Wings
Author: DdC
Fandom: Good Omens
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Ask first, please.
Feedback: Are you kidding, why do you think I'm writing this?! REVIEW!!!
Disclaimer: Pterry and Gneil own the characters, not me! I'm just writing them for practice, so don't sue me! I have no money!
Summery: Crowley mutters to himself in his own mind.
Note: This was written for the contrelamontre 45 minutes 'White' challenge.
There are some funny paralels between Heaven and Hell. I don't just mean the choirs of praise and torture, the complete wankers near the top of the pecking order, the fact that they're both run by pretty bloody crazy beings or that mortals happen to go there after they've kicked the proverbial bucket. What I mean is there are 'other' things the same, like...
Seven objectives for their employees. Really boring waiting rooms. Vindictive, buricratic, idiots with too much time on their hand handing out bodies. The coming down on rule breakers like tons of bricks. Oh yeah, and everywhere, in both of them, are white.*
Diffrent types of white, granted. The whole cooling white and white hot bit. Want proof? Well, there's wings. Aziraphale's wings are the white of a wedding dress, the colour of purity, sincerity. They're messy like morals and stronger than love. But you want to stare at the sheer perfection of them for hours on end. Well I do.
My wings are another matter, another type of white entirely. I have been told by my Angel that my wings are the white of gravestones, they're the colour of the white flash behind the eyes at the moment of climax, of fear, of bleached bones. My feathers, he tells me, trailing pure kisses of the love he feels for me between my shoulder blades, reminds him of washed and steralised tiles recently washed of blood. He says that he loves looking at them.
Personally I belive that in the dark of the night, our wings are the same off-white of our flesh.
I want to worship his type of whiteness, I want to be worshipped by the goodness of it. And it happens. It happens when he gives me himself. Don't tell anyone, but like white is hell's real colour, I belive - I know that white is the real colour of love.
Don't go telling anyone.
I've got a reputaion to protect, you know.
Ciao!
Home
Back to Good Omens
Email: ddcymru_vlm2@yahoo.co.uk
