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Anentropy by CopperBeech
Fandoms: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
13 Sep 2024
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Summary
A brief quarrel over domestic economy, settled in the best way.
No potted plants were harmed in the writing of this fic.
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Bookmark Notes:
Short one shot, cleaning, clutter, the cottage, heaven vs Hell, anentropy
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Quote:
“Angel,” said Crowley. “Where is this coming from?”Aziraphale finally looked up.
“I feel,” he said, then paused to take a deep breath and blow it out again. “I feel as if I’m being constantly criticised. That I’m not clean or tidy enough for you. I remember what your flat looked like. One could have eaten off the floor, if one chose. Though I can’t think why one would wish to.”
“Wosn’t the point –”
“Whereas I – I always thought you enjoyed hanging about my shop –”
“I did, angel, wos like home and – now we’ve got a home, and I –”
“Can’t leave anything be for a fraction of a second. All those years, you must have been positively itching to tidy my space into oblivion –”
“Not like that – “
“I have got set in my ways in six thousand years, Crowley. And I can’t see why it matters if one’s surroundings are a little haphazard – there’s always a bit of a surprise –”
“Like that biscuit under the sofa last week? Had whole new species growin’ on it.”
“There, that’s exactly the thing. There’s always your standards, and I don’t measure up –”
“I don’t mean it like that. I want to keep things nice for you.”
“Well, so far as standards, we all have our own standards of Nice – and if a little comfortable untidiness is mine –”
“You called me Nice,” interjected Crowley.
“Yes, and you pushed me against a wall!”
The words felt like a slap. Aziraphale looked genuinely hurt. How had things gotten to this point?
Crowley tried to regroup. “There was a lot of strain, if you remember – maybe felt different to an angel –”
“Yes. Precisely,” said Aziraphale. “I am an angel. You are a demon. I suppose we are fundamentally different –”
“You sayin’ we –” Was that his own voice cracking? “ – shouldn’t’ve moved in together – or – ?”
“I didn’t mean that!” Aziraphale flung down the newspaper. “I mean – oh dash it, Crowley, I didn’t mean to start –”
The angel rose, lips set in a line, and began picking things up from the carpet. Books that had been piled in an irregular, teetering stack were returned to the shelf, a magazine went back into a brass caddy full of other magazines, a stray packet of ginger nuts was rolled up and carefully closed with the included tabs.
Crowley realised those compressed lips were barely controlling a quiver. He paused a moment longer, then seized the Advertiser from the end table and flung it on the floor.
Aziraphale paused in shock.
Crowley tipped over a peperomium seedling that was enjoying a prime spot in the sun-soaked window seat. Potting soil and Vermiculite sprayed over the floor as Aziraphale lunged to catch it.
“I can ADAPT!” shouted Crowley almost desperately.
“Well, so can I!” Aziraphale snapped back, kneeling to scoop the potting soil up between his hands and doing his best to replace it in the pot.