realityshifted | 004 | Restoration

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good omens (d3) crowley

004 | Restoration

[Crowley has been searching for his sunglasses for the past five and a half weeks. All of which he's had to do manually since he's been as weak as a normal human the entire time. And recently he found the only thing better than his powers: Aziraphale.

All in all, Crowley's in a good mood. ~~Sex will do that.~~ And it's about to get better.

He is strolling on the beach, keeping his eyes open for a glint of black plastic. At this point, he expects to never find them. But his suspicions are proven incorrect when he steps on something he hadn't noticed in the sand. He looks down and grins like a snake at the arm of the shades under his foot. He crouches and picks up the sunglasses, momentarily taken aback by the sudden rush of energy and power flowing through him again.

He grins wider.

The sunglasses appeared to be partially melted, but that was no trouble now. He willed them into being the perfect, pristine Ray-Bans he always wore and slid them onto his face, feeling comfortable and more like himself than he had for thirty years.]

I'm back, baby.

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You've found them! Congratulations, Crowley.

[Brax is now plus one ~~blue~~ black beard, but he will ignore it.] And you don't appear to be part of a fairytale. I am very pleased for you.

[He stretches lazily and smirks back toward Brax.]

Bloody hell does this feel good.

[A pause.]

Fairytale? Is that why you're scruffy?

[Well, it took you long enough.

Gin won't approach, but he's watching with amusement from a distance.]

[If it didn't clash with his normally cool composure, he would do a little dance right about now.]

Yes, I'm currently the owner of a nice little chateau in France with a locked room containing those wives who didn't quite meet my standards. In my opinion, that makes me a bit of an idiot.

....Maybe you should let them out.

It would do them little good; they're all dead. Rather messily. [Good job, Fairytale Self.] I am Bluebeard, discourager of feminine curiosity.

Oh... Well then...

[He frowns. A lot. If there's one thing Crowley couldn't stand, it was actually seeing the horrors humans could do to one another. He has, of course, witnessed it over the course of 6,000 years and it makes it no easier right now, picturing the ways the women could have died.]

[Braxiatel is a little surprised; he takes the whole thing with a certain amount of blasé disinterest, which is partially his own detached approach to life generally and partially because it's the only way to go through the entire thing.] There won't be another one. I'm able to keep a fair enough grip on my mind. And the woman I'm with, Bernice, is a close friend of mine. She steps in to stop the story when I can't.

Oh, excellent! I knew you'd find them, my dear.

[He wisely doesn't add something like, 'if you just had faith,' and instead simply beams at Crowley.]

[His face lights up even more when he hears his angel's voice. He spins toward him, that dashing, rakish grin on his face that only showed up when everything was right in his life¹. The demon swoops over and wraps the angel up in a big bear hug.]

Isn't it wonderful?

¹Usually this meant that something was terribly, horribly wrong in someone else's life (or just a little bit wrong in a bunch of people's lives).

[He's a bit surprised at the exuberance of the hug, but he returns it with a smile, wrapping his arms gently around Crowley.]

It's wonderful to see you happy, my dear.

[And generally makes him quite suspicious, since there's often a reason behind it that makes Aziraphale disapprove. But in this case, there's nothing but affection and genuine pleasure.]

[He grasps the angel's hands and spins them around in a circle, not particularly caring if anyone sees them.]

How could I not be happy. I have my powers back and I have my angel back.

[Aziraphale is thoroughly amused now, smiling widely as Crowley spins them around. He doesn't bother to hide the tender affection that crosses his face when Crowley includes having him in the cause for his happiness, though he says nothing about it.]

I'm sure no longer having to rely on me to provide your wardrobe is a great relief.

[He draws him in for a gentle kiss, an amused smirk on his face. He was in much too good a mood to let a little dig like that bother him.]

Hush. You picked well for me. Surprisingly. I half expected you to make something tweed.

I did notice the tartan lining in that one jacket though, you sly devil.

[Aziraphale kisses him back, not at all surprised at how natural it feels to do so.]

You wound me. As though I would be so cruel as to provide you only with clothing I knew you disliked when you were unable to do anything about it. However misguided your dislike may be.

[But he's smiling, because he's perfectly aware that if Crowley hadn't been so upset over the loss of his powers, there probably would have been tweed. And then his smile widens.]

It seems I can't get anything past you. Variety is the spice of life, they say?

[He grins, proud.]

Devious little bastard. I'm so proud of you.

That's not devious. That's encouraging the person one loves to try different things.

[He doesn't even sound properly offended, though. Possibly because he still can't stop smiling at Crowley.]

I'll allow it this time only because you made it out of such an exquisite silk.

[He brings one of the angel's palm up to his mouth and kisses it.]

For that, I'm grateful.

As though I would give you anything of inferior quality.

[He attempts to eye Crowley suspiciously, but fails rather spectacularly and ends up smiling affectionately. He brushes his thumb across Crowley's lower lip.]

Never thought I'd see the day you were grateful for tartan.

[Snort. He kisses the thumb.]

I'm not grateful for the tartan, but the silk.

[He smiles slightly at the kiss, slides his thumb across Crowley's skin to cup his cheek briefly, and then drops his hand]

Yes, of course, my dear.

[Aziraphale will happily continue to believe exactly what he wishes to believe.]

[He knows that tone. That tone was reserved for when Aziraphale was just saying things to get Crowley to shut up. See that icon? Yeah, the one up there attached to this tag. That's his face.]

[Oh, dear. There are few things Aziraphale is able to resist less than Crowley pouting.]

All right, all right. I will resign in my attempts to ever convince you that tartan is quite worth being grateful for.

[For now. Until Aziraphrale forgets himself the next time Crowley makes fun of his tartan.]

Edited 2011-07-02 07:24 (UTC)

[The pout disappears as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a cheerful smirk.]

Thank you.

[All right. Now Aziraphale's suspicious. He eyes Crowley and his suspiciously quickly changing expressions, raising an eyebrow.]

You're welcome.

Hey, Angel... I was thinking...

[He hesitates a touch.]

[Aziraphale frowns slightly, the hesitation tinging his suspicion with concern.]

What is it, my dear?

I... I want to go to your world.

[Ah, there it is. That laid back charm he always seemed to exude, especially when he was uncertain.]

[Aziraphale freezes. For a long moment, he can't do anything but stare.]

No.

[It's more forceful than he'd intended, but he can't bring himself to amend it. Still, his next statement is softer.]

They'll find you.

[He watches him a bit more carefully than before. His posture seems to get even more relaxed.]

And? I can come back here if there's trouble.

[Aziraphale's shaking his head before Crowley's even finished talking.]

Not if we don't know there's trouble until it's too late.

[His brows furrow.]

They think I'd dead, right? So coming to your shop for short periods of time should be okay.

[Aziraphale is not going to allow himself to be convinced of this. No matter that he'd actually originally thought of it with the intent of offering to bring him back. He'd very quickly realized all of the ways it could go wrong.]

Can't they sense you? Wouldn't they know if a demonic presence suddenly appeared in London?

I think your shop is a safe space. You've been there long enough it'll mask me for a while. And don't you have perimeter trips to let you know if someone unsavory is coming? I know you at least have that little annoying bell on your door that jingles whenever someone opens it.

[He's not backing down without a fight. He will never openly admit it¹, but he greatly misses London and the bookshop. At least London the way it ought to be.]

¹This is not true. Crowley will admit that he misses London the next time he returns to his own world and looks out over the rubble to the blood filled Thames.

[It's incredibly difficult standing his ground when he's fighting against something he actually wants to do. But what Aziraphale wants doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is keeping Crowley safe, and he's already proven that he can't do that in his world.]

What if they don't use the door?

That's what the perimeter---- Wait, you don't have more than just the bell?

[He looks a bit affronted at the idea of so little security the angel might have. He had layer upon layer of perimeter warnings to make sure he'd be prepared at his flat in Mayfair. They were never going to take him down without a fight.]

[Aziraphale is briefly offended.]

Of course I have more than the bell. I couldn't take the chance after the Apocalypse was stopped.

[His shoulders sag a bit. There is a reason they hadn't hidden in Aziraphale's shop, after all, aside from that it would be the first place anyone would look. And Aziraphale didn't want his books involved.]

But not much more, and nothing that would be of use should a high ranking demon simply choose to appear in my shop.

[He's quiet a long moment and holds out his hand, looking expectant.]

Give me your hand.

[Aziraphale watches him uncertainly during the silence. Still, as soon as Crowley asks for his hand, Aziraphale gives it to him, taking Crowley's hand gently.]

What do you need my hand for?

In order to do this.

[He takes a step forward and the two of them shift from the Plane to Crowley's world. They're standing in what was once Soho. What was once the angel's shop. Now, however, it is completely unrecognizable. The bricks and plaster that once were walls are crumbled, broken, or dust. Papers drift about in the wind like lonely dancers or catch on rubble. A piece of what had been Aziraphale's Persian rug in his bedroom is caught between two large pieces of wall. It is faded, sun bleached over the course of 30 years.

There are no sounds, save for the papers in the wind and the distant sound of water hitting the shore of the river a mile off. Or at least, presumably it is water. The irony smell of blood that lingers faintly on Crowley at all times is heavy in the air here. It almost seems thick enough to taste.

Crowley looks around seemingly impassively, but really inside his heart aches at the wreckage surrounding them. This world is both familiar and alien to him. It is his world, and the place he's lived alone in for twenty-five years.

His voice is soft as a whisper, as if afraid to break the silence. As if afraid it would break a spell protecting them from the horrors of this place.]

Please, Angel.

[This is quite possibly the last thing Aziraphale had been expecting. He stares, too horrified to even look it, though his expression makes a valiant attempt before it gives up and shuts down. He feels as though he should say something, anything, but his mouth won't form the words.

It's just as well. There's nothing he could say.

He pulls Crowley against him, arms wrapping tightly around him, holding him close. As though he could somehow protect him from this, though he knows the gesture is pointless. He's unable to protect him from anything, it seems.]

All right.

[He murmurs the words against Crowley's skin, right next to his ear. His heart clenches in fear, but after this - he's no longer able to deny Crowley's request.]

[Crowley feels a little guilty for bringing Aziraphale here. He knows it's just a cheap trick to win the argument and get his way, but he needs this win.

He always ends up here, he realizes. Back in this space he knows was the bookshop. It resonates with him in such a way that he realizes that the angel in his arms feels different to the one he held thirty years ago. His breath catches in his throat.

He wraps his arms around Aziraphale tightly and moves them back onto the Plane. The vast empty feel of the place is a welcome relief from the oppressive deadness of his word. He still smells blood, but he realizes it's him, the scent seemingly absorbed as much as possible during the brief time they were there.]

Thank you...

[Aziraphale will never hold it against him. It's rather impossible to think cruelly of the one you love when you've just been reminded the place they've lived in for so long is almost-but-not-quite literally Hell.

He buries his face in Crowley's neck as they arrive back on the Plane, unconcerned with the scent of blood except that it only serves as a further reminder of where they'd just been. He'll ignore it easily if it means being close to Crowley, though he does pull back a bit at Crowley's words.]

Don't thank me.

[The words aren't harsh, they aren't even really sad, they're just - soft. He didn't do anything, after all, not for this Crowley or for the one he'd lost. (He doesn't even think 'his own,' because that would imply that this Crowley wasn't, and if there's one thing Aziraphale's more than certain of, it's that this Crowley is very much his.)

But he's gotten a bit side-tracked. It's possible that Aziraphale can be somewhat possessive as well, although he mostly chooses to ignore this except when it rears up and demands to be known. A few rooms filled with books and a particular demon are the examples that spring to mind.]

When do you want to go?

[Crowley knows, and relishes, just how possessive the angel can be. And the demon matches that sin and more, the greedy bastard. He kisses Aziraphale's temple, his arms wrapping ever tighter around the only thing that really matters to him¹.]

Soon, Angel. If there are any preparations you want to make before we go...

[He lets the sentence hang, certain the sentiment will be understood.]

¹Something he would act dismissively about were it ever pointed out.

[For a moment, Aziraphale considers saying yes. Yes, there are quite a few preparations he needed to get in order, no telling how long they would take, but he'd certainly let Crowley know as soon as they were done, really, he would.

But he knows he would just be stalling. Giving himself a chance to remind himself this is a bad idea, to forget why he'd agreed to it in the first place. He's really as ready as he's ever going to be. Well. Without physically carrying his sword about, in any case, but he can always remedy that.]

I - no. We may go whenever you like.

[He watches him a long moment, his gaze hidden by the dark tinting of his sunglasses. He finally draws him in for a chaste kiss, intending to comfort the angel.]

How about now?

((ooc: continued in the logs comm here (http://shifted-logs.livejournal.com/86746.html)))

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004 | Restoration

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I think we should log this trip? y/n?

Absolutely! :D Want me to put a log up?

Yes. A log would be good. :D

A log it is! :D