[ It's probably not the most angelic thing, being a little bit pleased to watch a human judo flip a nightmarish monstrosity. Then again, he has very recently admitted that he's rubbish, as angels go. So maybe that balances out.
Mostly it's nice to see there are other effective measures on the docket. Weighs against some of the inherent guilt of seeing these memory flashes by dint of proximity. On the grand scale, this level of intrusion versus watching someone's soul get sucked out is clearly the lesser of two evils, but that's never stopped Aziraphale from feeling guilty before.
It's such an odd thing, every time it happens. The fear or anger or grief or shame all in retrospect, all sort of fixed where they are in time. No context, usually. Nothing he can, perhaps ill-advisedly, attempt to ease.
Aziraphale doesn't much care for that.
(There is-- in the mysterious call-and-response way that seems to shadow interacting with people around the Nightrenders-- a flash of memory of his own, if one that's less overwhelming in its projection. A glowing head that fills most of the open space in the room, saying "the point is not to avoid the war. The point is to win it." The feeling of being blindsided by absolutely crushing disappointment.
Aziraphale has a cunning plan to simply not acknowledge that this memory exchange has ever happened, ever. Pardoning one rough exhale in its wake, he buttons that all up like it's his job.)
Still.
What a time to be relieved that the day did not solely come down to how hard he could hit something with a frying pan at his current power level. ]
High time, I'd say.
[ He doesn't put up any resistance to getting towed along. This has been a wild day in general and the fact that he's had to do more running in the past hour than he's had to do in six thousand years is contributing. If things weren't so spooky, they might be novel. ]
no subject
Mostly it's nice to see there are other effective measures on the docket. Weighs against some of the inherent guilt of seeing these memory flashes by dint of proximity. On the grand scale, this level of intrusion versus watching someone's soul get sucked out is clearly the lesser of two evils, but that's never stopped Aziraphale from feeling guilty before.
It's such an odd thing, every time it happens. The fear or anger or grief or shame all in retrospect, all sort of fixed where they are in time. No context, usually. Nothing he can, perhaps ill-advisedly, attempt to ease.
Aziraphale doesn't much care for that.
(There is-- in the mysterious call-and-response way that seems to shadow interacting with people around the Nightrenders-- a flash of memory of his own, if one that's less overwhelming in its projection. A glowing head that fills most of the open space in the room, saying "the point is not to avoid the war. The point is to win it." The feeling of being blindsided by absolutely crushing disappointment.
Aziraphale has a cunning plan to simply not acknowledge that this memory exchange has ever happened, ever. Pardoning one rough exhale in its wake, he buttons that all up like it's his job.)
Still.
What a time to be relieved that the day did not solely come down to how hard he could hit something with a frying pan at his current power level. ]
High time, I'd say.
[ He doesn't put up any resistance to getting towed along. This has been a wild day in general and the fact that he's had to do more running in the past hour than he's had to do in six thousand years is contributing. If things weren't so spooky, they might be novel. ]