Dust

The cocoa had nearly all solidified. Green fur was growing on the inside of the mug.

There was a thin layer of dust on Aziraphale, too.

The stack of notes was building up beside him. The Nice and Accurate Prophecies was a mass of improvised bookmarks made of torn strips of Daily Telegraph. Aziraphale stirred, and pinched his nose.

He was nearly there.

He'd got the shape of it.

He'd never met Agnes. She was too bright, obviously. Normally Heaven or Hell spotted the prophetic types and broadcast enough noises on the same mental channel to prevent any undue accuracy.

Actually that was rarely necessary; they normally found ways of generating their own static in self-defense against the images that echoed around their heads.

***

Good Omens - Friday