apocalypsehowcomm | (log) march catch-all

[ 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. ]

[For once in his existence, it doesn't cross his mind what he should or shouldn't be doing, he isn't thinking about how things might be perceived, or what it might look like. He just exists for a second or two, letting himself lean into the touch, letting Azirapahle worry about him without feeling any particular desire to brush it off or make a joke.

It's a little like being drunk, except instead of everything being wobbly, it's just quiet.

They're safe, as much as they can be, and Aziraphale loves him, which isn't exactly a realization that's slammed into him so much as slowly crept into his awareness over the past few months. There'd been some doubt, during the Apocalypse, but he can't really lie to himself about it anymore. He can't exactly imagine someone reacting the way Aziraphale did, or saying the things he did, without love being part of it.

Funny how simple it is, when he stops overthinking it.]

Can you tuck your wings away? It'll be quicker if we can call a taxi.

[The ADI disguise might effectively hide them, but that doesn't mean they won't get in the way.

They're likely still close enough to walk, he's just eager to get Aziraphale somewhere safe as soon as possible, so they can get his wings taken care of.]

[ Alright. Alright. One thing at a time.

Aziraphale is grateful for being given the extra few moments to linger. To settle, really, feel more grounded in reality.

They're alive. Worst seems to be over. Some entity probably had a lovely old time of it. Crowley watched him swing an umbrella around for lord knows how long, he realizes, so add that to the growing list of things to be absolutely mortified about.

But still. The extra time is good. It softens the worst of the horrified edges enough to breathe around again. All in keeping with his reason for absently keeping hold of one of Crowley's wrists even after he feels he must reluctantly give him back possession of his face. ]

I should be able to manage. [ Doesn't sound like too much to manage on his current reserves level, at least. For the sake of a brief team sit-down through a taxi ride, it's worth the price of admission.

The bright side is, tucking his wings away doesn't especially make them feel any worse. A bit of a jostle, a distasteful twitch in his expression. But it is, at least, secure-ish. Like an arm in a sling.

What he's going to do is not think about having to get them back out again. That's later Aziraphale's issue. ]

Best solution for the moment, really. Always did hate the idea of letting them drag.

[ He expects he wound up doing enough of that already. Disgusting. The laws of gravity weren't meant to apply to these sorts of things. ]

[It's almost a tiny bit disappointing to have to be responsible for his own face again, once Aziraphale releases him. At least he maintains contact; the fingers wrapped around his wrist are reassuring, especially now that he's figured out it's likely helpful for Aziraphale, too.]

There you go. [He smooths his free hand over Aziraphale's shoulder, as if that has any impact on putting his wings away, only realizing a little belatedly that the words might come across more condescending than as the reassurance he meant them as.

Hopefully Aziraphale knows him well enough not to be insulted. If not, hopefully he's feeling generous enough to forgive him for it, considering the ordeal they've just been through.

He isn't sure how to — think about it. That he thought he was dying for good. Best to keep his focus on Aziraphale, for now.]

We'll get them sorted out once we're back at the flat, promise.

[If his help is wanted, he'll help, and if it isn't, he'll just stick by to keep an eye on things.

But first they have to get home, which requires digging his phone out of a pocket (the crack across the screen suggests he must have bumped into something, at one point), figuring out where the hell they are, then calling a taxi to come get them up.

Feels weird to do something as mundane as calling for a cab after... everything, but it is what it is.]

Alright, should only be a couple minutes.

[ Aziraphale puts that up to the mutual reassurance category given current context. It's been a time all around. He's relatively certain that he's fresh out of offense to take if it's not offense taken with an Entity.

In any event, Aziraphale has put far too much mileage into being accidentally or purposefully condescending over the years to be able to judge. Which is really to say it doesn't sound fun or fulfilling to poke an argument about something right now. Nothing sounds especially fun right now, though.

Sleeping for three days sounds broadly appealing and worth a revisit. Maybe Crowley's been right about that all along.

He offers a wordless hum of acknowledgement, initially, seeing as he's halfway through a little visual sweep of the area. An angel can be a safety detail when they want to be. As though there would be any actual putting a stop to a second round. It's the principle of the matter, sometimes. ]

Dreadful city, isn't it.

[ Nice things about London, there are no eldritch terrors feeding on their psyches, and there's always a play on to talk about when things are strained. ]

[It doesn't escape his notice, that little sweep of their surroundings, and he decides that it might be polite to move out of the way, so he carefully — not wanting to jostle the hold on his wrist — moves to stand beside Aziraphale, resting against the wall shoulder to shoulder.

If he leans into Aziraphale, that's between them.]

S'alright, angel, we can just wait.

[He knows him more than well enough to know that sometimes words are just there to fill an empty space, and he doesn't want Aziraphale to think it's necessary right now. This whole mess is more than a little awkward, but he finds that he's less embarrassed than perhaps he should be, about it all, when they both went through it together.

It isn't too horrible to just stand together and wait.

Once the taxi arrives, he takes Aziraphale's hand to keep him close, and to offer the reassurance that it's — fine, if he needs the contact, too. There isn't much they can say in front of the driver, so Crowley leaves the quiet alone there, too, keeping a relative silence until they're back in the safety of their flat.

Being a little forceful about locking the door only seems fair, after everything.]

On a scale of one to ten, how cross would you be if I popped out to terrify someone so I can heal you?

[If he thought he could get away with it, he wouldn't ask, but it's not the most subtle thing, suddenly have access to his powers again.]

[ Oh thank God. Crowley is still a veritable hero. Aziraphale doesn't bother swallowing back a relieved sigh.

His conversational well was looking too dry to be sustainable.

The continued contact is enough. Being allowed that with no questions asked. Best case scenario it's helpful for Crowley too somehow, worst case scenario he expects it isn't verging past a minor inconvenience, given the circumstances.

(He sort of doubts that it's the latter at all.)

It's a slow drain of tension the closer they get to properly known territory, the longer they go without incident. He's always been partial to the comfort of the familiar, if for no other reason right now than considering it an acceptably private space in which to let his good posture lapse.

Crowley's question gets what is either a pause for thought or a pause while it fully registers. ]

Whichever number means I'm flattered, but would rather you didn't. [ A bit on moral grounds, a bit on feeling uncharitable towards the care and feeding of any Entity, no matter to what end.

Mostly, if Aziraphale is entirely honest, because he suspects he is not in a place to gracefully handle Crowley popping out anywhere at this particular juncture. Still sort of has to pad those sharp edges out again, now they've been stripped down.

But he will add, in the spirit of not wanting to sound like he doesn't sincerely appreciate the willingness: ]

If things don't seem to be manageable, I'm sure I'll consider my options.

Edited (me half asleep copy pasting my emailed notes from work 2022) 2022-04-10 11:05 (UTC)

Yeah, alright.

[If things don't improve in a day or two, it might be worth pushing, but considering how raw things are, he's not adding an argument to the mix. He doesn't want Aziraphale to end up withdrawing after everything, when they should probably be learning to rely on each other better. It's the same reason he doesn't bother suggesting Aziraphale feed on him again, the reaction to that was bad enough the first time.]

Come on, then, we ought to start with getting your wing cleaned up.

[While he had released Aziraphale's hand to handle the door, he takes it again now, giving a gentle squeeze before leading him into the kitchen.]

Hop up on one of the stools, I'll have to grab a few things.

[If he thinks too hard about what he's about to do, he's going to get a bit overwhelmed, so he's trying to fosux on the practical steps for now.]

[ Good. Good. No need for another debate while neither of them has the energy for it. This would be a poor time to be at odds.

He hasn't got the heart for it.

It's making very clear sense right now why Crowley's Alpha Centauri plans were so quickly tossed back out the window. Changes the perspective, really.

Aziraphale squeezes back. ]

Thank you. [ For the hand holding. For the truce on arguing. For not really being dead, possibly, regardless of any bearing Crowley himself even had on the matter. Preemptively for helping. All of the above.

Crowley taking a minute or two in the same flat is much better as an option. That's a silver lining. He's already getting back into practice. ]

Take your time. I'll be here.

[ Gives him time to hang his coat and brace himself. On some level, somewhere, he's already grateful to have what he'd consider a healthy pain tolerance for an angel of his station. Fine thing it would be to wind up making Crowley feel guilty for lending a hand.

Actually, maybe he'll just handle the worst initial part of this band-aid pull while Crowley is out of the room. He expects that's going to be the bit that verges towards the upper end of tolerable. The inherent task of unfolding wings to get them back out is homophobic design. ]

[Thank you earns a quiet huff of dismissal from Crowley, the barest thread of amusement in it because that's all he can manage, even if it really is ridiculous, Aziraphale thanking him right now. What's there to be thanked for? All he's done is not actually die when they thought he was dying, and he had absolutely no control over that.]

I certainly hope so, can't imagine you sneaking out for a quick fag.

[Filed under: things he would actually like very much to do himself. Is it gauche to smoke now that he can't miracle away both the smell and resulting health issues? Questions to mull over another time.

For now, the first thing he does is fill the kettle and set it to boil, assuming he'll need a fair amount of water to ensure Aziraphale's wings are properly clean, and then he's slipping out to go rummaging in the bathroom.

The one advantage of his own previous injuries is that they managed to put together a functional first aid kit, which is the first thing he grabs, along with a few clean towels and wash cloths. If he takes a few seconds to splash his face and scrub his hands through his hair, trying to ground himself, that's no one's business but his own.

After a brief detour to his bedroom to grab the bottle of marula oil he keeps for his own wings — for all the similarities to birds, ethereal-slash-infernal wings don't need oil, but he's found it helpful for keeping them clean and shiny — he returns to the kitchen with his bundle of supplies, setting them down on the counter.

He only winces a little, at the sight of Aziraphale's wings.]

How're they feeling? And don't get any ideas about downplaying it.

[It's rude of him to request something like that, he's sure, but he wants to know the extent of the damage before he starts trying to fix it.]

[ The sounds of someone rummaging around for supplies is something that can be so comforting. A free Crowley tracker during the stretch where his own only real agenda is controlled breathing.

It's still good to have him back in the same space. Even if he has the sheer audacity to know Aziraphale well enough to preempt his proto-British sensibilities. Aziraphale reminds himself to have a minor huff about it later, which he promptly forgets. ]

Well. I doubt I'd be all that coherent if either of them were broken, so that's one point in our favor. [ Call that good luck, because he really doubts he'd have gotten reasoned with or herded into a taxi in that event. Would have been taking up too much real estate. This is just him buying time while he susses out something more concrete. All a matter of just information.

It'll be the least mortifying mortifying ordeal he's contributed to within the past half a day. ] But I'll admit it's not-- not pleasant. Very grabby lot. Not inclined to be gentle about these things, if you can imagine.

[ Which is dreadful. He'd sort of expected some pulling would be the case, though, going in. They were a touch more of a bitey lot than he'd strictly expected, too, but those are the risks one takes. ]

[There's no stopping the sympathetic wince at the idea of broken wing bones, not when Crowley has had the misfortune of knowing exactly how unpleasant it is.

It helps to have something to do with his hands while he tries not to think about Aziraphale in pain; there's supplies to be set out, boiled water to be poured into a bowl where it can cool slightly, hands to be washed, because Satan knows what he touched while wandering through a hallucination.]

I should've warned you, what demons can be like.

[Because it must have been demons if they were grabby. He can't imagine angels getting so intimate in their violence, they'd be more likely to use a blade, he's sure.]

I'm gonna start working out any loose feathers, it'll make it easier to get at any wounds. [He dries his hands on one of the fresh towels, then comes to stand behind Aziraphale, starting with a touch between his shoulder blades, rather than touching his wings directly.] If that's alright?

[They don't have many other options, if he wants them handled, but it's important to ask. Touching Aziraphale's wings without his express permission is worse than just about anything else he could do.]

Oh, wouldn't have made a difference, really. [ In any event, now he does know it. He'd have gone about it the same way regardless. Would do if it happened again tomorrow. Can't imagine not doing it.

He supposes he should be grateful that he wasn't able to make quick work of his physical form in the aftermath, though, in hindsight. That would have been a much heftier fix. This is a little bit the lesser of two evils, technically speaking.

Crowley being very sweet and careful is something that can be so personal. ]

Perfectly alright. It's only you. [ Much like the list of individuals who he might be willing to allow to know he's in a poor state in the first place, let alone get their hands involved. Only the one name on it. ] You'll step back if you need a break?

[ It sounds like a question, but it's him being bossy. ]

[If the little grumble of disagreement that comes from Crowley is anything to go by, he's not a fan of hearing that it wouldn't have changed anything. Not that he can judge, really, not while knowing he would've done far worse than Aziraphale did.

The fact that Aziraphale came away with damage at all when the whole thing was a hallucination is a troubling thought to deal with another time.]

I'm not the one that's about to have his feathers messed with, I'll be fine. [If this takes so long that he starts to get tired, he can always grab a stool of his own to sit down, he's not going to just leave the task half finished.] And I'll be as gentle as I can be, tell me if you need a second at any point.

[With a steadying breath, he lets his hands drift outward, starting with the left wing and gently combing his fingers through Aziraphale's feathers. He doesn't get too close to the bloody spots, preferring to start by working out the rest of any loose feathers, collecting a small pile at his feet that they'll need to carefully dispose, later.

There's a slight tremble in his hands, from worry, but also from the sheer insanity of the fact he's been allowed this privilege. If only it were under better circumstances.

When he gets to one with a broken shaft, the edge of it catching his finger, he winces. ]

I might need to pull this one out, angel. We could cut it, if you'd rather, but that'll delay a new one growing in.

[ If his wings weren't having a poor time of things right now, this could be quite nice. Soothing, even.

Maybe it still is, a bit. Rhythmic and methodical, relatively predictable. The sustained contact of it, too, as much as anything. Smooths down another jagged metaphorical nerve. They're safe. Safe enough, at least. Closed up ranks somewhere familiar. Crowley is right here, in one piece. Nothing more than an Entity getting out of hand.

Aziraphale offers a flat little hm, the very picture of well-curated disappointment. The audacity of his own body part. ]

Better to just pull it. Save the trouble. [ And the time, and the probable future itch. ] I promise not to, um. Knock you over.

[ There's no such thing as a good reaction to having a feather pulled out, strictly speaking, but dignified enough not to try to flap Crowley across the room is an acceptable level in its stead. ]

Quick as you like.

[As soon as he has permission, Crowley grabs one of the wash cloths, soaking it in the hot water and resting it against the skin of his wing, where the broken shaft protrudes.]

That'd be one to explain, got a concussion from being knocked on my arse by angel wings.

[It doesn't matter who he might be explaining the injury to, he's talking for the sake of talking, keeping Aziraphale focused on something other than the coming discomfort.

Having a single feather pulled isn't the most painful thing in existence, but it's certainly not fun.]

The heat ought to help, usually does for me, and we'll get you some calamine and aloe vera to deal with the itching when the new ones start coming in, looks like you've lost a few here and there. You might be best keeping them out for as long as you can, so you're not wasting energy –

[At the last word, he makes quick work of grabbing the broken feather and pulling it out in one smooth motion.

It's dropped on the floor to join the rest, and Crowley presses the compress back to Aziraphale's skin.]

There we are, it's out.

Absolutely embarrassing for the both of us. [ A powerful team of getting knocked around by wings and not having enough self-control to avoid knocking someone around with wings. Unacceptable.

The distraction tactic does its due diligence. Aziraphale holds no illusion about the fact that, between the two of them, he tends to be more the goer-on. But it's usually nice to listen to Crowley talk about something. Very practical and straightforward, right now.

He keeps himself contained to what he would consider an acceptable twitch when the time comes. Not so bad. Low end of the scale for the day, really. Leaving it in would have been more of an irritant in the long-term. ]

Much obliged.

[ He is out here pulling from his rolodex of reasonable polite responses. It cannot be stopped. ]

Of course, as much as I appreciate that you know what you're doing, I do wish you hadn't had to learn.

[ Because if being unable to change the past or the overall nature of some parts of reality were enough to stop him from wishing, he'd have been done in ages ago. And it is, in that roundabout way they manage, a little sharing of self, for Crowley to go about it the way he is, to explain things the way that he is. ]

[A twitch is the best it could have gone, when wings are part of the equation. It'd probably come across condescending, to tell Aziraphale that he's doing well, so Crowley does the next best thing by using his free hand to give Aziraphale's shoulder a squeeze.]

Eh, it's not as bad as all that.

[It is exactly bad as all that, but they've already done enough of a deep dive into his time in Hell to last them a lifetime. The last thing he wants right now is for Aziraphale to fuss about him.

With the broken feather out of the way, he sets the wash cloth aside and gets back on task, moving onto the right wing to repeat the process.]

The worst part is accidentally breaking a blood feather. There's way more blood in those things than there needs to be, don't know who thought that was a good idea.

[Or maybe it's just a consequence of bringing their wings with them into the physical plane. He never had to worry about blood feathers back in the beginning, when he was ethereal and his wings were the size of planets.]

[ World's most valiant effort to not make a 'press X to doubt' noise: successful. There are times for pushing a point and times for not pushing a point, and this is arguably not one of the times for pushing.

He's been trying to avoid doing just that for the past couple of weeks.

No point to getting Crowley upset if he knows he can avoid it. ]

It does seem like an inconvenient design element, doesn't it. [ He scrunches his nose. Never mind that Crowley can't see it. This distaste is for him, including the tut. ] Just as well that's not the case now. I think I might be properly cross if I were dripping on the floor.

[ And it takes energy, being actually legitimately angry. As... evidenced, he supposes.

He really can't fathom having the reserves for it right this second, when things are mostly settled into scraped-out and raw. ]

[It's a relief that the right wing seems to have taken less damage; he wasn't looking forward to the prospect of pulling out more feathers, not knowing how unpleasant it is.]

Why do you think I dragged you into the kitchen for this? Nice and easy to clean up if you get blood anywhere.

[Not that he wants that, either, but some things are inevitable with open wounds like these could be, and he'd rather not add an extra level of stress or guilt. The floor will clean, it isn't worth worrying about.

With the right side finished, he smooths his hand down the feathers a few times, straightening them out and offering some comfort at the same time.]

Gonna look at the wounds, now. This part will probably hurt a bit.

[There isn't much use lying about it.]

Very thoughtful of you. [ If he had his druthers, nothing attached to this corporation would have the audacity to get blood anywhere. Tanking some damage has a very different vibe when one can miraculously heal at a thought as opposed to this whole mess.

He supposes he should count himself lucky that his coat looked mostly unscathed when he was hanging it. Nothing a dry-clean shouldn't fix.

Aziraphale is not immune to feeling comforted by the offered comfort in the meantime. It's nice. A very new avenue, of course, but he's always been a comfort fan.

He tips his head back a little, one of the least practical ways to angle in a vaguely Crowley-ward direction. But he doesn't want to turn around. Imagine not batting someone away when they pull a feather and then knocking them over trying to turn around to look at them. Absolutely not. ]

If it helps, I did rather suspect that would be the case. [ They hurt anyway. Better the reassurance of knowing they're clean. He folds his hands, for ease of discreet squeezing access. ] Won't hold it against you.

[ He doubts Crowley was worried about that specifically in forewarning him. Still, though. ]

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