[closed] honey you're familiar like a mirror years ago

[demonicmiracle]

Who: Crowley & Aziraphale
What: it's....... bad
When: throughout the August event
Where: Nastrandir
Warnings: probably a lil violence, dissociation etc to do with the event

Comments

early event

[demonicmiracle]

[The sirens blare and Crowley hears them as a trumpet call, summoning him to arms. It doesn't occur to him that he should leave a note, send a message, give any indication to Aziraphale that he's leaving, because he doesn't think of the angel at all. His thoughts are on Nastrandir, returning home to help defend it from invaders. The only thing he takes with him is the gun he's been working on repairing, although it isn't quite ready yet.

That's alright, though, they'll have the tools and supplies on the island. It's the same reason he doesn't think to take much food or water; he knows how to survive on what Nastrandir can provide.

The journey is difficult but familiar, the rocky terrain of the mountain giving him only little issue, until he finds himself back amongst his people, in the little makeshift camp that's been set up. It feels... right, in a way that he hasn't felt for a long time. He tries to hold onto that feeling despite the itch at the back of his mind, between his shoulder blades, below his sternum.

A few hours into the night, it finally drives him away from the camp as he's caught by the need for space and quiet, as if that might help him understand the pull he's feeling. There's rocky outcrop on the cliff face and Crowley finds himself standing on the edge of it, a shudder running down his spine as he stares at the dark space below. Even his eyes, as good as they are in the dark, can only pick out so much. It would be a long way down, were he to fall.

He's fallen further.]

[bibliophilicbells]

[Aziraphale doesn't believe in luck, but it feels a lot like luck when he finally, finally finds Crowley. He's been trying since morning, since waking, startled, to find Crowley gone without so much as a note, a message left on his iStone, something, anything. No indication.

No indication, and sirens screeching in the backdrop.

No indication, and a strange feeling of absence sitting heavy in Aziraphale's chest.

It drives him straight to his feet, tells him to take up arms just in case, points him in a direction that could be accurate but could also be all wrong. He goes anyway.

His body hates all the walking. His stomach growls, unhappy with him. His mouth has gone dry and he curses himself for not thinking to bring water. Or a snack. He should know by now, but he doesn't. He keeps forgetting.

But then he spots Crowley's silhouette, and he —

Almost relaxes.

Why he finds himself gripping the hilt of the weapon at his side is beyond him.]

...Crowley? Is everything all right?

[demonicmiracle]

[There's almost a flicker of recognition, almost but not quite, something softening in Crowley's expression for a split second before it hardens again, before he stands up straighter.

This isn't anyone he knows, it can't be, not when he remembers growing up with everyone else around him, the other Nastrandirians. This man isn't one of the invaders, he isn't a traitor, but that doesn't mean he's a friend.]

You shouldn't be here.

[bibliophilicbells]

[Aziraphale squints. He almost looks over his shoulder, like — Crowley surely isn't talking to him, not when the expression he's wearing is... that. Aziraphale's never seen such a stare directed at himself, not from Crowley.

But he can see the demon's eyes well enough, even in this light, and he almost shivers.

Keeps his voice neutral, though. Even. Calm.] Why ever not?

[demonicmiracle]

You don't belong.

[It's as simple as that, whoever this man is, wherever he's come from, Nastrandir isn't his home, not the way it is for Crowley and the others. They have to protect themselves from people like this.]

Not everyone's going to be as nice as I am about this, take the chance while you've got it.

[It's a warning, mostly, although his tone carries an edge of a threat, like he maybe won't be too upset about it, if Aziraphale gets himself killed.]

[bibliophilicbells]

[Well.

So much for calm.

Something twists unpleasantly in Aziraphale’s gut. His expression turns hurt, then angry, then confused.

Then, back to hurt. Maybe Crowley’s... sick. Dehydrated. Caught a bug. Goodness knows what the first germ could do to a six-thousand-year-old vessel.]

Crowley...? What are you talking about?

[demonicmiracle]

[Guilt tears into him, the familiarity of it confusing him further, when he can't understand why he has any reason to feel guilty about upsetting an outsider.]

Don't talk to me like you know me. [The name feels wrong, he's still enough of himself to recognize it, but too far gone to feel comfortable with it.

Everything he's feeling about this situation is unpleasant, uncomfortable. He wants it to be over, and he knows it's within his power to do so. Crowley snaps his fingers, the partizan appearing in his hand, burnished gold. He doesn't level it at Aziraphale, not yet, but now the threat is clear.

His head hurts, he wants it to stop.] Leave, or I'll make you leave.

[bibliophilicbells]

[What Aziraphale is feeling now is something he’s felt before. It’s not new. It’s not even novel; he’s felt it under the gaze of the Archangels plenty of times, most recently only days ago. It was its worst, then.

That doesn’t compare at all to right now.

Something is very, very wrong. Aziraphale takes a step backwards, the knuckles on his sword turning white.]

Have you gone mad? What’s – what’s the matter with you? Of course I know you, we live together, we just... it’s been six millennia, you can’t be telling me you really don’t...

[demonicmiracle]

[Crowley's gaze flicks down to Aziraphale's hand, to the handle of the sword, weighing up the way he's holding it, weighing up whether or not he's planning to attack. That would almost be easier. As much as he doesn't really want to hurt anyone, he's starting to think it would be preferable to this strange ache in his chest.]

Nothing's the matter with me, I'm right where I'm supposed to be.

late event

[demonicmiracle]

[He's hurt, there's blood on his scales, some of it is fresh, leaking from wounds that haven't quite healed, but most of it is dried, flaking off as he slithers across the rocks, searching for something he can't remember. Safety, something that feels like safety, but he doesn't know what it is. There are too many memories in his head; a snake in a garden, slithering towards — prey? A woman? Eating her doesn't seem right, but he knows she's a target. When he tries to think past that, there's memories of burning, of falling, of stark white halls, of golden warmth that flows bright through him, of a war.

Is that what's happening, a war?

The invaders, yes, coming to hurt them, to kill them. That's why he's hurt, it was one of them.

But why would a serpent fight a war?

The snake is exhausted, the ground is warm beneath him, he finds a large enough gap in the rocks for him to curl up in, coiled tight against the pain and the confusion of the outside world. He needs rest, that's all, needs to recover his energy so he can get back to hunting. That's right. That's right.

That has to be right.]

[bibliophilicbells]

[It's not right. None of this is.

Aziraphale's last encounter with Crowley had been before consulting with Michael, with some of the others — before it was understood by a fragment of the population that another fragment of the population had gone bonkers, likely due to the strange sirens. Before plans were made, before there was the promise of action and maybe even a solution, maybe a fix.

Aziraphale had left him, irate and hurt, because Crowley had pushed him away. Shoved, more like. Something was wrong, yes, but the angel hadn't known what to make of it; was it Crowley, really, saying those things? Had he been under some odd influence? Could he have meant it?

And what could Aziraphale do about any of that here? What could Aziraphale do with a Crowley who doesn't know him, who'd threaten him so easily?

He returns to the shelter they've claimed together, caught in the memory of a few days ago. The bandstand.

It's lucky, or something like it (because Aziraphale doesn't believe in it, he doesn't, remember?), that their connection has stayed despite the lessening of so much else. It's lucky that when Crowley is injured, the hairs on the back of Aziraphale's neck stand on panicked end. It's lucky that he can still follow the thread of Crowley's energy.

It's lucky that he's stupid enough to do so, even in the face of some imaginary war.

Been there, he thinks. Done that.

He's got a sword in his hands, raised and ready this time. No taking chances.

Oh, and his wings.

They're visible, too.]

[demonicmiracle]

[There's a taste in the air he doesn't recognize, it isn't an animal, isn't something entirely of flesh and blood, prey or predator. It hasn't been long since he curled up here, but time is a funny thing, to being who hasn't quite grasped the existence of it.

He's injured, dying, maybe, it's hard to tell, but it means that he needs to either flee or scare off this new creature, and he doesn't think he has the energy to flee.

The serpent lifts himself up, slithers further down the rocks until he spots the source of the scent. It's the wings he sees, not first, but more than anything else in front of him, and it hits him with the force of being dropped into the waters of the Arctic.

An angel.

That's what the creature is.

That's what he is.

The serpent hesitates, coils in on himself slightly, head raised and ready to strike, just in case. He remembers now, the war. He must have been hurt there, by some other angel. Maybe this one? Or maybe this one is an ally, come to help.

He hasn't seen many of the Morningstar's allies help each other, but maybe he hasn't been watching carefully enough. He didn't want to be in this fight, after all.]

Do you fight with the Morningstar?

[bibliophilicbells]

[Aziraphale nearly drops his sword.

This is a joke, right? One of those entirely unfunny jokes?

His stomach lurches in five directions at once as he takes in the facts of the situation: Crowley is hurt, and badly. Crowley is confused. Crowley's thinking of a very different war. None of this is a joke.

He answers automatically, mouth gone dry:] Yes.

[Forgetting himself, forgetting where they are, he half expects to be zapped by God's annoyed wrath at any moment.

No zap comes.]

...yes. I — I do, I've come to help you. You're hurt.

[demonicmiracle]

[It doesn't occur to him that it could be a lie, angels — proper angels, not traitors like him — aren't built to lie, and even if they could, they wouldn't lie about this, about turning on the Almighty.

There's a pressing at the back of his mind that tells him staying in this shape is a bad idea, and part of him is certain that it's because it's so unfamiliar. The serpent nods, a strange gesture for a serpent, but then he pulls himself up to standing and back to a shape that seems to fit him more comfortably. He doesn't quite recognize this one, either, but it's got the right amount of limbs, at least.]

Shit — [He says, which doesn't feel very angelic of him, but while the wounds had been healing, they weren't fully closed, and have carried over with the shift.] Sorry, you don't think you could heal me, could you? I'd do it myself, but something's a bit off on my end.

[Has an angel ever over-exerted themselves? Is it possible? That's what it feels like, at least.]

[bibliophilicbells]

[Seeing Crowley shift back is almost a relief. Not quite, though.

He looks far worse in this form. Aziraphale has to crush the desire to surge forward, to wrap Crowley in his arms and — and —

Shit, his mind echoes. He can't teleport them. But he can heal, at least there's that. It's something. Something to do, an excuse to get close. Aziraphale nods, goes to sheath his weapon, hesitates — and puts it away.]

I can, but... but if I do, you have to come with me. Not far, just back to... base for a little while. So we can get you properly patched up.

[demonicmiracle]

[That catches at something, draws a frown and a glance over his shoulder at the peak of the mountain.]

No, I — I'm supposed to stay, I think. [It's a struggle to get a hold of exactly what's going on here, he remembers a call to arms, a weapon pressed into his hands, but not much beyond that. This place feels important and it shouldn't, not when it clearly isn't Heaven.

He squints at the angel, as if maybe he'll have all the answers.] Why're we here? Do you know?

[bibliophilicbells]

Well, you were, but — [Aziraphale gestures at Crowley's wounds, his full attention falling to them and sticking there. His fingers twitch with the need to heal, but Crowley's still out of reach and Aziraphale doesn't want to advance too quickly.] I was sent for you by — by your commander.

[He frowns, then, head tilting slightly. He can do this. He knows how to craft a story, how to tell it. How to lie.

If he got away with lying to God Herself, surely he can manage a lie to Crowley.]

We've got a stronghold just there. [The mountain. He indicates it with his chin.] It needs guarding. You got caught in an ambush, we think.

[demonicmiracle]

[For the first time in a while, Crowley's sleep is blissfully empty of dreams. He'd dozed off half-expecting to wake in an hour in the grip of a nightmare, with how close to the surface all his memories of the War are, but he suspects maybe he was too wrung out and exhausted even for that. Aziraphale isn't inside with him, but Crowley can feel him nearby, so he doesn't worry about calling the angel's attention to him just yet.

More than ever, he's desperate for a bath to soak in. To wash off all the dust and sweat and memories off the last week or so. He makes do with cold water and a cloth and a fresh set of clothes. It's tempting, once he's clean, to just go straight back to sleep for another day or two, but even without dreams to torment him, Crowley can't help but think of everyone else left on Nastrandir.

It's strange, feeling kinship for people he barely knows. Most of them were strangers, before this mess, but he can't help but think of Asgore and the more genuine sort of understanding they had. Both of them had felt that something was wrong. Crowley mutters a quiet fuck to himself, and goes outside to find Aziraphale.]

You've got to put the sword out of reach before I say what I have to say.

[bibliophilicbells]

[There are things Aziraphale never did back home that he'd heard about in poems, in songs, had seen in films, on the occasional television programme. There's one very specific thing from this list that he saw daily on walks through the park, and found himself wrinkling his nose at it each time: The mess of it! The potential for dirt and stains and bug-bites!

Which is to say, for the first time, Aziraphale is lying in the grass. Maybe his entrance here, drunk and untidy and full of dirt as it was, had shown him the light.

The ground could be comfortable, even without need of a blanket.

And the grass, admittedly, is nice. It cushions. It smells fresh. It tickles his ears and his neck, and so far, no bugs have thought to make Aziraphale's body their next conquest.

His eyes are closed, though he's not asleep, and his sword is still in-hand, though lazily.

He hears Crowley approach, cracks one eye open, and folds his hands neatly on his chest.

There.

Crowley will find himself on the receiving end of an expectant look. Go on.]

[demonicmiracle]

All you're missing is the robes and you could be back in the Garden.

[There's something a little wistful in his voice. It's not that Crowley misses the Garden, necessarily, although it was very beautiful. He likes the modern world, with its cars and restaurants and alcohol and cinema. But being stuck here sort of reminds him of the early days without those amenities, only it wasn't so much an issue because he didn't have any mortal concerns to worry about.

And the water in the streams was never ice cold. It was always perfect.

He really wants a bath, is all. It's all he can think about.

Crowley unceremoniously drops down near Aziraphale. Close enough to talk, not close enough to touch.]

Asgore's back on the island, you know, thinking there's a war going on. He's an alright bloke, seems a shame to leave him to die over there.

[This is Crowley's way of leading into: I want to go back and see if I can help him.]

[bibliophilicbells]

[Aziraphale's expression is briefly wary as he assesses Crowley for any hint of his earlier attitude.

A nap seems to have helped. Go figure.

He says nothing of the Garden, then says nothing about Asgore, at least for a moment. Focuses, instead, on the fuzzy-warm ache in his chest that Crowley's suggestion brings. There he is: Hell's worst demon, being good again. Crowley, being Crowley.

A few more seconds pass. Then Aziraphale shuts his eye again, inhales, exhales.]

Only if I can go with you and retain the right to stab you, should things get out of control.

[demonicmiracle]

[Crowley had been expecting something of an argument, an insistent that he stay where he is, lest he get caught up under whatever bullshit that was again. Apparently it's going to be easy.]

I think at this rate we ought to just make that a permanent sort of arrangement, hm?

[The right to just stab him if things get out of control.]

[bibliophilicbells]

[Easy?

Aziraphale's expression shifts a fraction darker, sadder, at the mention of an arrangement.

Who said this would be easy?]

This isn't a joke, Crowley. I would never hurt you, but — I'm at a loss, truly, as to what to do if that happens again. You forgot me entirely.

[demonicmiracle]

[It has to be a joke, because if it's not a joke then it's too close to something like feelings, and he doesn't have the mental or emotional capacity to deal with those right now. The almost end of the world was bad enough, he'd been planning to take a few days for himself just to deal with all that.

Now this, on top of it all? He can't handle the hurt in Aziraphale's voice, not without doing something deeply, dangerously stupid.]

I dunno what you want me to tell you, angel. [That's not fair, really, but none of this is fair. They don't get fair.] Tie me to the bed until it passes if you want.

[bibliophilicbells]

[Aziraphale, regrettably lacking total control over his passing-for-human form, suddenly goes very pink.

It's not sunburn.

He looks to one side, something like vague panic in his chest, and mutters something completely inaudible.]