First official writing for this fandom. Please go easy on me. A short drabble I wrote for my friend, inmyjadedskye over at livejournal. Constructive criticism will be greatly appreciated.
Disclaimer: Good Omens is the property of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett.
Breakfast at Three
Sometimes, Crowley dreams of Hell.
Like tonight. He sees the place in its early days, when it had been a vast open space stretching out endlessly, empty but for the fallen. Then it had grown; cracks appeared in the ground, slowly tearing apart to reveal pits of lava, muddied lakes and fire -- the flames licking at their feet, scorching their wings and bathing them in sweat.
He watches as Hell grows, its Hosts growing with it. Soon, he can hear the agonized screams of torture mingling with the amused laughter of demons. The caves are burning hotter than ever, trails of flame climbing up and down the walls, spitting sparks at passerbys, and as they watch others burn, the demons laugh, and Crowley laughs with them and—
—he wakes up, poised in a fighting stance on his bed, his wings open around him. He is breathing hard, already in the motion of springing to attack the demons advancing on him, feeling fire on his skin and—
—he wakes up, crouched low, the sheets damp with sweat and his wings a mess around him. Crowley blinks, straightening as he folds in his wings.
A glance at the clock tells him it's three in the morning.
Crowley curses.
Ten minutes later, he's ordering a beef burger set to go when he spots the promotion menu. Crowley studies it and is vaguely appalled by the yellow smileys and pink flowers. "What the hel—what is this?"
"Our specials for this week," the kid in front of him says. "In celebration of friendship week, we're offering two burgers for the price of one and a half. Are you interested?"
He wonders about it, for a while.
In fifteen minutes, he's at the bookstore, handing a bewildered Aziraphale the bag of food. "Your breakfast," he says, simply.
The angel takes it, opening his mouth to perhaps ask why they're having breakfast in the dead of the morning. And then he closes it, smiling as he pulls out a chair and sits down. "Thank you, dear."