had a terrible night's sleep, even though it shouldn't matter overmuch as he didn't really need to sleep, per se. Resting was more accurate. It was just resting his corporate body. With his eyes closed.
It was true. The rumours were true. There was one (1) Crowley amongst the Sages, and there was one (1) Aziraphale. Not him, but Another. Now there were two (2) Aziraphales, and one (1) Crowley. He wasn't going to take that one Crowley at all - it wasn't his Crowley.
He had made a mistake. He had come to the Sages hoping to do good, but how could he if he didn't have the demon to help or even hinder? He liked the flavour of Crowley's wiles, and he liked the small contests they sometimes had. He liked everything about Crowley, but where he was now, there wasn't one. It was a disturbing feeling. Perhaps his demon would turn up.
Aziraphale sighed heavily and began looking through his bookstacks as the sign on his shop door flipped messages. "Open to All" read across the sign now. He hoped it wasn't too out-of-date, even if it was in an old-fashioned font. He pulled out a rather favourite book - Gone with the Wind - and brought it up to the desk at the front. Windy, today. Poor souls. The sun glinted off a far building and shone at him, but it didn't matter. He felt like he was betraying what he was, mourning this absence.
He sat and opened the book. Crowley shouldn't matter. He was an evil of the world, but really, he wasn't that bad. And he was rather sweet, and funny, and oh. Dear.
The bell rang, and he looked up from his book, blue-eyes impossibly wide. He'd left his glasses in the back room, and he debated for a minute about materialising them, so his eyes wouldn't seem so pure. Pure. He smiled a bit; his thoughts were not quite as pure as his eyes.
"Hello, my dear," he greeted.
I shall soon have this icon hullaballoo figured out, so here is a shiny post for a distraction! (Except, not so much on the shiny, because then I may be distracted too, and I have Good Things to do.)
Tartan really is
stylish, isn't it?