My goodness, Aziraphale thought, well, he had never had a miracle go quite THAT wrong! Spellcasting was a different beast altogether, then. No Miracle ever required this much MATHS. What even was this mess? It smelt of rotted fish and a burned Bentley, was the color of turmeric if turmeric had been added to an iridescent bath bomb and subsequently exploded in a vat of tomato juice. And it was on his robes. And all over the floor. And dripping ominiously from the ceiling overhead. It was probably going to stain, to say nothing of the lingering stench. It was all rather like some of the messes Crowley described the baby Warlock making in his nappy, if a bit more...glittery.
Face burning with embarassment, giddy and nervous smile plastered to his face, Aziraphale stood in the middle of his self-created diaster at the front of the classroom, feeling all eyes on him and a judgement almost as imposing as Heaven's. Fine! No problem! He could take care of this! This was totally fine!
TO-TALLY FINE.
"Not a problem," he babbled, voice pitched high. He pulled up on the hem of his robe now heavy with the sludge and, waving off any concerns, added, "Definitely not a problem." Who was he trying to convince, the classroom or himself? "This- This is all very fixable!" With a panicked flourish of his wrist, he tried to vanish the mess entirely.
A whole two seconds of silence. Nothing happened. Oh no.
He frowned around a nervous laugh and tried the Miracle a bit harder, snapping forcefully this time—like one might push harder to a button on the television remote control, as if it would force the dead batteries inside to operate again—before remembering he simply couldn’t perform Miracles here.
"Oh, for Heaven’s sake!" he sighed with a despairing pout as he surveyed the mess. The pumpkin had absolutely failed to turn itself into a cart, let along the carriage he had ambitiously imagined for its fairytale fate. Did that mean he was going to have to clean it all up ...by hand?
He gave the class a pained smile. Perhaps someone might take pity on him.
Aziraphale | Good Omens
My goodness, Aziraphale thought, well, he had never had a miracle go quite THAT wrong! Spellcasting was a different beast altogether, then. No Miracle ever required this much MATHS. What even was this mess? It smelt of rotted fish and a burned Bentley, was the color of turmeric if turmeric had been added to an iridescent bath bomb and subsequently exploded in a vat of tomato juice. And it was on his robes. And all over the floor. And dripping ominiously from the ceiling overhead. It was probably going to stain, to say nothing of the lingering stench. It was all rather like some of the messes Crowley described the baby Warlock making in his nappy, if a bit more...glittery.
Face burning with embarassment, giddy and nervous smile plastered to his face, Aziraphale stood in the middle of his self-created diaster at the front of the classroom, feeling all eyes on him and a judgement almost as imposing as Heaven's. Fine! No problem! He could take care of this! This was totally fine!
TO-TALLY FINE.
"Not a problem," he babbled, voice pitched high. He pulled up on the hem of his robe now heavy with the sludge and, waving off any concerns, added, "Definitely not a problem." Who was he trying to convince, the classroom or himself? "This- This is all very fixable!" With a panicked flourish of his wrist, he tried to vanish the mess entirely.
A whole two seconds of silence. Nothing happened. Oh no.
He frowned around a nervous laugh and tried the Miracle a bit harder, snapping forcefully this time—like one might push harder to a button on the television remote control, as if it would force the dead batteries inside to operate again—before remembering he simply couldn’t perform Miracles here.
"Oh, for Heaven’s sake!" he sighed with a despairing pout as he surveyed the mess. The pumpkin had absolutely failed to turn itself into a cart, let along the carriage he had ambitiously imagined for its fairytale fate. Did that mean he was going to have to clean it all up ...by hand?
He gave the class a pained smile. Perhaps someone might take pity on him.