Event - Heavy

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Heavy

➥ Deep

(cw: claustrophobia, existential dread, power loss, victim-blaming, time distortion, supernatural compulsion and hunger)

After the cold snap and plumbing issues comes the calm. For a few days, at least, nothing seems to break. Or break more than normal where the Flophouse is concerned. A heavy snow sweeps through and covers the streets. Not a blizzard, but thick white fluff that forms a blanket overnight. The snowplows aren't prepared and it's simply… quiet. People stay indoors, waiting for the weather to clear a bit. There are light flurries throughout the next few days, topping off the snowfall, and for the most part, the city just shuts down.

Even ADI puts out a notice that employees should stay home. Stay safe, stay cocooned in what warmth you have. Just… stay. Each day the message comes out from a generic work email, help@adi.com:

Shelter in place. No work today. Stay safe. We'll get by without you.

The next day is the same. The snow piles higher overnight, covering windows and freezing doors shut.

Shelter in place. No work today. Stay safe. We're s̴̳͘͠ͅt̶̨͂̍r̵̯̼͊͝ŭ̷͚̳g̶̠͋̓g̴̳̱̔͘l̸̤̻̎i̷̭͑͠ń̵̗͜͝g̷̤͂, but we'll get by.

Day after day. Frost creeps into the corridors of the ADI housing complex and the Flophouse. There is no food or other supplies coming and it feels like the hours are stretching out more and more.

Shelter in place. No work today. S̴̬̓t̸͉̿a̴̫̿ỳ̸͉ ̸̠̉s̸̲͆a̶͙͊f̶̢̏ē̷̤. We can't keep doing this, but we have to.

Attempts to leave the housing areas will be met with walls of snow that appear to be impossibly high. Around the flophouse, especially, it's as though they've been placed into the bottom of an icy hole. The walls stretch up higher than anyone can climb or fly, with only a pinprick of bluish light coming down from the opening above, deeper than anyone can dig through. Not even a magical portal or beam of heat can get through. There's just a wall of snow and/or ice through the portal and more snow beyond the beam. What's more, anyone who has supernatural abilities or is tied to a patron, even those not actively trying to feed that patron, will find themselves feeling increasingly drained, like something is sapping away whatever reserves they have, leaving them hungrier and hungrier, their powers waning by the minute, with a very limited set of options to feed upon.

S̸͉͗ḣ̷̦ȩ̵͒l̷͈̍t̸͎̽e̵̺̓ř̵̠ in place. No work today. S̴̬̓t̸͉̿a̴̫̿ỳ̸͉ ̸̠̉s̸̲͆a̶͙͊f̶̢̏ē̷̤. Why aren't they coming? This is their fault.

S̶͔͆h̸̅ͅȅ̴̮l̵̬̈́t̷̯́e̴̥̐ř̷̙ ̶̳̕ì̷̲n̵͓͌ ̷̮̋p̵̟̈́l̶̢̎a̷̺͠c̷̻̈́ḙ̵̊.̷̦̇ ̴̬̀N̸͕͌o̵͎̊ work today. S̴̬̓t̸͉̿a̴̫̿ỳ̸͉ ̸̠̉s̸̲͆a̶͙͊f̶̢̏ē̷̤. Why aren't ỹ̸̡͐ͅô̷͕̫ù̶̟̣͊ coming? Ḟ̴͓i̷̤͗x̶̨͝ ̴̜͒t̵̯̅h̴͔͛i̸͖̽s̶̱̚!

((ooc: Plain text versions of all messages are located here (LINK). You can also hover your mouse over the distorted text for hover text translations.))

➥ Chasm

(cw: warped perceptions, memory-loss, implied trauma, supernaturally-induced feelings of missing out)

You've missed a step.

After what seems an interminable time, someone is finally able to tunnel through, to get out of the massive snowy prison everyone has been trapped in and-

And the city looks normal. Checking the wall you just came through, it's not actually there. As soon as one person makes it out, the effect collapses for everyone. There's a wintry wonderland of Gloucester beyond, and it seems like things have gone on without everyone. But there is a sense in the air that something has happened, something earth-shattering that everyone missed out on.

People on the streets seem to have a look about them. Haunted? Something happened, but when they're questioned about it, they can't seem to come up with an answer as to what. They just seem… confused, overwhelmed. Yes, something happened. No, they can't tell you what. Weren't you here for it? Didn't you see it? Didn't you feel it? How could you have missed something that big?

That feeling will sit with characters as time passes, dragging down on them. It may even begin to feel like a physical weight for the most affected. You missed it. You could have done something to change things, but you missed it.

➥ Stuck

(cw: flooding; natural disasters; damage to homes, workplaces, and possessions; references to burial, suffocation, crushing, and murder; supernaturally induced anxiety, responsibility fatigue, and feelings of inadequacy; illness.)

The feeling of having missed something only intensifies back at ADI headquarters. It looks as though the storm itself attacked the building; several exterior doors have been broken off their hinges, ice expanded within the metal past its breaking point, and the expansive water damage and muck ground into the carpets, walls, and battered elevators conjure images of an indoor avalanche…or a glacier pushing its way through, slow but biting cold and utterly inexorable.

There's no time to dwell on what's happened, on the days of hunger and isolation nor whatever disaster occurred here. There's too much to do, too much to fix, one crisis after another. There's the obvious problem: the need to repair the building and proof it against the cold wind that still blows in across the foyer, but no matter one's work area there is more to do than can be done. Endless requests and projects flood in from every quarter, all of them urgent, all of them important. As soon as one thing is finished, three more problems emerge: contracts to manage, investigations to be made into reported phenomena, glitching computers to repair, vandals to repel from the gaping wound that is the lobby entrance in the middle of the night–the list goes on, and on, and on.

Rumors circulate, stories about a prisoner in the depths of the building's secret basements who disappeared into the crushing ice and grit that had filled the cells, disagreements about whether it was a rescue or if the unnamed prisoner was suffocated, snuffed out by some indiscriminately vengeful force. No one seems to know the truth; no one even seems to know the name of the prisoner, who they were, what they had done to end up there. No one has the time to look too deeply into it; even head of security Neil Grace, is caught leaping from task to task, never catching up long enough to turn his attention to the matter in any meaningful capacity.

The struggle to keep up, the futile effort to keep one's head above water, never relents. No matter one's priorities at work or at home, something is always wrong, always in need of attention, the knowledge of things undone needling at the edge of consciousness like a toothache in one's soul. The Flophouse is in a disastrous state worse even than ADI headquarters, a wild-eyed Bonnie all but pouncing on residents with an endless list of tasks to fix it, to make the building livable again. At the ADI apartments, exhausted caretaker Benny Holt seems to traipse up and down the halls at all hours of the day and night with his toolbelt, gaunt and exhausted and tapping at doors in reply to requests to fix plumbing, lighting, and water damage that never seem to stay fixed. Local staff and interdimensional residents alike begin to fall ill, bodies and minds burning out under the strain, but giving yourself time to rest and heal means piling more work on those around you.

There is no time. There is no rest. There is only the work you are failing to complete.

➥ Sink

(cw: claustrophobia, suffocation or near-suffocation)

As if that isn’t enough, there’s still investigative work to be done. Once again, it seems as if Coffins Beach is a site of interest, as ADI has been tipped off that there might be something (or things) in the water. Again.

For safety’s sake - and perhaps to make sure that no one collapses out there alone - pairs are sent out to the beach to keep an eye on the water and to see if anything interesting has washed up. Orders are to both watch the water and walk along the beaches and through the dunes nearby.

Watching the water doesn't seem to yield any results, no matter how long it's observed. Nothing washes ashore either. But then there's the dunes. Sooner or later, it seems like climbing them and walking among them is all there is to do. Anyone who has spent any time at Coffins Beach might notice that they seem a bit larger than they have been in months past. Not inconceivably, but noticeably. There are dunes tall enough to scale the sides up to the top, though some are still no more than little mounds.

It doesn't matter which, when you fall into it. Small hill or gentle mound, one minute you’re walking on the surface. The next minute, as you put your foot down, it begins to sink. It can't be sinking, of course, sand dunes on a beach don't have quicksand. They’re nothing but dense piles of sand. You can't fall into a sand dune.

You are falling into a sand dune. There’s a hole in the sand, just wide enough for your body and you have fallen into it. Perhaps you're a little bit lucky and your partner witnessed it. Maybe you aren't and you suddenly just disappear. It's a long fall, though, down a tube of sand that seems hard-packed around the edges. At first. The drop is just far enough that light can be seen from above, but not the top of the hole itself. Call out. You might be heard. And maybe your partner is already trying to get you out.

But the moment you hit the bottom, it seems like the hole becomes unstable. Especially if someone is above and trying to reach down. Even if they're not, though, sand begins to crumble from the edges and sides of the tunnel, falling down on the body trapped at the bottom of it. A slow trickle, not a burial. Not yet. Still, it could be, if rescue doesn't come, if the person left up above can't dig you out. Meanwhile, the sand falls and falls, pressing down on limbs and creeping up your body. It’s cold and struggling only seems to make the sand fall faster.

Surely you’ll be rescued before it covers you completely. Or soon after. Surely.

➥ Mod Notes

• GENERAL - Players are welcome to play NPCs for themselves when they are needed in a thread. If you need more information on general behavior for these types of NPCs, please feel free to ask! In general, the information provided in the prompts should be sufficient and ordinary people will act like… ordinary people! You're welcome to make up any details beyond that for your specific scene. Please remember that character deaths are permanent and plan accordingly!
  
  
• DEEP (16-20 February) - Characters will be trapped in their homes for five days, confined to either the Flophouse or the individual apartment buildings within the ADI complex. It will feel like significantly longer, even for characters with fully accurate internal clocks. Travel outside of these bounds will be impossible, even with the use of supernatural abilities. The network will be fully operational; though, not the regular internet or anything beyond the internal ADI network. Characters will also receive periodic messages from help@adi.com begging for help, even as they order everyone to shelter in place.
  
  Characters who are outside their homes when the snow starts will find they're able to get inside just fine, but will not be able to get out again. Characters may be trapped with people who are not their standard roommates/at their usual housing, if they're unlucky (or lucky).
  
  
• CHASM (21-24 February) - The first character(s) to break through the snow barrier will feel an especially powerful weight fall upon them before there's suddenly just… nothing. The snow walls are gone. Even if another character was in the middle of digging through, the snow is just there one minute, then gone the next. Characters will experience a profound sense that they have missed something. This may dissipate within a day or maintain over several days. Anyone trying to question residents of the city will receive confusion and incredulity, but no answers. There is no indication that anyone seemed to notice the walls of snow. Even some of the natives at ADI will be perplexed. All non-native NPCs and some native NPCs will have experienced the same thing as the PC characters.
  
  
• STUCK (21-28 February) - The need to be doing more than they can will be ever-present for all NPCs and player characters. Those who would choose to eschew responsibilities at work or try to reprioritize will find that there is always something in need of doing that is important to them, to the point where new problems may seem to arise in impossibly, almost cartoonishly quick succession. Tasks and problems can be mundane matters related to work, building repair, and living spaces; as well as minor supernatural occurrences similar to past Dogtown TDM prompts (players are welcome to make up small supernatural encounters; anything that would affect other characters beyond a single thread should be submitted as a player plot). Characters may find themselves feeling mentally foggy and struggling to focus on core issues in the face of this inundation of needs from the people and environment around them, and may fall sick from overwork. These effects will overlap with both the Chasm and Sink prompts.
  
  
• SINK (24-28 February) - Characters who find themselves falling into one of the dunes will end up in what appears to be a vertical tunnel that is definitely too high to climb back out of, regardless of how tall the dune actually seemed to be when they were on top of it. The temperature of the sand is very cold and in addition to possible suffocation, characters may find themselves slowly freezing. Struggling or rescue attempts will quickly make the walls of the tunnel unstable. Additionally, the tunnel may not be exactly straight, depositing characters slightly or more than slightly off of their original falling point.
  
  

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Comments

[oldbookshop]

[ Annoyance is a small price to pay for another few seconds to breathe. Or in any event, annoyance is a currency they frequently trade in.

At least there's less the niggling worry about Crowley being unsteady on his feet. That's something. They're both too tired for all that. ]

If you're waiting to hear that you're funny, you'll be there until you grow roots.

[ Normally if he happens to be deeply upset about something he can sort of-- not do people. Hole up for a while in the middle of something familiar and well-loved and pull himself together.

Crowley is barely people after all this time, in a good way, but he's oftentimes in the category of company. People adjacent.

Aziraphale misses his shop. He's homesick for it in a way he's maybe never felt for Heaven, or not for a long while, especially as desire for comfort goes versus sources of strain.

Nothing to be done for that. No point dwelling. Better to rip off the bandage.

He leaves his tea in the kitchen. Very primly sits back down himself, hands folded. ]

You don't talk about Hell very much. We can start there. [ One of the ultimate in planted conversational seed backfires for resident demons.

Letting the hunger take the reins is actually sort of a nice way to not have to live in himself as much in this moment. If it weren't objectively awful and likely to leave him sick to his stomach, it might be worth keeping in the repertoire. ]

[demonicmiracle]

[There are a great number of things that Crowley regrets, both in the immediate sense and over the course of his entire existence. Right now, his main regret is not choosing something stronger than tea to have on hand, even if adding alcohol to this mix is likely a terrible idea.

But for all his reluctance, he's trying not to regret this. It's going to be awful, and they're both going to hate it, and it's probably going to make things really fucking awkward for the next few days, but he believes it's the right decision.]

Going right for it, can't blame you for that.

[The feigned insouciance likely isn't a surprise. Aziraphale hasn't actually seen him around other demons, but he knows him well enough to know that he tends to play up the not-giving-a-shit, when he's scared.

The worst part is the little pull of a compulsion, similar to how it felt with the lights, and he only hates it because he wants this to be entirely freely given. But maybe it makes it a little easier, to just give in and let the Eye drag out what it wants.]

I could tell you about the beginning, when Hell was still sulphur and ash, right after the War. Can't say I remember much of Heaven, really, so I suppose most of my memories start there, as a bloody... shapeless thing, 'cause falling burnt away whatever forms we'd had, made a mess of them, even if they weren't physical.

[He suspects he couldn't explain this to a human, but he thinks Aziraphale will understand. They might not have bodies, in Heaven and Hell, but they have forms, there's substance to how they appeared to each other.]

We pulled ourselves together as best we could, but the in-fighting had already started. Made it smarter to shape yourself into something with claws or teeth, not the sort of thing you ran into in Heaven, really. [He rubs at his jaw, idly noting that he ought to shave later. Focusing on physical sensation helps distract him from what he's saying.] At first, the fighting wasn't about much more than being angry and hurt and scared, so they'd... so they'd find something smaller or weaker, and hurt it to make themselves feel better.

Not sure I can explain what it's like to lose your grace, I don't expect it's the same as what you're feeling here, 'cause it's just an absence, right? This was more that something had been torn out of you, and you have to fill it with something, don't you? Hate's the easiest, but back then, no one could touch God with their hate, couldn't get the angels, either, so it got turned on whatever was closest. You learn how to fill yourself up with hate, and you learn how to make hate something that hurts other people, so that it doesn't hurt you.

[For all the use of you and we, there's a detachment to how he's speaking, like none of this involved him, but that drops slightly when he finally looks at Aziraphale.]

Then it was about power. Once Lucifer was done licking his wounds, he set himself at the top, and everyone else fought over how they'd fall in line. Dagon's got so many fucking teeth. [He exhales a harsh breath and glances away again. He hadn't meant to say that.] I was never much interested in power, but I knew better than to end up at the lowest rung, so I did what I had to. It wasn't always my best work, but it was effective.

[He misses his fangs, he realizes with a sudden sense of clarity. He misses having a last line of defense.]

Anyway. That's Hell. Or the start of it, if nothing else.

[oldbookshop]

[ Aziraphale expects this is the point where he ought to feel horrified, sympathetic, guilty for asking. Would be normally. Will be before long, probably. There's a buffer for the moment, though, a step of remove.

Substance to the yawning void. Easy as that. And it is easy. And it's good. Instantaneous feedback, immediate exchange. He feels better. The Eye probably has some say in the fact that that's so very impossible to miss. Incentive.

It's hard to put the word hate in the same circle as Crowley in any circumstance. Crowley and fighting, in the physical sense, genuine violence. Odd as ever to circle around the idea of a Crowley who wasn't Crowley yet. Whether angelic or some formless, burning thing.

There always had to be a bit of him there to start. He wouldn't be himself otherwise. ]

Quite a lot else, I would say. [ The trunk of a tree. Lots of space to push out branches. ] What sort of effective work gets a demon sent up into my proverbial neck of the woods that early?

[ It's softly spoken. There's half a thought to be sharper. To demand. Aziraphale wants to curl up in Crowley's brain and know him. Which is not so different from how he typically feels about Crowley, if more intense and morally ambiguous.

Because he has wondered occasionally, of his own free will. There's a theoretical world where they missed meeting at all, solely based on this timeline of events.

But he can at least scrounge up the presence of mind to dull that sort of edge, especially as the information properly filters in. Not his problem whether an Entity is less patient than he is or not. ]

If you like.

[demonicmiracle]

[It's a funny thing to be relieved and furious at the same time. Aziraphale looks better, whenever Crowley can stand to glance at him, and there's relief in knowing that as horrible as this is, it's working. But it's only working because some awful, powerful thing was taking from him in the first place, demanding payment for the mere act of being alive.

He's hated Heaven and God, for how they treated Aziraphale, but at least they never pulled shit like this. He was — healthy, if nothing else.

That knowledge sits with him, and it makes it easier to continue, the anger, because it's already awful, he might as well give Aziraphale enough for him to feel properly better, not just scraps to take the edge off the hunger.]

Like is a strong word.

[He absolutely would not like, but he will.

There's a lot of things he'd do for Aziraphale; he never expected this to be part of it, but here they are.]

M'not much for fighting, sure you figured that out a long time ago. But I am clever, compared to most demons. [It's not really a brag, just a statement of fact, because creativity is part of being clever, and he's got that in spades.] I worked out it was a lot easier to turn other demons against each other, put the right word in that right ear, start a bit of a turf war, then slither off to let them tear each other apart without giving me a second thought.

[Cowardly, in a way, but what's the point of getting hurt over and over and over if he could avoid it by being a bit of a coward?]

We were all fresh out of Heaven, lying was still a bit of a novelty, but I'd been doing it for a long time already, before the War. I suppose Satan must have noticed eventually; he's not stupid, and it's hardly like other demons could've managed to be friendly with Eve.

[So that's... that. Not exactly the most exciting story, but he still doesn't enjoy admitting any of it.]

[oldbookshop]

[ Aziraphale will do enough unbroken staring to cover eye contact for the both of them. The least ideal solution of all time, but it is what it is.

This part makes more sense. Helps line up the full story, sounds more familiar. Stacks on, puts feeling back into his fingertips. ]

Other demons couldn't have managed to be friendly with me, either. You're very unique. [ He loves him. It doesn't have much to do with the task at hand. Doesn't contribute. The Eye already knows it, which is. A thought.

Aziraphale doesn't have anything that's solely his anymore. It puts a hitch in the veneer, punches out a quiet breath. But what did he expect. ]

Why not Adam?

[ If nothing else, it sounds much more like a normal question.

He thinks that despite the brief conversation they'd had before, Crowley might let him pick him apart for nearly as long as he likes. He thinks with things as they are, he was right; it wouldn't be a matter of letting him anyway.

The moment where Aziraphale is pulled towards that prospect, considers it, isn't a terrible one. Quite the opposite. The moment off on the horizon is slated to be terrible. ]

[demonicmiracle]

[It isn't a question being asked of him, Aziraphale talking about being friendly with him, but that doesn't stop Crowley from feeling the compulsion to say more, to explain and expand and fill in the details. If there's one secret he fears getting out more than any of his other secrets, it's this one.

I thought you looked beautiful and I might have loved you from the beginning would feed the Eye for days, with all the worry and fear and shame caught up with those truths.

Crowley has to stop himself from saying any of it. A low, frustrated sound slips out instead, as he breathes through the compulsion, fighting against it until he can latch onto the actual question asked.

That's much easier to deal with.]

She was more curiois than Adam, less obedient, made her easier to work with. Suppose that's how Satan felt about me. [Inhale, exhale. His fingers twitch a little where he has them curled into fists, his grip tightening and loosening reflexively.

The Eye seems to know there's more to it, and he can't quite fight the compulsion over this, it's not as well protected a secret.] She was nice to me. I hadn't meant to hurt her.

[He doesn't necessarily regret it; a life without knowledge isn't a life, but if he'd known exactly what would happen, he would've waited, he thinks, until after she had the baby.]

[oldbookshop]

[ Oh. That's what it feels like when the edge of a thread is pulled away instead of grasped. Unpleasant both ways.

Aziraphale filters in the answer. Feels the way the tail end of it hovers between unknown but not entirely surprising with a little rush of genuine fondness. The growing urge is to go back, to dig-- pry at Crowley's curled fingers and take what he held onto. Make good on the warning and break him open. Rip something else precious out of him. It would be easy.

He squeezes his own hand. Not so much because it bolsters his self restraint as it is to remind himself he's here. ]

That's enough. More than. [ It was clearly well and beyond the point of even feigned comfort. He won't leave the cracked door of an I think. Any more and the fallout pressure in his chest might actually make him ill. The hunger doesn't end. But it wouldn't; the hunger isn't his.

Now they can both get back to not looking at each other. Dare he say, he'd rather look literally anywhere else.

Which does make the current state of their living situation unfortunate. ]

I-- [ Two paths diverged in a yellow wood. One towards gratitude, one towards guilt. A secret third one he's already trying to grow over that leads to saying tell me everything you've ever hidden away from me whether it was for a good reason or not. Bit of a jumble. Heaven would have a field day. ] I'm terribly sorry.

[ On the bright side, maybe he's starting to get the hang of properly apologizing for things in this relationship. ]

[demonicmiracle]

[It's a little like a puppet having their strings cut, the way Crowley slumps when Aziraphale declares them done. He resists the urge to immediately run, knowing that if he does, it's only going to make the guilt worse.

He wants to snap his fingers and summon himself a strong drink, but he isn't the one with that ability right now, and he won't ask Aziraphale to expend energy on something so pointless. They have alcohol, he can fetch some himself and then likely pass out after a single drink, with how weak he feels.

For now, he runs a hand through his hair and sighs, only glancing to Aziraphale at the apology. If he looks a little sharp about it, he thinks he's allowed.]

It's fine, angel. Nothing I didn't offer, is it?

[He's proud of him for being able to pull back, because he's not sure if he actually would have tried to stop this, so long as Aziraphale didn't dig into the truly soft parts of him.

It seems it'd be condescending, though, to say that out loud.]

How do you feel? I'm perfectly alright, before you ask.

[He knows him.]

[oldbookshop]

[ Crowley nets himself a skittering glance. One part slight offense at being very easily preempted, two parts Aziraphale doubtfully gauging that answer for himself.

There's only so 'perfectly alright' Crowley can be in these circumstances to start with because the Web can't be bothered with a bit of a compromise. At least he doesn't look worse off than before. That's something, if not very much of something for making him pick at his own old wounds. ]

I'm fine. [ "Elaborate on that." "No. ❤" Still, he would be lying if he said he didn't feel notably less likely to have a fainting spell. Therefore he is fine. And he's not going to think about it anymore because the subject matter of feeling better skates too close to the lingering danger zone.

Won't do to come off like he's irritated with Crowley over this, though. To be dismissive. ] Going to be poor company, I think.

[ That's diplomatic, surely. That doesn't scream of awkwardness or emotions or still feeling the urge to rummage through someone's mind like a bloody scavenger. ]

Are you- would you be alright for a bit if I-?

[ Made a very fine and calm retreat from this whole situation to re-collect himself, for however long "a bit" even actually is? Aziraphale makes a gesture vaguely in his bedroom's direction in lieu of saying that. There are a lot of things in this living room that he doesn't want to unpack, emotionally speaking.

Crowley's poorly to a worrying degree with no concrete manner of improvement, and he wants to do whatever he can to ease that while this lasts, or he might have considered breaking into one of the empty neighboring apartments as a valid escape plan already. So maybe just. A break. ]

[demonicmiracle]

[There's no point denying, at least to himself, the little spark of annoyance at Aziraphale essentially requesting to bail on him. He gets it, he does, but that doesn't actually make it sting any less, that he's choosing to retreat after — after all that.

Feels sort of typical, though, if he's being honest, and he knows that's an unkind thought. He could be generous and assume that Aziraphale is retreating because he's worried about prying more now that the floodgates have been opened, but he isn't all that generous, and suspects it has more to do with either him feeling awkward about what happened.

Or it's because he doesn't want to look at Crowley anymore, knowing what he does now.

He's not sure which option is worse.]

Whatever you want, angel.

[There's no keeping the annoyance out of his voice, either, or out of his movements as he pushes himself to his feet, snatching up his mug as an excuse for something to do.]

I'll scare something up for dinner. Can leave you a plate for whenever you're ready.

[He doesn't bother looking back as he leaves the room, eager to get as far away as possible for he snaps at him.

Have a nice doomsday.]

[oldbookshop]

[ He'll take that as a technical no. There are more paths diverging in a yellow wood than there really ought to be at this point. As it stands, Aziraphale takes half a second to consider the fresh ones.

On the one hand, he wanted permission to Not Be Here for a bit and some part of him, maybe, finds the idea of Crowley being upset with him after all that relieving. Easier to deal in. By all rights he should be upset.

On the other hand, Crowley is almost definitely upset with him for a different reason than he's upset with himself, which is inherently against the spirit of the hypothetical relief. To say nothing for the fact that it's forced Crowley to be up and about.

The space might be better. Calming down, processing, tucking ragged edges away before they catch on something painful. Having a cry? He's never really done that before, but he hasn't ruled it out yet.

So obviously Aziraphale will ignore his knowledge that the space might be a better long-term choice and be the one following Crowley for an argument this time instead. ]

If it isn't alright, just say so. [ Local pot unironically confronts exhausted kettle. ] There was no point to this-- this entire miserable exercise if you're up doing work instead of resting!

[demonicmiracle]

[If he weren't too busy being cross, he might be amused at the irony of him being the one standing at the counter resolutely refusing to look at the person he's arguing with.

He's going to angrily do the dishes and no one can stop him.]

Right, of course. So I get to be the arsehole who makes you stick around when you clearly can't stand to be in the same bloody room as me.

[He loves Aziraphale, he does, but sometimes he gets so tired of the games they have to play, of the stupid little dance they've made up. He's tired of having to be the bad guy. He's tired of having to be the one to needle and push and tempt because Heaven forbid Aziraphale set a toe out of line without having Crowley to shift the blame onto.

If he'd said no, it would make him the selfish one. He would be the arsehole who didn't let his friend take some clearly needed space to himself, who decided that his own distress was more important than someone else's. Aziraphale would get to feel morally superior for sacrificing his comfort.

It's a no win scenario, and he's too caught up in it to address the rest of what's been said. Even if he could, he's not sure how much he can trust his voice, right now.]

[oldbookshop]

[ If Aziraphale weighs the pros and cons of throwing Crowley over his shoulder and dropping him onto the sofa, that's his business. He could probably do it. Apart from that, he's pretty certain he has no idea what he's doing right now. In general. ]

Oh, and it's much better if I'm the one who thoughtlessly tramples over what you might need. [ Again goes unsaid, a little invisible punctuation.

Because he's the one who does say no. The one who says things are too close, too dangerous, too fast, the one who takes and then harshly distances and rarely has anything to offer back. The one who still hasn't begun to work out how to start apologizing for a backlog of missteps even while he's adding to the pile.

The one who...... starts frustratedly drying the dishes, since he thinks the cons of bodily removing Crowley from the sink outweigh the pros, after some assessment. Second best option. A little bit because it helps him inch away from the urge to sink his teeth back in and drag out the bloody, tangled mass of why are you still here?

That sort of terrifying sharp-edged thinking is half the problem. ]

Never mind that you know full well you've never made me do or offer anything. No, clearly I only bothered asking because of your masterful string-pulling. Clearly if I stayed for a few minutes and realized I couldn't manage, you'd forcibly stop me at all turns.

[ Never mind that if Crowley had a lick of sense, he wouldn't want to be in the same room with someone who very much just forced things out of him in the first place.

Aziraphale is not sure what precisely he even wants out of this fight, at this juncture. Head empty, no thoughts, mutual crisis, poor coping skills. ]

[demonicmiracle]

[Crowley very nearly laughs, has to bite his tongue to stop himself from letting it slip out, because he knows that there's only two outcomes to him laughing bitterly at Aziraphale talking about what he needs. Either Aziraphale takes offense, or he gets curious, and neither option are especially appealing. Arguing is one thing, but even when he's angry, he keeps the worst parts of himself locked down.]

Would you stop twisting my damn words?

[He has to assume that's what it is, because Aziraphale is more than clever enough to know that isn't talking about physically restraining him, or manipulating him into staying.]

We both know you're too nice. You'd stick around if I asked, and you'd hate it, which I'd get to feel shite about, and we'd be no better off than if you'd left.

[It's difficult to be honest, especially when it comes to emotions, or their relationship, but the exhaustion and frustration make it easier.

As does having the distraction of the dishes, something to look at other than Aziraphale, even if he's being a little rougher with the crockery than it deserves.

The point, in all this, is that he doesn't want to have to ask, he wants Aziraphale to want to stay. That isn't something he can ask for, though, it isn't something Aziraphale can control, just like Crowley can't control that it hurts.]

[oldbookshop]

[ When he asks you not to twist his words but word twisting and reading into things are two of your oldest life skills. Unfortunate.

He probably shouldn't have followed Crowley in here at all. Waste of Crowley's limited energy, which Crowley is already using up. Too much still unsettled and volatile, should have gone and collected himself properly. Hindsight, or so they say. ]

Yes, well, I'm not good at these things, Crowley. [ Mild understatement for admitting to something after thousands of years. But ok. ] I don't, I don't-- handle them well. But there's--

[ He would make a vague gesture, except he can't come up with a gesture to make. He is in fact just standing there, arguing with the non-Crowley space in front of him. Possibly their only worse reasoning state would have been having this conversation while they were both exhausted. ]

If we're miserable at both ends, then there must be some point in the middle where we're at least slightly less miserable. And I can look for that point if I know it needs looking for. That's what I mean.

[ Although he supposes Crowley not being able to hide being upset about his wanting to step away was as good an indicator on this front as anything else.

Hobbies: following weakened friends into the kitchen and shouting at them moments after they let him compel forth their secrets to feed to an Entity. Phrasing the concept of finding a compromise like it requires a Da Vinci Code quest, because he's not entirely sure what the middle ground he's talking about looks like.

But he can manage that much in this post-everything-going-out-the-window economy, surely. ]

[demonicmiracle]

[After millennia of not communicating honestly, he has no frame of reference for actually talking about what he wants or needs. Beyond that, admitting or showing any kind of vulnerability is a weakness, one that every other demon would exploit to make his existence utterly miserable, and it's hard to break long ingrained habits. Logically, he knows that Aziraphale wouldn't use something like that against him, but logic doesn't always help, and not using it against him doesn't mean he — wants to hear any of it.

It's hard not to think about every other time he opened up, back home, and how quickly he was shot down. I forgive you still stings, even if he knows it was just stress and fear, with the apocalypse looming.]

For fuck's sake, Aziraphale.

[The main emotion in his voice is resignation, not anger. A bit of exhaustion, too, but that's hardly surprising.

He's clearly not done, but he can't find the words just yet, he's too busy staring at his hands in the soapy water. There's a bruise across the back of one that he doesn't even remember getting, because that's just something that happens now his body is fragile and human.

Insignificance isn't a new feeling, necessarily, but he's never felt as small as he does right now, the entire universe narrowed to him and Aziraphale and this stupid kitchen.]

If you'd just talked about the worst experience in your existence, would you be fine with it if the only other person in the entire building decided they'd like to bugger off?

[He has no idea how he manages to keep his voice steady. Years of practice at burying his emotions, probably.

At least he doesn't have to look at Aziraphale, he's not sure he could handle it, after admitting that.]

[oldbookshop]

Ah. [ Aziraphale takes a soft pause for thought.

Soft in the sense that a lot of the physical tension drains out of him. The directionless agitation in his tone. It's impossible to hold onto in the face of that.

Thoughtful in the manner of a person who tried to bail approximately 40 seconds into the process of this incident becoming a bad memory: a stretch of consideration broadcasting that his answer to the question veers more towards "I'd sort of hope they would, for a while."

The sharing would be bad enough. An audience while he licked his wounds and made himself presentable again sounds unbearable.

Different natures, though.

Different sorts of worst memories.

Forcibly retelling being stripped and violently cast out wholesale and some of the terrible things that needed doing to survive after, he imagines, is not objectively a grand time to be left to it.

He hadn't really thought ahead. Most of his stories end with that. ]

Starting to see the, um. The genesis of our impasse, there. I apologize. [ Not for the sake of seeking the forgiveness, more for the sake of being sure it's... known.

Philosophical differences. To put it mildly. ]

I'll figure something out. Shortly. It's in progress. So. [ So. That's that. Solutions. Or at least somewhere to start. If nothing else, part of him is desperately relieved to have literally any other thing than probing questions or anxious spiraling to work at.

He'd be twice as bad off if he left now either way. ]

I... I can promise you it wasn't because of anything that you... told me.

[ "Told." ]

[demonicmiracle]

[A small part of him has to wonder if this is feeding the Eye, too. If the awful, squirming feeling in his stomach after admitting what is essentially another secret, might satisfy that same fear of judgement that he felt under the lights. Someone might as well get a kick out of it, since Crowley sure as Hell isn't enjoying the excruciating wait for Aziraphale to respond with more than a soft exclamation. He has far too much time to imagine all of the worst possibilities for what might come out of his mouth.

It also gives him time to finish the last of the dishes and dry his hands, so that he can scrub his hands over his face. He has to hope that Aziraphale is either distracted, or that he'll attribute the action to exhaustion, and not realize it's more about making sure a stray tear doesn't escape.

He isn't sure what to do with the response that finally comes. He wasn't expecting an apology, though he supposes that's better than more yelling.]

S'fine. [It probably isn't, but it turns out that nothing takes the wind out anger sails quicker than emotional vulnerability.

It takes a lot of self control not to look at Aziraphale; he wants to see his expression, to know what he's thinking, but he's not sure he could bear being observed in return.

He suspects that this is the point where a human might ask for some kind of physical reassurance, a — hug, or a hand to hold, but that isn't the sort of thing the two of them do, and he's not going to embarrass himself by asking.] Don't worry about it. If you need some time, take it.

[Which is the exact opposite of what he's asking for, but the fight has gone out of him and he lacks the energy to figure out where to go from here.

He also has no idea what to do about dinner, he thinks he might have been overestimating his ability to stay standing and focused for long enough to actually cook anything.]

[oldbookshop]

[ Oh. Right. Apologizing works better when he has something else to immediately walk away to do. He doesn't much care for that.

Aziraphale leaves that out of the turning gears for simplicity's sake. ]

If I do, I'll let you know. For the time being, it's been demoted. [ As a plan. It's plan B now. Or maybe plan "when Crowley falls asleep because there's nothing here of any use to sustain the Web and put more pep back into his step."

No need to waste time detailing that, though. He's doing... thoughts. This is very new territory on all sides. He's never done a different approach to handling these things. It merits the thinking. ]

You handled the dishes. [ With extreme prejudice. ] I'll handle dinner. Gives me something to do with my hands. Think I could do with that. It'll help me-- settle. [ Gives him something defined to focus on, which really does help. Something very now. Gives Crowley an excuse to have a rest as a side benefit, ideally.

It's not four blankets and a lot of twisting his fingers, but four blankets and twisting his fingers wouldn't be a very quiet cup of cocoa in the bookshop, either. These things happen. One must carry on. ]

If that's alright by you.

[demonicmiracle]

[In retrospect, honesty may have been a mistake. Having a row isn't exactly fun, not when he's already exhausted and wrung out from the whole — feeding process, but it's familiar ground. They've had more than their share of arguments over the millennia, some of them more important than others, but at least he knows how to navigate a fight.

He has no idea how to navigate this. It'd be easier if he getting what he wanted doesn't somehow feel like losing. It isn't fair to either of them for him to find the concession patronizing; he knows that isn't how it's meant, and he should be — if not happy, at least relieved. Maybe even a small sense of being pleased that Aziraphale is listening to him and what he wants. But he can't dredge up any of that.

He can't remember if emotions have always been this difficult, or if it's a side effect of being trapped and tired.]

Should take up tatting.

[To keep his hands busy.

It's easier than addressing the rest of what's been said, even the offer to cook. He has to take a moment, hands braced on the counter, breathing through the heavy weight of exhaustion.]

Gimme a tick. [Or two. Maybe three.] Sorry.

[He should have just let Aziraphale leave, after all. It would've let him retreat himself, to take a much needed nap.

Shame he kicked up such a fuss about the whole thing.]

[oldbookshop]

[ Aziraphale gives Crowley a tick. Or two. Or three.

He makes a note to self to incredulously say tatting? after this is all over. Has to be that, eventually. Over.

The thing is, he'd sort of like to not kick Crowley's temper back off with the dust being more or less settled. But he'd more like to not watch Crowley collapse onto the kitchen floor. Which does create a bit of a pickle lined up with the fact that, with his own temper fizzled out, he's also looking to avoid asking many questions.

Blood's still in the water, so to speak. He'd like to at least pretend he has enough control over those impulses while they're fresh under the surface. ]

I can help you to a chair. Or the sofa.

[ Whichever.

There's no point to the full scope of that ordeal if he can't put the energy to use keeping Crowley safe or comfortable. None worth having done it, anyway. ]

[demonicmiracle]

[Crowley has been worn out before, a fair few times in his existence, even recently, after holding the Bentley together with nothing but determination. It doesn't compare to what he's felt over the past handful of days. Maybe it's because it feels worse when there's no reason for the exhaustion. Or maybe it's just that whatever stupid Entity is behind this is draining him more than exertion ever could.

Getting himself worked up and angrily washing the dishes probably hasn't helped. It feels more like he's run a marathon than done a basic household chore.]

I'm just about done with needing help.

[It isn't a no; he'd sound more cross if it was a no. He just sounds tired, though, that same resignation in his voice.

God's probably laughing at him, wherever She is, about all these stupid situations he keeps getting himself into, where he ends up needing Aziraphale to help him, where that help usually requires a significant amount of touching to happen.

He should be grateful for it, and a tiny part of him is, but he doesn't — he doesn't want to be touched just because he needs help, only for all the barriers to go back up the second everything is back to normal.]

[oldbookshop]

[ Small victories. Very, very small, when there's only so much that getting off his feet can net him in terms of relief.

Aziraphale wishes he had anything more concrete to offer for it. Maybe a renewed discussion for after Crowley's had some time to recover a bit. Gotten a good night's sleep. There's a little wiggle room in near any inhuman doctrine about what is and isn't an acceptable payment.

Even Entities can't be completely immune, surely. ]

You have had a run of poor luck lately. We'll have to see about balancing it out.

[ Never mind that it's nearly always balanced out for him specifically in the form of Crowley turning up. He'll just have to take on the mantle if need be.

Worse comes to worst, he supposes he hasn't tried hacking apart the ice with a sword yet. Wherever he left the thing. Would that be a good outlet? It doesn't feel like it would be very relieving.

He doesn't allow himself to entertain the notion that the purpose of this weather might very well be to go on for far too long. There's no room for a dread that near to the heart right now. That's a later problem. ]

When you're ready.

[demonicmiracle]

Absolutely not. Don't start with that nonsense.

[As far as he's concerned, balancing it out suggests that it would be Aziraphale needing help of the sort Crowley has needed, and he doesn't want to even talk about that sort of nonsense. He doesn't want to give the universe any ideas about hurting Aziraphale.

Not that Crowley wouldn't help him, he'd do it without question, but he doesn't want Aziraphale getting hurt in a way that would require him to need help.

He sighs, trying to decide whether he might be able to handle the short walk to the breakfast bar without needing help. It's a question of whether it's more embarrassing to ask for it now, or to end up not being able to make it, and falling on his ass. The latter might be worse, which is why he holds out a hand, turning slightly towards Aziraphale.]

Alright, can I — can I get a hand?

[He probably just needs to lean a little weight on him and it'll be fine.

The asking is the hardest part, never mind that it was already offered.]

[oldbookshop]

[ Aziraphale takes personal exception to having it called nonsense. Personal silent exception. To each their own. This will not stop him. It's important, isn't it, morale?

Maybe when things are less... well, when they're less. Whenever that is, because in the present situation he's having a very hard time picturing the idea of things becoming less what they are. What was his line of thought? He's not strictly at his best. But maybe there's something they can do down the line that Crowley will enjoy that won't blow up in his face.

Cleanse the palate. ]

Of course. [ He slots himself in under Crowley's arm for the time being. It would be a qualified intricate ritual, if the nature of Crowley being ill didn't make that sort of thinking far too much of a liberty taken. But he is glad that he's agreeable enough to it.

There's no-- salvaging this night, by any means. And part of him is going to be itching to not be here for as long as he's keeping company, he expects. Still, at least he can try to put himself to use making some part of it easier. ]