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lt_safe_house2010-02-25 01:52 am
safehouse-guest.livejournal.com) wrote in lt_safe_house2010-02-25 01:52 am
Entry tags:
Complacency
Date: April 13, 2003
Status: Private (Beelzebub - Complete)
Setting: Aziraphale's room
Summary: The Lord of the Flies tips his hand, just a little.
To an untrained eye, there was nothing different about the suite. The door was ajar and the room empty, easily the mark of a careless tenant with little regard for his personal effects. If there had been someone to listen, they might have heard a series of chitinous clicks, but this, too, might be dismissed as nothing.
Beelzebub was not concerned with being seen by the sort of bored mortal that chose to while away their twilight years in a hotel, but neither did he relish his corporeal form.
The agony of anticipation had lost its novelty. His target had adapted, it seemed, spending his days chattering away with his superiors and a few knights that had strayed from their proper duties. The latter he had no interest in unless they had the temerity to interfere, but the former could be a problem. The day before, one of the archangels had actually coaxed the Principality to sword practice; as if he could be a match for Beelzebub in an open fight. Still, it gave him confidence, and that would not do.
Very well, then, he would give him a foe that could not be swatted away with a blade.
He ignored most of the gimcrack rubbish the angel had brought with him, considered the flat rectangular device but rejected it as too new. What he needed was an object that was beloved, perhaps worn from regular use but not so much that another would see a difference... Ah.
He selected a book from the shelf and flicked to its title page. A few intoned words, and it was done. The little charm would last until the angel tried to show the book to someone else, and then it would dissipate.
Still, it felt a little lacking. Beelzebub tapped an insubstantial finger on his chin, and smiled: Of course. His signature. One more harmless incantation, then, that would not go away so easily, but when had a little background noise hurt anyone?
When he replaced the book, perhaps jutting out a tiny bit from the rest to coax an idle hand to pick it up first, the colour of the ink and texture of the paper was just as it had been. The text, however, had been replaced with an unbroken list of demonic titles, with the entry for "Crown Beelzebub" carefully underlined.
The title page now had the words, I haven't forgotten. On the final page, where there should have been a footnote, it simply read, Behind you.
His job done, he left the room as unobtrusively as he came, conscientiously shutting the door behind him.
Status: Private (Beelzebub - Complete)
Setting: Aziraphale's room
Summary: The Lord of the Flies tips his hand, just a little.
To an untrained eye, there was nothing different about the suite. The door was ajar and the room empty, easily the mark of a careless tenant with little regard for his personal effects. If there had been someone to listen, they might have heard a series of chitinous clicks, but this, too, might be dismissed as nothing.
Beelzebub was not concerned with being seen by the sort of bored mortal that chose to while away their twilight years in a hotel, but neither did he relish his corporeal form.
The agony of anticipation had lost its novelty. His target had adapted, it seemed, spending his days chattering away with his superiors and a few knights that had strayed from their proper duties. The latter he had no interest in unless they had the temerity to interfere, but the former could be a problem. The day before, one of the archangels had actually coaxed the Principality to sword practice; as if he could be a match for Beelzebub in an open fight. Still, it gave him confidence, and that would not do.
Very well, then, he would give him a foe that could not be swatted away with a blade.
He ignored most of the gimcrack rubbish the angel had brought with him, considered the flat rectangular device but rejected it as too new. What he needed was an object that was beloved, perhaps worn from regular use but not so much that another would see a difference... Ah.
He selected a book from the shelf and flicked to its title page. A few intoned words, and it was done. The little charm would last until the angel tried to show the book to someone else, and then it would dissipate.
Still, it felt a little lacking. Beelzebub tapped an insubstantial finger on his chin, and smiled: Of course. His signature. One more harmless incantation, then, that would not go away so easily, but when had a little background noise hurt anyone?
When he replaced the book, perhaps jutting out a tiny bit from the rest to coax an idle hand to pick it up first, the colour of the ink and texture of the paper was just as it had been. The text, however, had been replaced with an unbroken list of demonic titles, with the entry for "Crown Beelzebub" carefully underlined.
The title page now had the words, I haven't forgotten. On the final page, where there should have been a footnote, it simply read, Behind you.
His job done, he left the room as unobtrusively as he came, conscientiously shutting the door behind him.