Gift for benvolio_daemon; Control; Good Omens Crowley/Aziraphale
It is a strange thing, Aziraphale muses, how well-ordered his life seems when Crowley is around.
"One would think it would be quite the opposite," he says over afternoon tea. Crowley doesn't deign to answer, drinking something decidedly not tea from his cup (the only black cup in the house), invulnerable behind his black sunglasses.
"Dust refuses to fall when you're here," the angel points out, "I've never had that much control." He eyes the dusty tomes at his elbow warily.
Crowley snorts, eyes glinting, and explains, "It's not about control. It's about fear."
Above his head, the dust motes tremble.
"One would think it would be quite the opposite," he says over afternoon tea. Crowley doesn't deign to answer, drinking something decidedly not tea from his cup (the only black cup in the house), invulnerable behind his black sunglasses.
"Dust refuses to fall when you're here," the angel points out, "I've never had that much control." He eyes the dusty tomes at his elbow warily.
Crowley snorts, eyes glinting, and explains, "It's not about control. It's about fear."
Above his head, the dust motes tremble.