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bibliophaleRain.
Aziraphale stares out the window of his musty little apartment, which he has not yet bothered to furnish. The rain is coming down with an almost Biblical vengeance, pelting the windows and the streets, amplifying the noise of tires as the unending onslaught of cars rush impatiently to their various destinations.
He's just awakened from a rather bizarre dreaming experience. Pieces come back to him as he gazes out; he can't quite recount it all now, some of it quite jumbled. It's odd to have dreamed at all. It isn't something he ordinarily does. But it seems to have happened nonetheless. There was something extremely unnatural about it that suggests it wasn't really voluntary, anyway. Like something he wouldn't have been able to avoid.
There is one part of the dream, however, that he remembers with extreme clarity.
Poor Sunshine must be having a hard time of things on a day like today.
He sighs decisively, dresses himself the quick way (blue tartan jacket, gray sweater vest, red bowtie, and the ever traditional white shirt/brown trouser combo) and produces a nice sturdy umbrella for himself.
The walk is doable, but umbrella or no, Aziraphale does not feel in a mood to get wet. Rather, he is fairly eager to follow up on that offer of free samples. So he opens the umbrella, positions it neatly over his head, and promptly teleports himself a block away from Glaser's. That short distance will be enough to make him believably wetted. As he nears the spot, he passes by a tree that seems to have been imbued with some kind of unearthly energy - how unusual. But he shrugs it off for the moment. The call of pastries is a strong one.
Presently he steps inside the bake shop, which smells divine if he does say so, though it is rather smaller than he expected.
He smiles primly at the nearest clerk, who greets him and asks him how she can help him today. He approaches the counter and says, "I was hoping to speak to Sunshine, actually."
Aziraphale stares out the window of his musty little apartment, which he has not yet bothered to furnish. The rain is coming down with an almost Biblical vengeance, pelting the windows and the streets, amplifying the noise of tires as the unending onslaught of cars rush impatiently to their various destinations.
He's just awakened from a rather bizarre dreaming experience. Pieces come back to him as he gazes out; he can't quite recount it all now, some of it quite jumbled. It's odd to have dreamed at all. It isn't something he ordinarily does. But it seems to have happened nonetheless. There was something extremely unnatural about it that suggests it wasn't really voluntary, anyway. Like something he wouldn't have been able to avoid.
There is one part of the dream, however, that he remembers with extreme clarity.
Poor Sunshine must be having a hard time of things on a day like today.
He sighs decisively, dresses himself the quick way (blue tartan jacket, gray sweater vest, red bowtie, and the ever traditional white shirt/brown trouser combo) and produces a nice sturdy umbrella for himself.
The walk is doable, but umbrella or no, Aziraphale does not feel in a mood to get wet. Rather, he is fairly eager to follow up on that offer of free samples. So he opens the umbrella, positions it neatly over his head, and promptly teleports himself a block away from Glaser's. That short distance will be enough to make him believably wetted. As he nears the spot, he passes by a tree that seems to have been imbued with some kind of unearthly energy - how unusual. But he shrugs it off for the moment. The call of pastries is a strong one.
Presently he steps inside the bake shop, which smells divine if he does say so, though it is rather smaller than he expected.
He smiles primly at the nearest clerk, who greets him and asks him how she can help him today. He approaches the counter and says, "I was hoping to speak to Sunshine, actually."
