Date: 2023-08-02 06:59 am (UTC)
inlovewithmycar: (taking shelter)
[He's about to mention that a bed would be nice, somewhere soft and comfortable to sometimes lay his head and very pointedly does not think about the angel's lap. He is behaving. He is going slow.

He is suddenly pelted in the head with a candle. It's his one warning to quickly sidestep the sudden shower of tea candles, one black wing manifesting right over Aziraphale's head to keep him from getting hit.]


Well, I remember rains of fish, and plagues of frogs and locusts, but this is... new.

[He tentatively lowers his wing, peering up at the ceiling in case any more tea candles are in the forecast for today. Clear skies. Well, clear popcorn ceiling grout, in any case. The wing fades back into the ether.]

Was that one yours or mine...?

[Most times he can tell whose miracle is whose, but there are other times, like now, where it's much harder to say where his miracles begin and Aziraphale's end. He doesn't know why some are so distinctive and some feel so tangled in his will imposed on reality; there never seems to be a pattern to it, but it happens nonetheless.]
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