apocalypsehowcomm | (log) march catch-all

[ 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.]

[ It's lovely to get some free scrutinizing real estate. Given the option between looking at Crowley or being emotionally vulnerable for longer than a minute, Aziraphale will take looking at Crowley every time.

Maybe that's healthy, maybe that's not. That's his business.

But he does always love how fondness looks on Crowley, so. At least there's that.

In one piece, not keeling over, being a tiny bit ridiculous. Another day on the planet to unknowingly have someone thinking about kissing him. ]

I'm sure I don't know what you mean. [ Yes he does. Hence: ] But if that's a request, I'll take it into consideration.

[ What is he supposed to do? Leave himself space for thoughts to creep in? It sounds abominable. Then again, overall, it also sounds like a problem to deal with tomorrow. ]

[Crowley doesn't bother to point out that Aziraphale knows exactly what he means, not when this is all just part of the silly little games they play. It's almost comforting, the familiarity, when so much else has changed so intensely. It's difficult to imagine being given the chance to touch Aziraphale's wings, or having had him wash his hair, if they were still on Earth.

There's some freedom in the distance, even he misses his flat and London and his bloody powers.]

Much appreciated. I'll even get you some new books if it means you'll sit still.

[Bribery is the most effective way to handle Aziraphale.

He gets back to tidying, mostly by throwing out anything that got bloody or dirty, and packing up the first aid kit; he decides to leave the feathers for now, he'll have to get a broom or vacuum to deal with those.]

[ Hmmm. New books do appeal. It's not much of a collection he's got here by his old standard, but he's certainly wound up still collecting. Always nice to have a bit more variety.

Crowley hypothetically leaving to get books has all the same appeal of Crowley hypothetically leaving to get anything at this juncture. None. The opposite of appeal. A creeping tendril of terror that Aziraphale has to work to wrestle back down by leaning very firmly on the term hypothetical. Not imminent.

By the time that hypothetical comes, if and when it does, it will clearly be-- fine. (Citation needed.) He is a mature ethereal being. It doesn't even bear thinking about. Obviously. He's sort of just arguing that point to his own mind, though, so Aziraphale does go ahead and get the broom himself purely for the sake of breaking the hypotheticals cycle. Feather pile duty for avoidant birdbrains. ]

I suppose I was a tad overdue for a shake-out.

[ He wonders if gifting feathers is too forward in the real sense, and not just in the sense where he overthinks and convinces himself that what humans would consider very mild "I am in love with you" steps are too forward.

Well. Maybe he'll leave one on Crowley's dresser sometime later and they'll simply not discuss it. ]

[Bold of Aziraphale to assume that Crowley won't just order books from Amazon, all without needing to leave the flat, which is the best way to conduct transactions when he doesn't want to leave Aziraphale's side for more than a handful of minutes.

Cleaning up isn't half as much of a distraction as Aziraphale's wings were, leaving an opportunity for too many other thoughts to creep in, as Crowley tries his best to ignore them.

He doesn't want to think about dying, not when he knows it's likely waiting for them back home.]

We could have done that without getting all the blood involved.

[Local demon suddenly mortified by letting we slip when he obviously has no right to insert himself into Aziraphale's Wing Grooming Habits.

Time to make a trip to the kitchen sink so he can wash his hands and pretend he's not embarrassed.]

[ If Aziraphale fully commits (or admits) to retaining knowledge about certain modern trappings, he starts losing free chances to sometimes have his crush lean over his chair to help work a phone app.

He must invent intricate courting rituals, and never mind that Crowley has also been historically inventing rituals, or that they will both likely continue on inventing rituals when some become unavailable.

It's the principle of the matter as much as it's his refusal to access or express specific emotions. Like anybody refuses to do. ]

We do manage most things without getting blood involved, don't we. [ He found it. The remaining tethered shred of dry humor. All he had to do was pick up some feathers. And just as well that Crowley is of a mind to go wash his hands. Gives Aziraphale a chance to be scrutinizing about which one he may or may not happen to squirrel away as he goes along.

There's no point if it isn't presentable. ]

Well, maybe next time.

[ Call that, however distractedly, a plausibly deniable date. It's a nice thought, if nothing else. 'Next time's are a balm on the soul right about now, within a reasonable out-of-their-universe parameter. ]

[It's a relief that Aziraphale manages a quip back, that he's as present as he is considering how — awful everything must have been. Crowley isn't sure he'd be half as functional if he'd thought he'd lost Aziraphale.

It's equally a relief that he isn't being sneered at for making ridiculous assumptions.]

Except that time you were playing at being a shepherd during lambing season.

[There have been a handful of situations involving rather a lot of blood, but this is one of the more harmless ones that Crowley could dredge up from his memory. Blood associated with birthing isn't quite the same as blood associated with dying, and he's not callous enough to remind Aziraphale of death, right now.

He's startled enough by the offer of next time, even softened by a maybe, that he turns to look over his shoulder, half expecting Aziraphale to tell him that it's a joke, before he remembers himself and looks away again.

This day has been too long already for him to try to decipher what the hell that might mean.]

Mine'll be due for a groom again before yours will be, now.

[Whatever that means!

Crowley shakes himself like someone visibly trying to pull themselves together, drying his hands with slightly more force than necessary.]

We probably ought to get you into bed, angel.

[And then they can never address any of this ever again.]

They were adorable, though.

[ A mess, probably wouldn't do anything like it again when he could just see lambs on a farm or something, but very. Enriching. It's always been a little bit nice crossing historical paths with Crowley for something low-stakes.

More fun to play the shepherd than the wolf.

Aziraphale suffers the bespoke torture of opening his mouth to try to find a graceful way to say "there is no world where I would not be interested in helping you with that grooming if you were interested in being helped with it" and failing to figure the graceful way out before the subject changes. He refuses to forget it. If he has to send a text message about it down the line to save both of them some face, then he'll send a text message.

Crowley has infinitely more reason to be wary about who he lets lay a hand on his wings, of course. ]

Right. I think I might actually be looking forward to a nap. [ Fucking... ghastly. Every day he wakes up and at some point has to go back to sleep. But it's a nice break from thinking. He'll admit that. ] Take your pick of chairs.

Once we got all the blood off.

[It's an easier memory to cling to when he's trying very hard to not think about dying and how Aziraphale looked at him and how nice it's been to touch his wings. Or how nice it might be for Aziraphale to touch his wings.

None of that would be especially productive.]

There's a sentence I never thought I'd hear. [Aziraphale really hasn't taken to sleep the way Crowley has, but he doesn't find that especially surprising.

He takes a second to consider the not-question, running a hand through his hair with a sigh.] Fuck, I dunno, whatever's easiest to drag in there?

[Chairs are heavy and he's tired.]

They were adorable either way. I just wasn't as keen on holding them.

[ The price one pays for a very light aesthetic. And he's going to stop thinking about that in any greater detail, actually. Blood on his aesthetic. Too much of a lingering phantom tackiness from earlier.

Better just to think about a lot of fluffy baby animals. And that's almost always true. ]

In that case, you can borrow my usual. [ It's the one Aziraphale has somewhat more experience with hauling into a bedroom to sit vigil in. They do need to stop meeting like that. He dutifully relocates his emotional support throw pillow from chair to sofa, the most important step of all. ] I'll push, you pull. Shouldn't take a minute.

[ People might guess that Aziraphale's favorite hobby is reading. They are right. But secretly it's tied with "having literally anything practical to be getting on with in times of emotional strife." ]

So that's why you invited me along.

[It's a light enough joke that he doesn't think it should skirt too close to anything unpleasant, especially thinking about how Aziraphale looked in the hallucination, his pale clothes covered in blood and ichor.]

What an honour. [Getting to borrow The Chair(tm). Absolutely not something that would be allowed were it a chair from the bookshop, so he'll take what he can get.

Even if it means wandering over to help with moving the chair.] Should we just pick up the damn thing? Might be easier?

[Than trying to drag it around.]

And for your company.

[ But definitely yes that was a deliberately considered factor. Aziraphale won't deny it.

Meanwhile chairs? Easier to move when it's two people picking them up? More likely than one thinks. He hasn't really had to think about it before. Every day he misses miracles, just not enough to give the Eye the satisfaction of trading in for them. ]

Either way. [ Once he's napped he has no plans of remembering the chair process. Frees up more room for books. ] Mind your back.

[ Shoutout to the weird and unwieldy human process of carrying a chair. It's good to get the practice in now for next time they move. 10/10. ]

[It's a slight change of pace for Aziraphale to even admit that desiring his company was part of an equation; they usually don't address that sort of thing. But they also usually don't get trapped in a hallucination where Crowley thought he was dying, so here they are.]

I'm not eighty.

[And yet there is an old man grunt from Crowley as he hefts the chair. That has more to do with his absolute lack of upper body strength, though.

It isn't the most elegant thing they've ever done together, but there's a chair in Azirapahle bedroom and Crowley will count that as a win. Even if there are more annoying human things to consider.]

What're you gonna do about clothes?

[Since. Wings.]

[ Bold of Crowley to ask this valid and very sensible question. And by bold Aziraphale means he doesn't like that it's valid and very sensible and very relevant. Just generally. Crowley is not the issue. ]

I expect I'll just sleep in the shirts and then fully consider my options when I wake up. [ When he's recharged some of his brain cells. He starts unbuttoning his dumb little sleeve cuffs. ] Goes to show what I get for not thinking ahead while I had them put away.

[ A totally valuable moral lesson that he'll totally take to heart and definitely use to get better at thinking ahead, etc. etc. etc. Something like that. At least he has pajama pants in here somewhere. ]

(log) march catch-all

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