A/N: The first "Holier Than Thou" was very bad and trite. I've changed it a bit, and if you don't get it th first time with the disturbing twist read it again with the proper pronouns. Took me a while so that it made sense. But hey, if it's still confusing just review and insert constructive critisism.
Am I fishing for reviews? Hell yeah.
-demoness_sweet
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Drabble: Holier Than Thou
His fingernails were undermined to the quick with red, and the nail on his right index finger was almost ripped off. The black coat was smeared with streaks of liquid smelling of copper and fire and something so very, very holy.
He looked at the camelhair coat with a tinge of what might have been spite, might have been vicious satisfaction. Such a lovely canvas for a symphony in spite.
Perhaps now He wouldn't be so insufferable. So very, very beautiful and punishing and dangerous. A reminder of what he was under all the layers build up over the millennia. And flaunting it every. single. day. with the way he moved and the way he smiled and the very air that surrounded him. He was holy was holy was holy and being with him was like looking up from a pit.
God was a bastard and so was Satan and everyone knew what had happened that day so long ago, and everyone knew what the Apocalypse was about. The sky had turned red and so many had fallen because of that all-powerful pair. Selfish, the lot of them. Even now he didn't know what was Heaven and what was Hell and if there was any difference between the two of them.
They played with the earth and the people there. And so Hell corrupted a priest and the boys grew up loathing themselves and one or two would overdose and more would do the same. /Do unto others as you would have done unto yourself/ And Heaven would burn a building of sin, drugs and red lights and women in shreds of silk all burning, burning. Never mind the girls who did this to survive another day on the streets, the rich charities turning up their noses at this disgrace of selling one's body. And they never, ever thought that perhaps, somewhere, someone cared.
He did. And it had destroyed him. No one could care for so many and so deeply for so long. Christ tried, and was released on a cross, starry nails bearing him up to a place beyond Heaven and Hell.
And he had crawled here. Asking for release, asking for something to make him sleep. The dreams, he had told him, the dreams. They had tried to contact him, and he just wanted to rest. Something had snapped. For once he could do something that mattered.
He had put his coat on the ground to soak up what might stain the rug. He still remembered the smile, sickly, painfully sad, but glorious, and so very, very holy. And the pieces that had snapped started to twist, the jagged edges tearing at his insides. And he had focused on his hate, his spite, the true darkness that was underneath the shiny exterior. And tore in.
The wings had gone first, and then the eyes that burned themselves into his mind whenever he closed his eyes. The blood and the fire had seared his hands, and he had tore even deeper, frantically, terrified and exhilarated and yet deep inside something had died and the jagged pieces would kill him.
Then it was over, in a breath that could have spelt love, and could have spelt freedom, and was true holiness. He had put on the dark glasses with a trembling hand, and stood up slowly.
Without a word the body started to burn, slowly and smokelessly. Sacredly. And only a memory remained.
Aziraphale smiled a sweet, sad, oh-so-holy smile, and flexed his hands. With a thought he healed the cuticle, grew the nail and buffed them to perfection. Holy, he thought again, so holy to me. Golden eyes and lithe muscles and jewel-toned green swam in front of his eyes. Then without turning around he hissed:
"Hello God. He was always holier than Thou."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*cringes* there is no redemption for sinners like me, there is no
redemption for sinners like me, there is no redemption for sin....
what the hell. I'm going to do a Crowley and try to find ducks in a
bottle of bourbon.
*
Am I fishing for reviews? Hell yeah.
-demoness_sweet
*************************
Drabble: Holier Than Thou
His fingernails were undermined to the quick with red, and the nail on his right index finger was almost ripped off. The black coat was smeared with streaks of liquid smelling of copper and fire and something so very, very holy.
He looked at the camelhair coat with a tinge of what might have been spite, might have been vicious satisfaction. Such a lovely canvas for a symphony in spite.
Perhaps now He wouldn't be so insufferable. So very, very beautiful and punishing and dangerous. A reminder of what he was under all the layers build up over the millennia. And flaunting it every. single. day. with the way he moved and the way he smiled and the very air that surrounded him. He was holy was holy was holy and being with him was like looking up from a pit.
God was a bastard and so was Satan and everyone knew what had happened that day so long ago, and everyone knew what the Apocalypse was about. The sky had turned red and so many had fallen because of that all-powerful pair. Selfish, the lot of them. Even now he didn't know what was Heaven and what was Hell and if there was any difference between the two of them.
They played with the earth and the people there. And so Hell corrupted a priest and the boys grew up loathing themselves and one or two would overdose and more would do the same. /Do unto others as you would have done unto yourself/ And Heaven would burn a building of sin, drugs and red lights and women in shreds of silk all burning, burning. Never mind the girls who did this to survive another day on the streets, the rich charities turning up their noses at this disgrace of selling one's body. And they never, ever thought that perhaps, somewhere, someone cared.
He did. And it had destroyed him. No one could care for so many and so deeply for so long. Christ tried, and was released on a cross, starry nails bearing him up to a place beyond Heaven and Hell.
And he had crawled here. Asking for release, asking for something to make him sleep. The dreams, he had told him, the dreams. They had tried to contact him, and he just wanted to rest. Something had snapped. For once he could do something that mattered.
He had put his coat on the ground to soak up what might stain the rug. He still remembered the smile, sickly, painfully sad, but glorious, and so very, very holy. And the pieces that had snapped started to twist, the jagged edges tearing at his insides. And he had focused on his hate, his spite, the true darkness that was underneath the shiny exterior. And tore in.
The wings had gone first, and then the eyes that burned themselves into his mind whenever he closed his eyes. The blood and the fire had seared his hands, and he had tore even deeper, frantically, terrified and exhilarated and yet deep inside something had died and the jagged pieces would kill him.
Then it was over, in a breath that could have spelt love, and could have spelt freedom, and was true holiness. He had put on the dark glasses with a trembling hand, and stood up slowly.
Without a word the body started to burn, slowly and smokelessly. Sacredly. And only a memory remained.
Aziraphale smiled a sweet, sad, oh-so-holy smile, and flexed his hands. With a thought he healed the cuticle, grew the nail and buffed them to perfection. Holy, he thought again, so holy to me. Golden eyes and lithe muscles and jewel-toned green swam in front of his eyes. Then without turning around he hissed:
"Hello God. He was always holier than Thou."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*cringes* there is no redemption for sinners like me, there is no
redemption for sinners like me, there is no redemption for sin....
what the hell. I'm going to do a Crowley and try to find ducks in a
bottle of bourbon.
*