apocalypsehowcomm | (log) march catch-all

Entry tags:

(log) march catch-all

Who: crowley + others
When: throughout the month
Where: all kinds of places
Summary: a collection of various threads so I don't spam the comm
Warnings: Gonna be a dead body in at least one thread, will update with others if necessary

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ That does sort of dash the odds of a nice little outing, a hope that Aziraphale may or may not have also been holding to. It's been odd, to say the least. To have something happen that was horrific and involved a measure of very tense shouting, and then go on sharing a close space in the days after.

They hadn't left things in an especially poor place, night of. Dare he say they've rarely left things in such a good place after a very real, serious bout of argument and wounded feelings. It's just-- more a matter of working out what to do next.

He doesn't think he's even thanked Crowley. He doesn't know if he's supposed to. He doesn't know if there's a way to say it isn't what you told me, it's that I did it at all or I can't entertain the notion of doing that to you again unless it somehow would save your life specifically that would be... measured. Wouldn't make Crowley feel guilty or ashamed or insulted somehow.

So he thinks, lunch, alright, have a stroll, remember how to have a normal conversation and save the rest for a more private moment. Can't properly avoid the matter here, obviously. ]

Oh. Quite. [ Which is more to say that, when he's blinked through his own bout of inexplicable dizziness and sees Beelzebub for himself, it's even more disappointing than it might usually be. He takes Crowley's arm in turn, pulls him back a step. Less of a good defensive front to be made when his old sword is currently under a couch in the flat, but, well. As potential needs must. ] Rain check on lunch, then.

[ "Still stuck on that gross matter, Aziraphale." This is, by definition, the absolute worst time for Gabriel to turn up from behind. Which Aziraphale would consider about on par. He leaves the Beelzebub-spotting to Crowley in light of present events. Better the devil you know. So to speak. "Oh, come on. Let's not act like any of us thought this was over." ]

[Gabriel's voice might as well be nails on a chalkboard for how Crowley's hackles go up. Beelzebub ought to be the one he's more worried about, the one he hates more, but Beez has only ever made his life difficult. Gabriel's the one that's made Aziraphale miserable, far too often.

But he sees Aziraphale turn better to face him, and understands that it's likely better to keep an eye on their respective bosses.

"Wank-wingzzzz is right for once, traitor."]

Oh, piss off.

[They're well past the point of him pretending to be loyal to Hell.

"We're here to bring you home to face the muzzzic. You wouldn't want to mizzzz the War, would you?"

He very much would, actually.]

War? [ High, high on the list of words he'd been fruitlessly hoping not to hear. Of course.

Aziraphale is starting to suspect they'll be needing to make a swift exit. ] As I recall, we discussed--

[ "Hypotheticals aren't a discussion. Maybe if we'd had you spend a little more time Upstairs, you'd remember the difference."

If Gabriel is channeling some of his sour energy over Beelzebub's entire vibe into his put-upon sympathy, that's his business. It's a little like watching someone stretch a balloon over a sharp corner.

"You had your fun. You delayed the inevitable. Made things nice and difficult. Prolonged humanity's suffering with that little stunt, for the record. So!" Some say the sound of the Archangel Gabriel's managerial clap echoes throughout the universe into eternity. It's in an eternal race against Beelzebub's eyeroll. "Actions. Consequences. Let's not drag this out. Front and center, sunshine." ]

Could do with a more defensible position, I think, Crowley. Weapon wouldn't hurt. [ In this household we ignore Gabriel and stop pretending we weren't created to be good at a little battlefield strategy. Aziraphale adjusts his grip on Crowley's arm to something tighter, more deliberately secure. ] Negotiations seem to be off the table.

[ This is fine.

That's a lie.

This is not fine.

He expects that some part of the two of them has been waiting for this to happen since they got here. It's just another one of those times where there's something more immediately urgent to be getting on with. ]

[It would be a lie to say that he wasn't expecting something along these lines. Not necessarily Beelzebub and Gabriel showing up, but the whole — apocalypse not truly being stopped. In the moment, on Earth, he'd bene hopeful, but he's had too long to stew in his fear, since arriving on this shitty version of Earth, and he keeps circling back to the fact it was too easy.

Even if God has stopped paying attention, there's no way Satan was going to let it go.]

Not to put too fine a point on it, but I've still got nothing in the tank.

[In terms of power, he means. There's very little he can do against Beez or Gabriel in general, never mind when he's completely cut off from the ability to perform a miracle.

Of course you don't. Beelzebub takes a moment to interject, because why not. That was part of the fun.

For the first time, it occurs to Crowley that it isn't the Entities cutting them off from their power.

Time to come home.

Beelzebub snaps their fingers, and the sidewalk opens up, dragging Crowley down.]

[ One small benefit: Aziraphale doesn't get more than a few seconds to internally panic about being separated at the worst possible time. Gabriel makes some dismissive noise as if to say "pff, demons, so dramatic," before snapping his fingers and sending Aziraphale up.

Back to Earth, easy as that. Their Earth. What's left of it, structures and shapes, sanitized of humanity, the burnt-out husk of the bookshop. Still cut off from their powers, still reduced, given the humbling honor of essentially being used as the opening ceremony for the war Heaven and Hell always wanted.

It all goes a bit tits-up after that. If by "a bit" one means "irrevocably and entirely." Aziraphale is almost grateful throughout, in a sickening sort of way, that they aren't left any time to think. To fully absorb what they've been dropped into on top of everything else.

This is not something that they can survive. This is not something with a glimmer of secret hope on the horizon to stumble towards. It's a scrape for extra minutes at best, a refusal to be reduced to surrendering, which Aziraphale avoids thinking about as much as he can.

They make a good enough show of it, he thinks. Benefit of knowing each other. Silent communication, teamwork, all that.

But sadly, in accordance with their usual luck, the tits stay up. Which leads them to where they presently stand, already in less than ideal condition. A little bit cornered. (A lot bit cornered.) A little bit out of moves. (A lot bit out of moves.) The conversation is over. There's no reasoning to be done.

Aziraphale chances letting Crowley out of his direct line of sight. A quick grip to the wrist, a careful attempt at pushing him behind himself. He expects he was technically more made for out-and-out final stands, between the two of them. Durability.

She gave him a sword and never made mention of a shield, after all. ]

[On the unpleasant occasions that he'd given it thought, Crowley had sort of hoped that his death would be a relatively quick experience, if it were come to that. That's always a lingering fear of being somewhat eternal; there are so many ways to drag out his existence that would be far worse than a splash of holy water ending it in seconds.

As things go, being hunted by the armies of Heaven and Hell both, with Aziraphale at his side, falls somewhere in the middle of the scale; the drawn out panic isn't a great time, but there's too much happening for him to really devote too much time to it, and he's relieved just the tiniest amount that everyone so far as come at them with the intention to kill, not capture.

Still, it'd be nicer if he hadn't been rendered mortal for this entire experience. If he could simply slip out of this useless, human skin, he'd do a lot more damage with fangs and claws. They wouldn't win, the numbers alone make that impossible, but he might have taken a good chunk of them down with him, and the satisfaction of that would've been nice, in the end.

Also would have been nice to spend the last of his time with Aziraphale like this, terrified and desperate and more than a little bloodied. He doesn't even have room to think too much about Aziraphale so obviously trying to protect him, no matter how futile of a gesture it is, in the end. That's their bread and butter, some days, those futile gestures.

It's a fitting thought to be briefly lingering on, when he catches sight of an angel trying to sneak up on them, using the distraction offered by the gaggle of demons advancing from the front, the ones that Aziraphale tried so hard to save him from. Crowley only has a split second to make a decision, because he needs the rest of his time left to take one last greedy look at Aziraphale, ignoring the cut on his cheek and ichor staining his clothes. It really is a shame that it had to end like this.

There's not even time to say anything, and even if there was, it would feel too cruel to tell him the truth now, when there's nothing to be done with it. The best he can do is tighten his grip on the nasty dagger he'd stolen off another demon's empty corporation, and slips away from Aziraphale.

The angel is a Virtue, not the most imaginative of creatures, a fact Crowley uses to his advtange; they're expecting him to put up a proper fight when they lunge at him, and the split second of surprise that comes when their sword goes right through him is what he takes advantage of to drive the dagger up under their jaw.

The damn thing shrieks, an awful, ear-splitting sound, and takes off in a flurry of wings and holy fire, taking the sword and dagger with them. Which is an unpleasant situation for Crowley to find himself in; without the sword helping to stop the blood flow, his shirt is quickly soaked through with his own blood, despite his flimsy attempt to keep pressure on the wound.

He's been stabbed enough times to know immediately that there's something wrong. The pain is different, a burn that reaches deeper than his physical flesh, and he knows immediately that the blade was a blessed one.

A wound would've been inconvenient, may have discorporated him, whatever that would entail when he's mortal, but he could have survived that.

There's no surviving this one.]

[ This is what he gets for looking away. That's probably a self-centered thing to think, isn't it. End of the day, he's always been selfish deep down.

Aziraphale doesn't notice Crowley's moved until he hears the scream. Busy taking stock, busy thinking in some straight line. Crowley's always been a little better at the creativity. Helps to cover their strategic ground at a time like this, actually.

He's expecting the Virtue, and just from the tenor, he's expecting it to not be terribly well-off. He's not expecting Crowley with blood rolling through the cracks in his fingers. Who says he needs access to his usual demonic powers to stop time? It's working fine in this moment.

Did Aziraphale have plans? Was he thinking in terms of strategy? Funny how that's all just gone out the window and to the ground, not unlike the secondhand sword Aziraphale had eventually had to pick up. No space for thought around the horrified need to get there as quickly as possible, stumbling over some bit of shattered pavement, hand pressed over the top of Crowley's like it's going to accomplish anything at all. ]

I've got you, it's alright, you're alright--

[ No he's not, no he won't be, trying to keep him from falling over outright is all Aziraphale can even manage in these ridiculous useless mortal trappings. But he can't just say that. The battle to maintain composure is getting very hard to keep up with.

He tries not to notice that everyone seems eager for a show to laugh at. He's always been good at pretending not to notice that sort of thing. ]

[There's irony here, probably, if he thinks about it too hard, but he's doing just about the exact opposite of that, preferring to try very hard to not think about the situation that he's landed himself in.

One thing to make a split second decision, another to face the reality of the aftermath. Turns out that's something of a theme for his existence, with the fall, with Eve and the apple, with slithering up those stone walls to talk to a fretting angel. If it's fitting that it's come full circle, he's not going to think too much about that, either.

Easier, really, to focus on Aziraphale's hand over his own, even if the signals for touch are presently outranked by those for pain. He knows it's there, he can see it, and his mind is creative enough to trick him into feeling it. Easier to focus on keeping himself on his feet, bracing his unoccupied hand on Aziraphale's chest, some distant part of his mind experiencing brief guilt over the blood and grime he's smearing on his coat.

Silly thing to worry about, right now.]

Sorry, angel. [Gentle as anything, and he spares a second to be grateful the sword didn't end up in his chest. Would've made it difficult to say much of anything, with his lungs full of blood.] What's the plan?

[It's not the most logical thing to ask, on the surface, but he wants to know what happens next, if he needs to tell Aziraphale to run, if he needs to gather the last of his strength to serve as a distraction, or if this is... it.

He wants Aziraphale to survive, but he's not sure it's possible, and he's not sure that it wouldn't be cruel to ask him to, anyway. God knows he'd think it cruel, if Aziraphale asked him to try existing without him.]

[ Aziraphale makes a dismissive noise without even thinking about it. An apology. Bloody apology, who apologizes for getting stabbed?

Well. That's a bit of a pot and kettle stance on the matter. If he's honest. But he doesn't need to be honest if it's only with himself.

Who needs to be apologized to by someone who's been run through, that's the question. Not the verbal question. That's a different question. ]

Oh. [ Yes, excellent progress so far. Crowley's blood is very warm. It keeps pulling his focus. ] Oh, no, I'm afraid we've been out of plans for quite some time now, my dear.

[ It's gentle in turn. Much as he'd like to pretend he's suddenly inspired with a way to fix everything, this seems like as terrible a time to lie as any time could be. ]

Consider me flattered if you've felt otherwise.

[ Even just a little bit.

They are both fine and calm and in control. They are choosing where the last stand ends. It was most certainly not thrust upon them by an outside party.

Maybe he has got a plan and the plan is simply to manifest an ending that sounds slightly more dignified than not. ]

[After several months of being worried that something horrible in that other world would be the thing to do them in, it's strange to be back home, to have a familiar fear playing out right in front of him.

If he hadn't spent the entire time being terrified, he might be able to realize that it is strange, but he's had other things on his mind. That's the problem with fear, really.]

I meant, uh, you. [Plans for himself, not plans for the two of them. That ship has long since sailed.

It might have sailed back at the bandstand, all those months ago.] You could go.

[It's an offer rather than a request, a way of telling him that it's alright if he wants to run, or hide, or try to survive any way he can for a little bit longer. It'd be nice, not to die alone, but he's willing to trade that for the knowledge Aziraphale won't be dying with him.]

Take a page from my book, have a go at cowardice.

[What's a little mortal wound without some self-deprecation thrown into the mix?]

[ Sounds fake. ]

If you were a coward, I would have told you by now. [ That's probably not the right point to take. Dare he say it's avoiding the true issue entirely. Should he still be doing that at a time like this?

Then again, he doesn't want Crowley to think that he does think he's a coward. It's as good as an agreement, to leave some statements untouched. He should know. He worked for Heaven.

Aziraphale thinks that the full reality of Crowley being gone, or about to be, hasn't quite fully come home to roost. He's always skittered away from the idea of it. Steady as the Earth, Crowley. (See how far that got Earth, though, when it's hollow and empty.) ]

I'd rather stay either way. [ It wouldn't be a very long stretch, he expects, but if he left he'd spend the rest of his time in existence regretting that he'd done it. No point. ] I suppose we may as well have a seat, in that case.

[ Better to sit down than to be seen falling, by some runs of logic. He doesn't know if Crowley leans one way or the other on it. There's enough question to his tone to let it be Crowley's call either way. ]

[As it turns out, trying to laugh with a hole in his torso is about as unpleasant as trying to laugh with a broken rib. The muscles in his stomach jump, sparking a wave of pain that makes him his and falter slightly, until he's leaning a fair more bit of weight on Aziraphale.

He has to close his eyes to breathe through the pain, and chooses to keep them closed with Aziraphale's answer, waiting a few seconds until the rush of emotions have passed. He wishes he had more time to wonder what that means, if it's said the same way Crowley would say it.

It's unfair for them to have had so much time, only for it to not feel like nearly enough.]

I think you've got the right idea, having a sit down.

[God knows how he'll make it to seated without showing any pain. He lacks the concentration to consider something that complicated.]

[ Oops. His amazing comedic timing strikes again.

He wonders sometimes if Crowley just finds things funnier when laughing is more likely to do him damage. Ridiculous creature.

He loves him. He supposes there's always a bit where love hurts, in the reality of it. Like it was designed that way. ]

If anyone asks, I'll say I insisted. [ As if they'll ask. Busy playing silent vulture, eager anticipator. More fun if they get a show. Two shows, really. Aziraphale isn't afraid of that. The fear was always that he'd be the second show in line.

And he can't do anything to change that, now. Can't turn the tide, can't heal enough of any wound to be of use, can't get them out.

Uncanny, almost, how pointed it is. ] Come on. We'll be quick about it.

[ He sacrifices some smoothness, helping Crowley down, for the sake of speed. There's no room for the gentleness in excess that he'd prefer, or none that wouldn't draw some unearned ridicule. And they are... they are on a ticking clock.

If Crowley ends up half on his lap, half-cradled, that's really only their business.

Any other circumstance, any better circumstance-- it would have been nice, he thinks. He wants to say something like much better, he wants to make Crowley laugh again, anything. It dries up in his throat so he squeezes his hand instead. ]

[If he hasn't just learned how much laughing hurts, he would have done it again, feeling a brief burst of fondness at Aziraphale's promise, as if everyone else's opinion of him matters, at this point.]

Bit past pride, I think.

[That doesn't stop him from gritting his teeth as they go down to keep any pained sounds from slipping out, though that's more about not wanting to worry Aziraphale than it is about his pride. They both knows he's in a considerable amount of pain, no way not to be, but Aziraphale hardly needs to feel responsible for causing any more.

The problem with having died before is knowing exactly what it feels like; he knows the heaviness in his limbs and the fog over his thoughts is a sign of his body slowing down on its way to stopping for good.

Which really is a shame when it's preventing him from properly appreciating being sort of cradled in Aziraphale's arms like some tragic heroine. If he has the energy, he'd laugh at that irony, considering his constant complaints about the entire genre tragedy. It always did hit too close to home.]

Hey. [It'd be nice, too, if his voice didn't sound so damn weak.

He wants to say something utterly foolish, like I love you, but it's no less useless now than it would've been a few minutes ago, and the risk of it seems higher, when he might end up making their last few minutes together unbearably awkward. And anyway, there are far more foolish things he can say.

He tips his head forward, to rest his forehead against Aziraphale's temple. The audience hasn't escaped his notice, not when he can hear snickers and whispers, but he's choosing to ignore it. They don't really matter, in the end.] She never deserved you, you know.

[There's really only one She that he could be referring to, and he hopes Aziraphale won't be cross at him for a little blasphemy, not when it's the truth. God was never good enough for Aziraphale, not if She could make him so afraid.]

[ If nothing else, that does a bang-up job of startling a sound out of Aziraphale. Some choked huff of a thing that contains a tiny little bit of a laugh just on reflex.

It should hurt more, knowing that She isn't watching. He wonders what the last thing was that She saw here. He wonders what She might have seen that made Her decide it wasn't worth watching anymore.

Never was his place to understand all that, he supposes. He's never wanted to be anywhere else.

But there's really only so much room for disappointment in a person. And all the things that matter at the moment, they take up a larger space. ]

Of all the times to be completely absurd, Crowley. [ He doesn't have it in him to sound appropriately scolding. There's no point adding the tone on. So he really only sounds fond.

It's almost worse than not being able to get them out of this, the sudden understanding of how little he can provide even in the way of comfort. In the end. After everything. No way to ease the pain, soften the pavement, chase the chill from the air.

But if he's got any sort of luck left, any dregs of usefulness, maybe--

Maybe this audience doesn't quite get the satisfaction of the full first performance. Seems the least he could possibly do.

It's more of a pull than he was used to back when it was something he did more often, unpacking his wings. Feels off. He's not of a mind to wonder at why when he's more grateful that he could manage.

Gives them and their closeness a little bit of privacy. Gives the whispers a more anticipatory target. (Gets them a couple of jeers. Everyone is a critic.) Fine enough.

They ought to have enough time to manage, before the consequences for this come home to roost. ]

I never did deserve you. [ So who is he to say anything, really.

He's left so much more unsaid than he's ever actually said. Always been terrible about that. ]

[While there isn't much room for any sort of positives in this situation, Crowley is at least relieved to hear a sound out of Aziraphale that could almost be a laugh, if things weren't quite so dire. It hasn't been meant as a joke, he was being completely earnest for once, but he understands the reaction, all things considered. Neither of them have had an especially easy time of it, when it comes to God. He's never particularly felt it was a competition about who had it worse, not when their situations are so vastly different.

It does mean he can empathize, though, with how complicated it can be.]

M'not absurb. I meant it.

[It's the best counter argument that he has, when the thought of actually stringing together a sentence longer than three words is exhausting. He wishes he'd said these things more often, told Aziraphale how wonderful he is, no matter how it would have ruined his reputation.

The wings confuse him at first, brow furrowing as he starts to wonder if this is all that bright light nonsense humans talk about, before recognition sinks in with a quiet gosh.

It's been a while, since he's seen those wings, and they're as beautiful as they were the first day on the wall. Could use a groom, but Aziraphale has never been as vain as him, when it comes to all that business.

The gesture is appreciated, for the privacy alone; none of those bastards should get to see Aziraphale looking so upset, and he doesn't exactly want them to see him in pain, either. Best not to give them the satisfaction.]

Nah. [For a moment, that seems like all he's going to say, his attention briefly drawn to his stomach, where his hand has gone slack. Not that it really matters, he wasn't going to save himself with a bit of pressure on the wound.

But he refocuses after a second or two, managing a small shake of his head.] Would've been miserable up here, without you.

[It's a thought he's dwelled on, once or twice, wondering what things would've been like if he were stuck with some other angel, and he knows how miserable and lonely and awful he'd have been.

At least Aziraphale can know that, even if he doesn't know the extent of it.]

Less you than the idea, really. But thank you. [ He can hardly not thank him, at the least.

It's nice to have the breathing room. He supposes it's odd to consider it breathing room when they're a bit closed in. But it's easier, when it's just the two of them. Better. Even when it's more a general idea of only being the two of them.

Nobody else matters all that much.

He thinks he's doing an admirable job of not crying, all things considered. ]

The feeling is quite mutual. [ Which isn't really what he wants to say, if still the truth. It's a tiny buffer space while he tries to find words. They haven't got long for the finding. He squeezes one of Crowley's hands, ignores the physical tackiness of it. ] There hasn't been a moment since we met when you weren't cared for. I promise.

[ Even when he was trying not to. Even when he'd given up on trying not to and apparently settled for just not being very good at it most of the time. From the overall umbrella of any living thing on Earth to a highly-curtailed, one-demon-only metaphorical space.

If there is a silver lining left somewhere, maybe it's knowing that he won't break that streak at the worst possible time.

Never mind that Crowley deserved more than six thousand years' worth. (Never mind. He minds very much.) ]

[In an ideal world, he'd have all sorts of time to mull over that particular sentiment. He could turn it over and over in his head, wonder exactly what it means, the way he does with so many of the things that Aziraphale says to him, about it.

Not that it isn't a nice sentiment to hear, at the end. Preferable to being told the exact opposite, or being left to bleed out on the concrete alone. The latter is closer to how he expected things might go for him, if it wasn't going to be a dark pit in the depths of Hell. This is better than that.

He attempts to return that squeeze, fingers twitching uselessly, a sound half like a sob slipping out, the sort of thing that he'd be embarrassed about if he didn't the circumstances make it somewhat justifiable.]

You too.

[It's hardly the most eloquent he's ever been, but he thinks that's likely justified, too.

No one can expect him to be speaking poetry, when it's getting harder and harder to cling to consciousness. The pain radiating from the wound has climbed all the way to his chest, and it's all he can do to keep a handle on it.

Closing his eyes helps, as does giving up on holding himself up, slumping towards Aziraphale, head dropping down to his shoulder, his breathing slowing with each second that passes. He wants to say more, to make sure that Aziraphale knows how much he meant, to warn him not to let Hell take him alive, to ask that he takes out as many of the bastards as he can on the way out, but the words are just out of reach, swimming in the darkness behind his closed eyes.

It's hard to even remember where he is. There's just the pain, and Aziraphale, and an exhaustion creeping over him that sinks down to his very essence, dragging him under.]

G'night, 'Ziraphale.

[ There it is. The tail end of things.

He can almost see the point of Crowley having asked for that Holy Water. It would have been faster. Excruciating, he's sure, but less prolonged. Less out of his own terms.

On the other hand, that would have come with the knowledge that he truly had handed Crowley his own destruction. There are no small mercies here. The ends, as it's turning out, are unbearable no matter what the means. ]

Good night.

[ There's a very singular pain to losing someone beloved. There's a very singular pain to realizing one has nothing left to lose. There's a very singular pain to having been made to be a Guardian, only to fail at every possible turn.

Aziraphale is ill-equipped to handle one of those, let alone all of them at once. Emotional processing has never been his strong suit. He admittedly doesn't try for it as hard as he could; lingers in the overwhelming too much of it instead, stony-faced, spreads his wings far out enough to mark the return of open season. Sets Crowley down as carefully as he can and steps away. Hopes that the destruction is more what they're all after than anything to do with an empty husk. Straightens out his jacket.

Looks up.

Heaven's agents, he expects, won't see any problem with standing back and letting Hell handle their dirty work. And he finds that he does take some offense with that, when the first feathers get pulled, when there are teeth sinking into his left humerus. Pain isn't strictly a concern, but it's distracting.

Less anger than disappointment. Less disappointment than overwhelming despair. Less wrath than feeling like the generating source of a wound in the universe and trying to work out whether it's meant to bleed or pull everything else into it.

In an ideal universe, in a scenario where he had every bit of power to pull that he ought to have, this would already be over. In an ideal universe, his corporation would be so much ash in the wind for trying to contain him, and he would be a layer removed from the lack of warmth, the tackiness of drying blood, and he might be able to pretend that the removal did away with the sharp edges loss while he unpacked all of the rest of himself into one plane of existence.

He would be allowed to go off like a very holy bomb. There wouldn't be a demon left in London on principle. Just him. And he would burn, and he would wait, and Gabriel himself would have to deign to step down from the audience to handle things.

Or where is that Virtue, he wonders. Uncouth to hope they burned up trying to retreat Upstairs, he supposes. But it's not as though anyone is keeping track.

This, of course, is not an ideal universe. Or in any case, he hadn't had nearly enough banked with the Eye to generate it, and the Entity in charge of walking nightmares isn't so inclined to grant the lesser of two evils of endings. So it's more of a strange, blind fight on autopilot, some improvised weapon he's not paying mind to, while trying to spark up a fire on wet wood. Flash of a halo, a collection of lidless widened eyes, of prickling ozone with no lightning to show for it, until all that Aziraphale can feasibly manage is sagging against a wall with what one might call a dignified wheeze.

And he has to admit it's odd when he gets to that point only to find a distinct lack of swift and immediate end. If odd, in this case, means the most horrifying possible outcome, and against the whole point of it enough to catch him up on a panicked little gasp.

Bright side: local angel no longer stabbing. ]

[As it turns out, the worst part about dying is the waking up afterwards, which isn't the part that Crowley was expecting. For a split second, with a clear sky and leaves rustling above him, he thinks that God has finally got Her head out of Her ass and taken pity on him, dragging him away at the last second.

It lasts until he catches movement out of the corner of his eye, squinting in confusion at the sight of Aziraphale walking away from him, tension in every line of his body.

Oh.]

Fuuuuuuuuck.

[Crowley winces as reality sinks back in, the awareness that they're in an empty park somewhere in Dogtown, it looks like, with his corporation seemingly intact, no holy wound in sight. He pats himself down for good measure; there are aches and pains, but nothing that feels as if it's going to kill him.

So he's not dead. They're not back in London. There's no apocalypse, no need for all that stupid shit he said. There's just Aziraphale, still trapped in the hallucination, if the way he's slashing at the air with a slightly bent umbrella is anything to judge by.]

Shitshitshitshitshitshit.

[A sense of urgency creeps in, has Crowley scrambling to his feet despite the various aches, chasing after Aziraphale to make sure that he doesn't hurt himself, or anyone else.

(The latter he's only worried about insofar as knowing Aziraphale would experience a considerable amount of guilt about it.)]

Aziraphale? Can you hear me? It's alright, s'just a — it's just a trick, we're both alright.

[It becomes apparent very quickly that there's no getting through to him, leaving Crowley to just... follow after him, trying not to let his thoughts run off in any one direction or another. Thank fuck he wasn't stupid enough to tell Aziraphale he loved him, but the rest of what he said wasn't much better, and he's not quite sure how to deal with what Aziraphale said in return.

He's also not thinking about witnessing Aziraphale's reaction to his presumed death. It doesn't feel right, as if he's intruding on something too personal, no matter that he's the entire point of what's happening.

They're both going to need a lot of alcohol when all this is over.

When Aziraphale finally, finally stops, Crowley remains careful in his approach, wanting to make sure he isn't confused for some other demon in the hallucination.]

Angel...?

[ Ah. Well. More to process, it would seem. Aziraphale has a little bit of a time trying to manage it in the post- "efficient parade of violence" economy. Never enjoyed violence, objectively. It's a different mindset. Removed. It's very easy, because for him it was meant to be easy, which makes for a dangerous bedfellow. A frightening one.

Unusual switch to flip in the middle of nearly everything that was suddenly being very... not.

This is not London. Definitely not London. He's holding an umbrella. So that's very different. All the usual-- signs of mortal life. The noises. The birds. The humans. The resident demons. No blood, no ichor.

Like it never happened. It certainly very much feels like it must have happened, but the chips are already starting to show in the armor of how much sense it made, how conveniently misfortunate everything was. He takes some visible offense with that. ]

Oh. [ If his voice cracks, that's strictly his business. If it's tonally a plea to please not turn out to be the one time Heaven or Hell worked out creativity, that's also his business. He already couldn't handle the losing. Getting Crowley back and then losing him immediately again might actually destroy him all on its own.

Aziraphale releases his death grip on the umbrella, partly for the sake of preserving what absolute dregs of dignity might remain to him while he gets his bearings, and partly for the sake of making it clear he's no longer in the market to attempt murder with it. ]

Hello.

[ Give him two seconds, his brain has to wade through the emotional devastation marshes to catch up. ]

[There he is.

Crowley's expression goes from worried uncertainty to a softer sort of concern, temporarily brushing aside his own embarrassment at everything that transpired because it's more important to reassure Aziraphale that everything is alright. Or as alright as everything can be, when they're trapped and powerless in a world infested with eldritch beings that feed on fear.

This must have been a veritable feast for them.]

It's alright, I'm here.

[The words feel sort of ridiculous, the assumption that he's the cause of concern, despite knowing that's exactly what it is. There's a deluge of thoughts waiting behind a carefully barricaded door, and he has no idea when he's going to be able to actual let them out to sort through them.

For now, he can carefully rest a hand on Aziraphale's arm, just above his elbow, hoping the physical contact might offer some reassurance, while Crowley takes a second to look him over, worried what might have happened while they were trapped in the hallucination.

It doesn't take more than a second for him to spot bloody feathers, the red stark against the white.]

You're hurt.

[That's obviously the priority here. In a way, it's the easiest thing to address, a physical wound is so much simpler to deal with than everything else that's transpired.]

[ This is fine, then. Everything is fine. It's fine. No one is embarrassed and no one has been purely emotionally vulnerable in a way that can't be taken back or left them both scraped raw.

Oh, dear. This has been a very unbecoming... whatever amount of time to start trying to reel in. ]

Bit of a twinge, I suppose. I wasn't paying it much mind. [ Aziraphale thinks he will avoid having a look at his wings for himself for the time being, for the sake of plausible deniability and his own sanity. Bigger issues at hand.

He sets a hand over Crowley's for a moment instead, maybe with the starting intent of a quick squeeze, a reassurance in turn. There's an unprecedented amount of relief to that, though, Crowley feeling solid. So it morphs into looking Crowley over in turn, a shaky little series of pats up his shoulders, a careful cradling of his face. ]

You're all right? All in one piece?

[ Look. If he's going to be paying a large embarrassment bill when he has the free mental space to grapple with it, he may as well reap the reassuring rewards beforehand. He may as well touch the face. He's mostly working on trying not to cry in the meantime. ]

[It looks worse than a twinge and if he didn't know Aziraphale better he'd try to push that particular point. But he does know better, and his best bet is likely to leave it until Aziraphale has had a chance to work through his own concern and is ready to address something other than Crowley.

The fact that he's being touched, including having has face cradled, sort of seals the deal in terms of not being able to focus on things like bloodied wings. He's adapted to the concept of physical affection since arriving here, if only a tiny amount, but the gentleness and concern will likely always catch him off guard, even if they'd been doing this for centuries.

His grip tightens on Aziraphale's arm, purely to stop himself from doing something utterly ridiculous, like lifting his hand to rest over Aziraphale's and keep him there. He can't quite stop the sigh that escapes him, or the tiny tip of his cheek into a soft palm.]

Nothing serious, a bit sore here and there. No blood, though, and no burns.

[Not compared to the horrifying amount of blood there had been, in the hallucination, and no burns from a holy weapon. Those would have lingered, were it real.

He isn't sure if they should address it, what happened, what was said. It wouldn't feel right to attempt to take it back, but he's not sure how to talk about it, either.]

[ That all checks out. His demon looks to be more or less in order, which is well worth any price of admission. Aziraphale doublechecks, and finds that he can let go of a lot of tension for this alone. ]

Good. Good. Small mercies. [ Is he leaving his hands where they are for a little while longer anyway? Yes. It's actually very helpful right now.

Some part of him is still on edge, still waiting for something else to happen. Wants to tuck Crowley away in a pocket, under a wing, and hold court in a corner until it feels safe.

That would be very impractical right now, for the most part. A little bit because he currently dreads the prospect of trying to stretch a wing out enough for all that. Probably could. Probably shouldn't.

This is set to be awkward enough already. Things were already a bit awkward, so that's saying something. ]

I think I might like to get back to the flat. First and foremost.

[ If nothing else, going from out in the open to in a building might smooth over the bulk of that wary itch. Or maybe he just wants to hold his emotional support throw pillow very badly right now. Either way, his point stands. ]

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cw: stabby time

rip

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