apocalypsehowcomm | (log) march catch-all

[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. ]

[On cue, Crowley grumbles wordlessly about being called thoughtful, regardless of any actual truth in the statement. At this point, Aziraphale would likely think he'd been replaced by a pod person or something, if he just accepted it when nice things are said about him.

They really can't have that sort of nonsense.]

Glad to hear you're not about to kick me out for cleaning up an injury.

[That would be more than a little ridiculous.]

Right, here goes nothing.

[It's a relief that he decided to spend more than a few sleepless nights researching basic first aid, having expected something of this sort to happen eventually. They're human and surrounded by danger, it was inevitable they'd keep getting hurt.

That doesn't make it fun, though, it just takes away some of the stress that would've been there, as he carefully cleans each of the wounds, gently wiping away dried blood so he can apply antiseptic ointment and, in a few cases, a couple of butterfly stitches to keep the wound closed. He pre-emptively apologizes each time he has to pull the skin together, knowing it must hurt, but knowing that it's necessary, too.

There's relief, too, in the fact that the actual flesh and bone parts of their wings aren't especially big. Most of the bulk comes from the feathers, the same as most winged animals. It means it doesn't too long, all things considered.

When he finally has the last deep scratch cleaned, he's more than a little wrung out, purely from being so focused on a single task, but he's glad to be done. Without overthinking it, he rests a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder near where it meets his neck, squeezing gently.]

How's it all feel? I still ought to clean the feathers themselves, but the worst should be over with.

[ Hmm.

To put it both mildly and eloquently: ow. He thinks he may not be a fan of this at all. At least 'endurance for the greater good' has always been a little bit part of the job description. Fine mental bolster.

Aziraphale keeps any noise to a minimum, barring a handful of sharp inhales he can't quite get a handle on, one or two instinctive attempts to draw a wing back in tight that he has to quickly abort. It's a weirdly fair distraction from the harder bits, concentrating on trying not to kick up too much fuss about something necessary.

If his fingers feel a bit stiff from repeated squeezing when it's done, that's his business. ]

Oh, it feels fine. Better than before. Thank you. [ He almost absently brings a hand up to rest over Crowley's, gives it a squeeze in return. ] Might need a moment, if it's all the same.

[ What is a good take a moment goal if not to flex out some professionally suppressed jitters. If the worst is over then he doesn't need to have them on retainer. ]

[The returned squeeze is going to be taken as permission to keep touching for comfort, rather than just for practicality, and if he uses that permission to rub his thumb up and down Aziraphale's nape that's entirely between the two of them.]

Take as long a moment as you need, I'm not going anywhere.

[The downside to not having a task to focus intently on to the point of all else is that there's now a chance for the all else to start creeping back in. How it felt, to believe he was dying. How Aziraphale looked at him. How terrifying it is to see Aziraphale hurt. All of the realizations that have come in the aftermath of the hallucination.

At some point he's going to need to lock himself in the bathroom under the pretense of taking a shower just so he can sit down on the tiles and either cry or have a panic attack. Maybe both, if he's feeling ambitious.

He's tempted to rip the bandaid off right now and just tell Aziraphale he loves him, but everything feels a little too fragile for that.

There are other things he can say, though, that get a similar message across.]

We don't have to talk about it. What happened. But I want you to know I meant what I said.

[ How very elephant in the room of him. It's probably only fair. Or maybe unfair, to say that sort of thing with a gentle hand, to have said-- said what he said, with all the sincerity in the world in the moment, and then to come back around after and reiterate.

Some part of Aziraphale seizes up around that alone, sort of grinds to a halt, like he's been given something far too delicate and far too important and simultaneously far too large to safely hold.

"She never deserved you."

He'd be lying if he said he had any idea what to do with it. ]

I know. [ He doesn't know what to do with it, but he can at least admit to this much. That he knows it was honest. And, to that end: ] So did I.

[ How do you add, without overstepping, it was unbearable, it was like being torn open, I tried every way I could to burn out of myself but it didn't work and being trapped with it was nearly as bad as losing you in the first place?

He's not certain he knows. The definition of overstepping, all that.

There's an ache in his throat that he can't swallow back. That would only be his business if it didn't strain his tone. ]

I missed you.

[It's a little cowardly of him to do this when he's safe from being observed too closely, with Aziraphale in a position that would make it difficult to turn around, but he's not sure he would've been able to get it out, otherwise. He remembers the hollow ache he'd felt, finding the bookshop aflame with Aziraphale nowhere to be seen, and the least he can offer, now that the tables have been turned, is to give him honesty.

His hand stays where it is, some far away part of his thoughts mulling over how strange and fragile these bodies are, as his thumb strokes over the bumps of vertebrae at the back of Aziraphale's neck.

What would it have looked like, if they hadn't been constrained by the Entities? Aziraphale has had this body for so, so long, and he would have burned it away to nothing, had he been able to. Crowley knows he meant what he said, up until the end of the world, he'd never really doubted that Aziraphale cared about him.

And yet the strain in his voice comes as a surprise. Although maybe that's more to do with him expecting Aziraphale to keep everything locked away, to keep all his fear and hurt wrapped up neat and tidy, where no one else can touch it.

Crowley exhales slowly, trying to be brave.]

I'm here now, angel. S'alright.

[It doesn't take much to close the scant distance between them, the stool high enough that Aziraphale isn't more than a head shorter than Crowley. It leaves him free to slip his arm from his neck down to wrap loosely around his shoulders, to lean down to press a kiss to his hair.

He's careful to leave enough space for his wings, not wanting to hurt him, but he's as close as he can be, otherwise. It isn't quite the full embrace he'd like. He's not sure if that might be asking for too much, so this will have to do.]

[ This is objectively rather unbecoming. Not the sort of feeling he ought to wallow in, when he knows full well he'll be repeatedly getting caught up on it going forward and likely won't be stopping to wallow in it then. Undignified, for an angel.

Crowley thought he was dying, and here he's had to run damage control since the moment that broke him out of the hallucination. Try to keep Aziraphale from laying waste to passersby with a bent umbrella, probably. Patch him up. Offer comfort, offer affection. Unfair to him to keep asking.

There's no layer of excusing or plausible denial thick enough to keep up the internal pretense that Crowley might be doing any of this as an obligation, that he's always been doing it in the absent way of a person who would do the same for anybody.

Crowley mostly just does these things because Crowley loves him.

On the scale of things clicking into place and truths being spoken today, it's not the most difficult one. Kindness without condition. A space where the odd crack in veneer being noticed doesn't necessarily call for dread.

Aziraphale isn't so lost to his general concept of acceptable dignity or complicated selfishness algebra that he pulls away. He gets a careful hold of Crowley's arm, instead, absorbs the relief that comes with closeness. It's nice. ]

Of course you are.

[ He doesn't expect that the wariness will be a quick thing to pack away again in full, or the lingering sort of itch to be certain he remembers precisely where he put that sword just in case, but the-- desolation, that tapers out more into a harsh memory than an active pain by the moment. Which does make everything much easier to breathe around.

So Aziraphale indulges in it for a bit. Takes his minute with it. Takes a nice, controlled breath. ]

Right. The sooner we're finished up here, the sooner we can have a rest.

[ Mutually beneficial, getting to the point where they can have an official rest. Crowley might like to get off his feet again by now. ]

[There hadn't been any particular expectations going into this; it could have resulted in Aziraphale withdrawing and he would have tried not to take it personally, to remind himself that fear and hurt make it easier to withdraw, sometimes. It also could have ended with Aziraphale holding on and refusing to let go, which is about where he would've been, if he'd had to watch Aziraphale die.

Turns out it lands somewhere in the middle, with Crowley holding Aziraphale for as long as he's allowed. He knows when Aziraphale takes a deeper breath that it's time to let go, but he gives him a brief, tighter squeeze around the shoulders first, before withdrawing.

If he feels a little unmoored, suddenly, without the contact, that's something he'll just have to deal with. He's realizing that this closeness is only a temporary thing, until Aziraphale buttons himself back up.]

S'only the cleaning to go, now, it shouldn't hurt as much as the rest of it.

[The water is warm enough still that he can grab a fresh washcloth, dampen it, and get to work cleaning blood from feathers as gently as he can.

The worst spots are what the oil is for; he can pour some on his fingers and work it into the blood, softening and breaking it up to be wiped away, so that he isn't just scrubbing at delicate feathers with a cloth.

It helps with the sudden empty ache, to pour all his attention into the task.]

[ Crying averted. Another successful day on the books. He'll see how the night goes, but that can be a problem for later.

It was nice, though. Well, it is nice.

It would, he thinks, probably be very nice to touch Crowley for reasons beyond necessity or the aftermath of something terrible. Maybe he can... work on that. There are a lot of things on his list of things to work on when it comes to the Crowley situation specifically.

There's no real knowing how much time they have left for-- this, whatever it is they could call it. He can't skim over the idea of the same thing happening again. How much would have been left unsaid.

He's always been a bit of a coward about this.

When he's back to being a little better at proper thought, maybe he ought to turn it over.

For now he heaves a very genuine sigh of relief over having his feathers cleared of blood.

There's a different, more complicated level of relief in knowing that it's only his blood that's been drying. Less... less mess. Less to think about. ]

That's much better, thank you.

[While most of this brain power is currently occupied by what his hands are doing, he's running mental calculations in the background, trying to figure out how to handle what comes next, which is resting.

Because rest implies they head off to their separate rooms, without each other, to sleep. It'd be weird to... to not do that, and the sofa isn't an entirely practical option, since he encouraged Aziraphale to keep his wings out. Sitting on a sofa with wings involved is almost entirely impossible.]

I wasn't about to let you get blood all over the place.

[It's a deflection of the gratitude, though a gentler one than he might have made otherwise, considering how he tends to feel about being thanked.

There are still a few small spots to go, so he keeps his attention on those as he gets a white-knuckled hold on his bravery, dragging it up again.]

We should — uh — we should keep an eye on your wings. D'you want me to hang out for a bit while you have a lie down?

[ On a sliding scale of Crowley-speak for "you're welcome," that's plenty mild. Aziraphale will take it with a little bloom of fondness. Always nice to have.

He absolutely cannot admit to the fact that he hadn't considered the separated ramifications of after this part is over with. He likes his space to withdraw and put himself back together as a general survival strategy, on the one hand. On the other hand, right now there's a vital difference between Crowley in another room making noise while he gets things together and Crowley in another room being very quiet and out of sight.

No, that's just not allowed, actually. If something happened he might not even realize it. There should be a demon accounted for at all times. ]

If you're amenable, yes. I'd prefer it. [ That sounded normal and reasonable. Things that are one hundred percent only doable when he doesn't have to be looking at Crowley while he speaks: that. Maybe that's the future secret to being emotionally available. Just not looking at the most important person in his life. ] We can sort something out.

[ Make sure it's comfortable, not Crowley sitting on the floor or something. That's not remotely in the resting courtyard. ]

[It's a relief that Aziraphale accepts the offer without much of a fuss; Crowley isn't sure that this is one of the times he would've been able to turn into a back and forth argument until he'd reframed the offer in the exact right way to get Aziraphale to agree.

Sort of nice to just be done with something, for once. For it to not be a whole thing.]

We can haul one of the armchairs in, I'll just mess about on my phone for a bit. M'not exhausted or anything.

[That might be the tiniest bit of a lie, but regardless, he'll feel much better if he can stay awake and make sure Aziraphale doesn't accidentally hurt himself while he's resting.

He can get some sleep later, if he needs it.]

Hmm.

[ A vaguely agreeable hmm. A hmm for collected people, who may or may not be pressing X to doubt. Crowley was technically hunted, murdered, and on first aid duty. If that's not exhausting, what is?

An armchair is more comfortable than not, though. He's always liked a nice chair. ]

That should be alright. For a bit.

[ It feels on par with being a bad host, but not a terrible host. He doesn't know how long he'll end up sleeping, is all.

If Aziraphale tries to start running mental permutations on a bed-sharing arrangement as a background process, that's his business. Goodness knows that would be-- forward. Ugh. He'll work on it. ]

[For a bit could be some disagreement with the sleeping arrangements, or it could simply be that Aziraphale knows he won't want company for an extended period of time. Unlike — last time, Crowley won't push for him to stick around. Sort of funny, how that whole mess felt more fraught than this, than thinking he was dying and saying all sorts of nonsense to Aziraphale as a result. Maybe it's different, when they're both in it.

Or he's just not fully processed today, yet.]

For a bit, sure.

[He gives Aziraphale's wings a final once over, a gentle wipe down with a damp cloth and then spares a few seconds to straighten any feathers that haven't been set to rights just yet, making sure everything is as tidy and comfortable as can be.

For good measure, he gives Aziraphale another gentle shoulder squeeze, too.]

You're all set, angel. Hopefully if you've still got a bit of power left over they'll heal in no time.

[They'll have to address the issue of getting the wings hidden again later. If they have to find a way for Aziraphale to feed the Eye again, so be it. He can't just wander around with them out, not when they're so vulnerable.]

[ Crowley touching his wings can stay on the objectively a nice feeling board. There is no one else in existence on the wing-touching board and no one else Aziraphale's ever really thought "maybe they could be on the board" about, but still.

The context is a shame. This universe likes to do that. Force hands on things that should be very personal. Sharing deep truths, unusual intimacies, laying fears bare.

It's not fair at all.

He reaches up to give Crowley's hand a return squeeze, because he doesn't know what the timer is on how long reassuring touching will go uncommented on as a Thing between them but he's sure there's no point in knowingly ending it early. ]

Ideally, yes. The less trouble they are, the better.

[ He prefers them hale, whole, and stored away where manifestations of eldritch influences can't easily get grabby with them. Which is also how he prefers Crowley, thinking about it.

Off the stool he goes. Thank you for your service, stool, but you are now secondary to helping clear up. Aziraphale turns to look at Crowley from the non- gently cuffing with a wing safety zone. Gives him another study, a little looking over, searches the lines of his face like any completely normal platonic friend does.

The good thing, he thinks, is that there's no universe where anyone could do a passable enough imitation of Crowley to fool him. And that's simply a fact, not having to be concerned with the reality of this. ]

Would it be overly redundant to thank you again?

[ Aziraphale imagines he could roll out a veritable red carpet of gratitude and not feel like he's gotten it across. They're very good at stepping around those sorts of things, though. ]

[The brief sting of regret that comes as Aziraphale withdraws isn't really appropriate, considering the reason behind all this, but Crowley can't help immediately missing being able to touch his wings. It's unlikely he'll ever get an opportunity again. It would've been nice to actually enjoy it more, without having to worry about whether he was going to hurt Aziraphale.

Nothing to be done for it, though.

He starts moving to tidy up, only pausing when he catches Aziraphale looking. He pauses, eyebrow raised, hand on his hip and looking fond as anything, patiently waiting for Aziraphale to do whatever assessment needs to be done. It should feel uncomfortable, the scrutiny, but it hardly stacks up to everything else that's happened today.

The question earns a considering hum rather than the outright disdain it would in most other situations.]

You can thank me by not being a stubborn bastard for the next couple days, hm?

[If he's going to have gratitude shoved at him, he's going to weaponize it.

There's absolutely no question that Azirapahle is going to be a stubborn bastard about being careful as he heals.]

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