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neutral_omensDate: November 6th, 2000
Setting: Tadfield Manor - Crowley's bathroom
Status: Private - Aziraphale, Crowley, Chicago
Summary: He misses.
Aziraphale knew, like he knew authors and books and the irreversible fact that tartan was eternally stylish, that he'd been - he was hesitant to put a word to it - moping for a great deal of time, and absolutely none of it was accomplishing anything but for the consumption of massive amounts of tea between his library and Ellie's room.
It was with this thought in mind - even, indeed, the accompanying, Perhaps I ought to do something about it, like... - that their black-faced, white-pawed kitten stumbled upon him.
Aziraphale startled with the first touch of fur and the bat of claws (so much larger than he remembered) and broke into a smile, deep and true and bright. "Why," he cried, "where have you been, O mischievous one?" Her appearance brought immediately a stab of loneliness and misery, a reminder of what they had done together, but Aziraphale found he could swallow against it, and ignore it by focussing on her.
Of course, no answer but a meow returned, and the angel smiled and bent to pick the cat up, certain that she was lost, when she turned and ran, racing out the library door. The angel followed, wondering if he'd scared her by accident (goodness, it had been too long, she could hardly even be termed a kitten anymore), and caught a glimpse of tail disappear into his own room (door open) just as he rounded the last stair.
He stood there; he spent time pacing to the door and back; he stood again. Somewhere inside, Chicago meowed piteously, and the angel sighed. There was really nothing else for it, he thought defensively, stepping into his own white-and-blue room with a stab of worry, there could be something that's the matter here, such as C- he could be hurt and she could be fetching me, the dear, or perhaps she's hungry...
But no: Chicago meowed a last time, a player in the game of Marco Kitty, and Aziraphale stepped into the shared bathroom (with only the slightest glance at the closed door to Crowley's attachment). She was standing in front of the litterbox and meowing piteously.
It smelled, too.
Oh.
Aziraphale glanced down. Well. If it needed to be cleaned... He knelt for a better look, miracling the tools (scooper, rubbish bags) as he did so, and with another onslaught of that smell rolled up his sleeves.
"Of everyone, Chicago, you did have to pick me, didn't you."
A meow, followed by a purr, almost apologetically, and a twining of liquid fur and sinew around his feet. It was nearly a full conversation.
"Well, nothing a bit of elbow grease and some nice scented candles won't fix..."
Setting: Tadfield Manor - Crowley's bathroom
Status: Private - Aziraphale, Crowley, Chicago
Summary: He misses.
Aziraphale knew, like he knew authors and books and the irreversible fact that tartan was eternally stylish, that he'd been - he was hesitant to put a word to it - moping for a great deal of time, and absolutely none of it was accomplishing anything but for the consumption of massive amounts of tea between his library and Ellie's room.
It was with this thought in mind - even, indeed, the accompanying, Perhaps I ought to do something about it, like... - that their black-faced, white-pawed kitten stumbled upon him.
Aziraphale startled with the first touch of fur and the bat of claws (so much larger than he remembered) and broke into a smile, deep and true and bright. "Why," he cried, "where have you been, O mischievous one?" Her appearance brought immediately a stab of loneliness and misery, a reminder of what they had done together, but Aziraphale found he could swallow against it, and ignore it by focussing on her.
Of course, no answer but a meow returned, and the angel smiled and bent to pick the cat up, certain that she was lost, when she turned and ran, racing out the library door. The angel followed, wondering if he'd scared her by accident (goodness, it had been too long, she could hardly even be termed a kitten anymore), and caught a glimpse of tail disappear into his own room (door open) just as he rounded the last stair.
He stood there; he spent time pacing to the door and back; he stood again. Somewhere inside, Chicago meowed piteously, and the angel sighed. There was really nothing else for it, he thought defensively, stepping into his own white-and-blue room with a stab of worry, there could be something that's the matter here, such as C- he could be hurt and she could be fetching me, the dear, or perhaps she's hungry...
But no: Chicago meowed a last time, a player in the game of Marco Kitty, and Aziraphale stepped into the shared bathroom (with only the slightest glance at the closed door to Crowley's attachment). She was standing in front of the litterbox and meowing piteously.
It smelled, too.
Oh.
Aziraphale glanced down. Well. If it needed to be cleaned... He knelt for a better look, miracling the tools (scooper, rubbish bags) as he did so, and with another onslaught of that smell rolled up his sleeves.
"Of everyone, Chicago, you did have to pick me, didn't you."
A meow, followed by a purr, almost apologetically, and a twining of liquid fur and sinew around his feet. It was nearly a full conversation.
"Well, nothing a bit of elbow grease and some nice scented candles won't fix..."
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