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apocalypsehowcomm2022-02-16 05:36 am
- !event,
- bucky barnes (mcu),
- kate cordello (original),
- katrina (siren),
- manji (blade of the immortal),
- martin blackwood (tma),
- mercy graves (original),
- yelena belova (mcu),
- zz_andrew jaeger (original),
- zz_anthony j. crowley (good omens),
- zz_aziraphale (good omens),
- zz_beauregard lionett (critical role),
- zz_bruno madrigal (encanto),
- zz_caduceus clay (critical role),
- zz_callisto (xena: warrior princess),
- zz_donna noble (doctor who),
- zz_garner cinderbrooke (original)
Event - Heavy
(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.))
(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.
(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.
(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.
- 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.
no subject
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." ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
[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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
[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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
He's seriously considering wrecking havoc as soon as they're out of here, just so he's got a good stockpile of terror for next time.
Nothing to be done about it now, though. All he can do is lean against Aziraphale, trying to tread the fine line between accepting help and not needing too much of it, when he's sure Aziraphale isn't far from being completely done with him. He's not sure how effective it is, and either way, he hates how hard it is to do something as simple as walk.]
Y'don't have to make dinner if you're not hungry anymore. Not sure I'm up to it, anyway.
[All he wants to do is go to bed, but asking that would defeat the purpose of having made such a fuss about Aziraphale sticking around, so he'll just have to suck it up.]
no subject
Case in point, it's far too easy for Aziraphale to do away with the pretense and simply pick him up. If he's diverted power to his emotional shields from the propriety department, that's his mistake to bear. What is an angel if not a starship. ]
Your choice of seat.
[ He suspects Crowley would be much too easy to hold even in normal health. Which wouldn't be too worrying normally, but they're in these ridiculous bodies. ]
no subject
The — the bloody sofa, you arsehole.
[He's too startled to be properly angry, but he will get a small jab in there, even if he's very carefully not looking at Aziraphale.
Or thinking about how warm and soft he is. Now really isn't the time for his brain to focus on that sort of nonsense.]
no subject
As suspected, this is like carrying 6 feet of kittens.
Aziraphale hasn't given much thought to scooping Crowley up and carrying him, across the past few decades. Well, not enough to stand out in his memory, at least. Not up on the charts of all the things he's considered while in Crowley's proximity. Not near the same as the strange little intimate bubble of getting to wash his hair.
Too many tense wires, right now, to get into appreciating that it's still nice. Circumstances that he can't put aside aside.
Aziraphale goes about the slightly awkward process of depositing Crowley onto the sofa as carefully as possible. He resists the urge to try to hand Crowley a throw pillow afterwards for the sake of doing something. He does not resist the urge to pick up a throw pillow and hold it himself for the sake of fussing with something while he also takes a brief seat. This is an economy for running fingers over seams to fidget.
The gap between providing comforts and being comforting has never been more evident. Oh, dear. ]
I'll get back to the kitchen in a minute.
[ He doesn't know if it counts as retreating to take someone to a sofa and then turn around right away. It does seem to defeat the staying purpose if he immediately does that. Things he didn't consider when he said he'd do dinner.
It's fine. This is actually a good little stretch for making sure Crowley wasn't about to lose consciousness. That would make this ten times worse. ]
no subject
It takes a lot of the wind out of his sails, that part of it, leaving him more amenable to the whole situation than he really ought to be. Kicking up a huge fuss just seems exhausting, frankly, and being compliant probably makes the process go quicker than it would if he were struggling. He does grumble slightly at the careful handling as he's set on the sofa, resisting the urge to swat at Aziraphale like an annoyed child.]
M'not a damn porcelain doll.
[He could've handled being dropped unceremoniously on the sofa; it's not like before, when he was injured and movement hurt. He's just tired.
Which is a good excuse as any, he decides, for taking some small liberties.
Liberties, in this case, being the way he shifts around to get comfortable, curling his legs up onto the sofa, and then leans himself sideways until he bumps into Aziraphale, resting his head on his shoulder.
Any other time and he wouldn't dare, but he was just picked up and carried about, and he's too tired to overthink what he's doing. He just — doesn't want Aziraphale to leave. It's a little about wanting comfort, too, and he has no idea how to ask for something like that, so this will have to do.]
no subject
All these nice safe surface thoughts and more, promptly laid to waste. Aziraphale was not prepared to be gently leaned on.
He feels a lot of things about it. Swell of warmth, fondness, the ever-persistent instinct to be twitterpated, the linked instinct not to overreact. Bit of honor at being granted the privilege. Something extremely soft that comes of a love he's only ever held for this one person.
Mostly there's a complicated pressing guilty ache that he swallows down, because if he follows the path it wants to lay out it'll be some mess he really cannot handle in this moment, and that Crowley shouldn't have to deal with besides.
He'll stop at honored.
The truly important thing is that he can pick up on a hint when it's not actually a hint and instead more of a direct wordless request. He's grateful for that, too. ]
Maybe a bit more than a minute. [ Maybe he would sit here literally all night, and what about it. ] I haven't got plans.
[ Now he's relieved to have grabbed an emotional support pillow. It's saving his whole life right now and probably keeping him from doing something embarrassing. He doesn't even know what that embarrassing something would be. ]
no subject
The important part is that Aziraphale is staying, and that he didn't stiffen up when Crowley touched up, which he'll take as a net win and something like permission to stay where he is. It's not, actually, the most comfortable spot in the world, since he has to lean at a slightly awkward angle, but it's more than worth the crick he'll likely have in his neck later.
That's a problem for Crowley in the future. Crowley right now is just — trying to relax and not feel like shit. Easier said than done, but Aziraphale being warm and soft next to him is exceedingly helpful.]
I know it's easier said than done, but try not t'feel too guilty.
[Saying it out loud might not help, but maybe it will, just for Aziraphale to hear it.]
no subject
Crowley really is one of the nicest, most ridiculous creatures alive, when it comes down to it. Even about this. Of course he is.
Aziraphale finds no genuine irritation to bring to bear for this. It simply doesn't well up. ]
My dear, I'd much rather you save the energy of worrying unless it's for yourself. [ In which case, he'd still rather Crowley wasn't worrying, but it's fair to worry about oneself when one is in poor shape and dire straits. ] I appreciate it, but I am-- managing.
[ He makes a very pointless gesture with his free arm. ]
It's been managed.
[ Sort of. In a sense. It's on the docket for later, so it will be. They're both very good at feeling guilty about things long after the fact, but that's par for the course. ]
no subject
If he presses his cheek against Aziraphale's shoulder in a small gesture of comfort no he doesn't. Sometimes a local snake demon will instead choose to act like a cat.]
Not worrying, angel. [Tiny bit of a lie.] I just know you.
[Which is a funny thing to admit, even if it's true. It's one of those things that's not typically acknowledged, since it sits too close to the line of calling themselves friends. Or admitting that there isn't a single other being in existence that knows them like they know each other.]
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It's his business how much that has to do with the situation at large and trying to be more mindful through it, and what it has to do with Crowley being unfairly endearing. As life has at certain times in the past possibly involved coping with Crowley being endearing. ]
Yes, well. Good. [ Being known is sort of the bane of his existence in terms of avoiding things or getting away with them, but he'll take a slight-worrying, mostly-knowing mix over the opposite in this case.
There are worse people to be known by.
It puts a sour taste in his mouth to consider volleying with an "I know you too" or a "thank you" right this second, though. He supplements that with giving Crowley a couple of awkward leg pats instead, since unnecessary touching seems to be... broadly allowed. Or maybe it'll turn out Crowley only prefers that done on his own terms. But it's too late to un-pat regardless. ]
Keep it that way.
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He'd like to know what it means, the touching and the gentleness and the fact that Aziraphale is still here, despite the fact Crowley is an ornery bastard. It will have to wait, though. He doesn't have the energy to examine it too closely right now.]
You're not the boss of me.
[It's meant to be a joke, as though he has any chance of lightening the mood.]
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Silver linings.
Tomorrow will be better. God, he hopes tomorrow will be better. ]
I should hope not. [ He's barely responsible enough for himself. ] It's a... helpful suggestion. Energy conservation.
[ Never mind that he knows Crowley might very well actively try at that nebulous concept of not worrying if he asked him nicely enough anyway. It's an abuse of familiarity to get into that for this, really. And it might sort of backfire.
More fun to convince Crowley to do things when the two of them are normal and the thing he's asking for is generally minor and nice. ]
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He considers saying something about how he's very good at worrying, actually, and that being so practiced means it really doesn't take all that much energy, but he's cognizant enough to know that would only serve to make Aziraphale worry in turn. Bit of a cycle they'd get into, he's sure. Better to just hum his agreement before falling silent.
Having a conversation is hardly strenuous, but now that he's not driving himself with concern for Aziraphale, or anger, or any other sort of strong emotion, it's getting harder and harder to stay awake. And Aziraphale is warmer than he has any right to be, all things considered.
He's not quite all the way to sleep, though, when he mumbles:]
I knew you'd stop. When you had to.
[He just wants Aziraphale to know that he had faith in him, and that it wasn't misplaced.]
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Aziraphale updates his upcoming alone time itinerary from "might wind up having a little cry later" to "will definitely wind up having a little cry later." A little cry. A very rare indulgence. ]
You would have risked it even if you weren't certain, you idiot. [ Which is the part that most actively hurts, for reasons beyond delving into. The part that gentles his tone, lowers his voice.
He doesn't question that much. Crowley is a very unique sort of foolhardy. Always comes back. Always chancing his luck in the social labyrinth Aziraphale has carefully built around them.
It's odd to wonder how someone is still here when you love them and you'd be devastated if they stopped turning up. If he has the tools to try to examine that, he refuses to use them. ] Just get your rest.
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Which, of course, earns a whine when he dislodges himself from Aziraphale's shoulder in the process, but he's back where he was quickly enough.]
Nah. [To the first part, not the part about rest. He has every intention of getting to that as soon as possible, judging by how he has to pause to yawn, before he can finish his argument.] Would've been cruel. To make you do it if I wasn't sure.
[If he'd insisted and insisted without faith, and things went poorly, he knows Aziraphale would likely have hated himself for it.
He might be foolhardy with his own wellbeing, on occasion, but never with Aziraphale's, although that may not be the reassurance he thinks it is.]
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If he were more awake, a bit more energized, he probably wouldn't have admitted it so outright. Aziraphale doesn't mind tucking this little gem away to feel things about later. It's sweet. Endearing, in being close and tired and half-mumbled.
Worrying, as taken messages go. Probably it should be more out and out relieving to know he'd at least hold to that limit. ]
Well, we can... we can discuss that point another time. [ As much discussion as there might be in asking Crowley to try to put self-preservation higher than "it would be cruel to you specifically."
That's an issue worth circling around to sometime. One that won't be too-- much. Too close. ]
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