Disclaimer: Good Omens belongs to the wonderful and twisty minds of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. I'm just playing.

Notes: This is a bit of comment fic, originally written for the 2006 Rat_Jam. Being comment fic, it was limited to a total of 4,300 characters. It's like drabbling, except, y'know, not!

Feed(back) etcetera-cat.

While it is widely agreed that one of the first things God said was ‘Let There Be Light,’ it is generally less reported that it was several weeks (those having being invented, somewhat confusingly, before days but after years) until the final colour scheme— such as it went— was decided on.

Aziraphale, the Angel at the Gates of Eden, clothéd all in white and carrying a great flaming sword, was staring at the left knee area of his robe. He appeared to have a grass stain, although the rather unusual sunrise (shades of green and orange, with the occasional dash of grey) was making it hard to tell.

“You’d think that He’d maybe have sat down and thought about this kind of stuff before making everything, wouldn’t you?”

The Angel at the Gates of Eden, clothéd all in white (except for the region of his left knee) and carrying a great flaming sword looked down. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Who else is it likely to be?” the serpent, whose name was Crawly, asked. “It’s not like there’s anything interesting up here yet.” A pause, while he surveyed the in-progress sunrise. “Well, not much.”

The angel, who had recently decided to shorten his name to something less like a job description and preferred to be just plain Aziraphale, rubbed at the stain with one hand and hummed in a distracted fashion.

“You’re not even listening to me,” Crawly pouted as best as his current form allowed and raised himself up so he could see the stain. “I don’t know, not even a whole fortnight in Creation and you’ve already messed up your robes.” Crawly managed a kind of hissing tut as he shook his head.

“What?” Aziraphale blinked and looked at the snake, covering the stain with one hand. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re on about, my dear. And what, precisely, is a ‘fortnight’?”

Crawly shrugged— no mean feat for someone without obvious shoulders— and flicked his tail. “Down Below just invented it,” he said. “Something to do with paving the way for the package holiday.” He glanced around then back to the angel. “Before you ask; No. I have no idea what a package holiday is.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale sighed and squinted at the sun. It appeared to be a rather unattractive shade of lime today. “I do hope they don’t settle on this for the final setting,” he said somewhat plaintively.

“It could be worse,” Crawly said. “It could be my side sorting out the lighting arrangements and weather. We’d be neck deep in rains of blood and pitiless ultraviolet radiation.”

“Ultraviolet radiation?”

“It just appeared in my head,” Crawly sounded disgruntled. “They just do that, you know.” He concentrated for a moment. “Something else to do with the package holidays, apparently. And the ozone layer, whatever that is.”

“Quite.” Aziraphale made an effort to stop fussing over the (probable) grass stain and instead elected to polish his sword. It had been rather too smoky recently.

The lime green sun inched higher into the distressed tangerine sky.

“Ink ai ood oo is aac eh oo-ans, re-ae um ifowowee?”

“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale stared down at Crawly, who had curled himself into a circle and appeared to be eating himself.

“Oor-oob ur oos?”

“I really can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

Crawly spat out his tail and gave Aziraphale a faintly disgusted look. “Some angel you are,” he muttered. “I said; d’you think I should do this in front of the humans, create some good mythology for them?”

“My dear, humans are right down at the bottom of the list at the moment, He’s got a thousand other things to sort out before He gets to them.”

“No shame in planning ahead.” Crawly curled himself into a disgruntled looking heap. “Evil never sleeps and all that.”

“Of course it doesn’t; neither does Good.” Aziraphale shook his head and went back to polishing his sword.

Crawly resisted the urge to bite the angel on the ankle. There was no need to get so— so— angelic about things. Tilting his head slightly, the serpent stared at the sky.

“If they keep this as the final choice, I’m going back Down Below,” he muttered, primarily to himself.