Misc.

cabaret/good omens

Cliff remembered how his mother wept while his father shouted obscenities at him, striking him across the face and telling him to get out of the house.

Coming to Berlin was a strange event for Cliff to process. 

How could people do such things and not feel guilty about them?

---

The guilt.

Cliff never forgot the guilt. 

It consumed him, after all, knowing that he was a certain way and he wasn't able to fix it. 

He would go on walks late at night over a path that crossed a bridge, as well as the bookshop of a friend of his, and then looped back around to his apartment building. 

Cliff would walk the path and think, and get mentally lost in the thoughts that consumed him.

 After a while, it just started to feel like he wanted something to happen to him while he was gone, or like he was preparing himself for something big. 

A month passed, and nothing happened. 

Cliff still walked the trail, and the guilt still consumed him on a nightly basis. 

And nobody knew. 

Then, one night, it happened.

It had been a rough day anyways, Sally was away in Dresden with Lulu and Rosie, and Cliff had unexpectedly run into a public preacher in the park, who reminded everyone they were all sinners waiting to go to Hell. 

Cliff sat on the couch and watched the clouds go by, waiting.

When the sun started to go  down, he scribbled something on a piece of paper, leaving it on the coffee table and heading out for his walk. 

He left his coat at home.

The bridge wasn't up terribly high, and the water wasn't terribly shallow. Cliff sat down, letting his legs dangle, hanging onto the bars, readying himself. 

Nobody came round to ask what he was doing, or /how/ he was doing, or what was going on. 

They just walked by until there were no more people to walk by in the first place. 

Cliff stood, took off his shoes and placed them to the side, took off his sweater, stepped back and-

"What in GOD'S NAME do you think you're doing!" someone shouted, grabbing Cliff's shoulder's and yanking him back so that they both fell on the wooden boards of the bridge, the man's arms firmly around Cliff's waist. 

The fact of the matter was, Aziraphale had been out on a stroll on his way to a cafe he knew was open 24/7. He always got peckish at this hour and quite enjoyed the quiet walk by himself. The stars were beautiful. That was always expected. What was /not/ expected was him running into the young man who came into his book shop every week, the young man in question currently preparing to throw himself over the side of the bridge. 

Cliff sat there in shock, trembling, tears slipping down his cheeks. Why couldn't he do anything right? 

"Clifford, oh god, are you alright? Oh dear," Aziraphale said, shifting so that he could stand, but still hold Cliff. "Look, we're going to walk off the bridge together."

Gently, he got the man to the other side safely, setting him down on a bench, still hanging on to him. 

"My shoes." was all Cliff could think to say. Aziraphale looked at Cliff. 

"You never took them off, dear." he said gently. Mysteriously, Cliff was wearing his shoes and sweater again. Cliff looked at Aziraphale, still dazed, his chin quivering.