asgardchrysalis | [Active/Closed] I've made a huge, tiny mistake

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[Active/Closed] I've made a huge, tiny mistake

Who: Crowley, Aziraphale, possibly Odin
What: Crowley doing something he was told not to do
When: 4th/5th loosely
Where: Aziraphale's room and beyond.
Warnings: In which Crowley nearly dies, briefly.

Like many days before it, it's a slow day.

Crowley has, so far, gotten absolutely nowhere interesting with his research. He's draped backwards over Aziraphale's bed, reading the screen of his fancy not-quite-phone thing that works through the bracelet.

All he has achieved in the short time he's been here is:

- One, ironically align himself with a supposed god of secrecy
- Two, briefly get Odin's attention and a hefty supply of Aziraphale's wine
- Three, work out he can now use an annoyingly limited amount of magic.

He can still say, with extreme confidence, that he hates this. At the very least he might admit he's getting used to it, and having the wine around helps. Thing is, that'll run out. It'll run out and Crowley is running out of ways to distract himself from Aziraphale's reluctance to talk about... things. Things that he's trying to avoid thinking about, since he isn't allowed to talk about them.

The one thing he has going right now is a continued campaign to wear down Odin. Up until now it's been rather one-sided, since after the initial replies he'd largely told him no and ignored him. There's no real harm in trying, though, so for the four weeks or so since he'd first managed to get an answer Crowley has been trying.

Trying in several senses of the word, it might be said.

The rooms are small, Crowley is restless, and his entertainment in short illusions where he restyles himself has already begun to fade. What else is a demon to do?

What he hadn't expected, admittedly, is an actual reply.

He blinks at it -- no benefit? Whatever -- then glances down at his bracelets. He wiggles frantically to sit up and swing his legs off the bed as they start to glow.

"Aziraphale!" he exclaims, clearly excited. "I've done it! Loo-"

Then, in a flash of light, Crowley is gone.

Five minutes pass, and he's still gone. Ten minutes pass. In the arrival room Crowley is, admittedly, more focused on questioning Odin as much as possible than considering returning to Aziraphale. He's a little shaken, but also very indignant.

It did all seem like a good idea at the time.

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“Discorporated me.”

Those words are repeated over in his head as he looks down at Crowley, momentarily struck silent. There’s too much that he wants to say at once, too much that he wants to do in response, but he ends up doing nothing at all.

At least at first.

It takes him a moment to work out the wire in his lips, reminding himself that he shouldn’t start raising his voice again and that he should try to speak normally to Crowley. This was, undoubtedly, also a horrifying experience for him and he would like to be mindful of that. He would, he really, really would, but it’s also one of the stupidest things that he has heard in quite some time. “Bit of an overreaction,” he echoes. He sounds a little breathless and terse.

“This coming from you? Who has apparently done all of this for the sake of what I won’t tell you?” he asks. It still sounds unreal when he says it out loud. It feels more like some sort of ridiculous joke than reality, but it was real, wasn’t it? This is the reason why Crowley risked his life? Because he couldn’t trust Aziraphale and his reasoning for not telling him?

He lets out a short, breathless, and very angry whuff of a laugh.

“Why don’t I just tell you then?” he finally offers.

Crowley could point out that it wasn't solely that, that he was hoping for the ability to do miracles again. To maybe be able to leave, to remove Aziraphale's bracelets and for them to leave together.

He doesn't, though. He's feeling irritable, from a solid mix of fear and anxiety and embarrassment and exhaustion and probably a whole heap of other things. Bit of a muddle, really. There's a lot that goes on with this properly human form that didn't with his old one. He wishes he could turn things off. He feels defensive.

"Well, why don't you!" Crowley replies, and the irritation is creeping into his voice -- incredulous, challenging. Why won't Aziraphale tell him? Why is he always so stubborn about these things? Why does he always think he knows best, refuse to listen, why --

Why, he wonders, can he just not learn to let it go? Only he knows the answer to that one, too, and it's no better.

The original mistake here was that Aziraphale had been foolish enough to ever bring any of this to Crowley's attention. If he had chosen not to attempt to begin further investigating the issue of his missing memories, they probably wouldn't be in the absolutely absurd situation they're in now. Or maybe if Crowley could just have the sense of mind to learn how to leave something well enough alone—

Aziraphale can already feel a tinge of regret buzzing underneath his skin because he knows that he is right to keep it to himself and knows that he'll only continue to be right, but it's quickly buried underneath his sheer indignation. No, if Crowley wants to know so badly, then he's going to tell him.

"I held your hand, Crowley," he confesses in a near hiss. The sentiment behind that statement is nothing but soft, but the tone Aziraphale says it with is only cross. There is not a trace of affection or fondness behind it. He's just exasperated and tired. Roughly, he swings his hands out then to reach for Crowley's, holding Crowley's hands between his in a similar fashion to how he had held him during the night in question.

It was just this. This was all it was.

This is what Crowley threw himself into the literal abyss for.

"I held your hand on the bus ride back to your place," he continues. If he is going to tell him, he might as well be clear about it and he might as well tell him the whole story. Crowley had gone through such lengths for it, so here it is! Here is what he wanted to know. Here is the big secret. "And then I held your hand through most of the night as we discussed our plan for how we would get both of our sides to leave us alone."

He wonders, distantly, if Crowley will still think that any of this was worth all the fussing he did over it. He shouldn't. He should realise that he has been nothing but a fool and none of this was anything he actually needed to know. This was better off locked away in Aziraphale's heart until another moment arose where he could hold Crowley's hand.

Although, somehow, it doesn't occur to him that he's currently doing just that.

Crowley had, by this point, had several weeks to build up these missing memories in his head. He's gone through all sorts of ideas -- some perhaps more wishful thinking than others, some assuming the worst, some the best. Admittedly, none were quite so simple as this. His brain, circling the concept, can't help coming up with really is that it? If this is all it was, why wouldn't he tell him?

He stares down at his hand, sandwiched between Aziraphale's, and feels a sort of peculiar hysteria wash over him. The irritation he had held onto vanishes quickly in the face of surprise, eyes flicking up to fix on Aziraphale as he explains. His mind is racing ahead with his new information, constructing visuals, picking up minute details like the way Aziraphale's hands feel. It may not be as exciting as he had hoped, but there is still meaning in this. There's still hope, there's still something that could go somewhere if they let it. He wishes he could remember, not just because of how much he dislikes not knowing things but --

Well. Maybe it doesn't matter so much.

His fingers tighten suddenly, gripping on as if he's abruptly concerned Aziraphale might let go and walk away. Which he might. He does seem angry still.

"Err," Crowley manages, "sounds nice."

You know. For how much it can be nice if they were still plotting to try and not both be destroyed by their respective sides. Mood might not have been ideal, all things considered. He slides his eyes back down again, feeling jittery but determined to hang onto this for as long as he's allowed.

"Did think it might be a bit more exciting," he admits, "but probably a good thing I didn't... forget something like that."

You know, something more exciting than hand holding. Which he had hoped might be possible. Which might have been worse to forget.

At current, there is a very high and very real possibility that Aziraphale might let go of the hands in his and walk away. It isn’t necessarily that he doesn’t want to hold Crowley’s hands (he does—very much so, in fact), but he's still angry. He's still so angry at Odin, at Crowley, at this entire place, and everything surrounding it that he's not yet able to calm himself. It's the primary reason why he barely acknowledges that he's holding Crowley's hands at the moment, far too focused on what he's going to do next.

He does have to do something, doesn’t he? There isn’t any choice anymore. He can’t overlook this. He’s already overlooked so much during his days here, but this is well past his limit. Well past, really. This concerns him directly and there is so, so much to be discussed. Crowley owes him more answers than he's already given because Aziraphale still has so many questions he's yet to ask and Odin owes him answers to all of the questions he did ask, but Odin failed to answer.

Actually, Odin owes him a hell of a lot more than that, but that’s to be addressed at another time. Or perhaps all at once. He hasn’t decided yet.

“I wouldn’t have told you about something like that either,” he admits, which is probably a bit too honest and acknowledges that something more than hand-holding was-slash-is a possibility. Unfortunately, he’s a bit too distracted by his own thoughts to give them any proper consideration before blurting them out.

Immediately, he follows up to make sure that Crowley doesn’t get the wrong idea.

“Not that it did, mind you!” he insists, knowing that there was the odd chance that Crowley might get the wrong idea stuck in his head or decide that Aziraphale hadn’t been entirely truthful.

"Right," Crowley manages, feeling a little dazed. "Course it didn't."

At the same time, though. Wouldn't have told you about something like that. Interesting that this is Aziraphale's first response. Not any kind of denial of possibility. Which means -- he doesn't know exactly what it means, It means Aziraphale has at least thought about it, maybe. Considered it possible. In some way, shape or form. That the concept is not alien to him.

This is a lot to process on top of already having a lot to process.

Reaching out Crowley gently rests his other hand on top of Aziraphale's, squeezing it so they're a pile of linked fingers.

"Hey," he prompts softly, "why don't we both have a glass of wine, yeah? Then you can ask me anything you want."

Deal? Hopefully the glass of wine might settle both of them, and then he can pick his way through the minefield of Aziraphale's anger as he questions him about it all.

All of the anger that Aziraphale has been holding tight in his chest, thick and heavy enough that it might have suffocated him, finally starts to diminish. Just a bit. It’s the pair of hands around his and the gentle agreement that Crowley will listen to the torrent of questions he has for him that finally helps dull the flame of his temper.

His eyes flick downward then, looking at their joined hands as he vaguely acknowledges that he’s been holding onto the demon all this time. It’s a true shame that it cannot continue. Not if Crowley truly wants that drink, anyway.

“As you’d like then,” Aziraphale agrees. He gently tugs himself free of Crowley’s grip in the following moment before walking in the direction of his desk. He’s kept everything here, for now, until he can figure out a better arrangement for his things in this cramped space. There’s hardly any room for anything. It makes the mess he had made feel all that more apparent. Grabbing the desk chair by its back, he pulls it upright again in the most nonchalant manner he can manage before reaching for one of the wine bottles.

When he walks back over to Crowley, two nearly full glasses in hand, he realises he’s forgotten to ask an important question during all of the ruckus.

“Do you feel alright after all that?” he asks, extending Crowley’s glass out to him.

Does he feel alright? After all that? Crowley takes the glass and squints at Aziraphale sceptically. He supposes he knows what the angel means, wants to know if there's any lasting damage, but still.

"Feel like I've been temporarily discorporated," he says, and takes a large sip of the wine he's been offered. "Sit down," he adds, because it's better if he does instead of pacing. Crowley's nerves can't cope with hovering over him or pacing just right now. He takes a deep breath, rolls his shoulders a little as if trying to get a grip on himself. Come on, Crowley, get it the fuck together. It was only a temporary discorporation. You're fine now, no harm done. Probably. He squints down at his wrists, shoving up his sleeve to check the stupid bracelet things that caused all the trouble in the first place.

Still intact. Still got the stupid brightly coloured stone typing him to a so called god. He's not quite sure if he feels relieved about that, but it is what it is.

It wasn't that Aziraphale was going to pace, but rather that he thought he could busy himself by beginning to tidy up the disarray of furniture in the room. It would have been something to do, something distracting enough, and maybe it would also help calm his nerves. Nevertheless, he takes a seat on the bed near Crowley—still allowing for a healthy distance between them—after a brief moment of consideration.

He ultimately decides that he ought to ask Crowley to do it instead. Seeing as he had been the root cause of it, after all.

“As expected,” he starts, making a face against the lip of his glass. He takes a drink of wine before continuing, “But is that all? That is, are you otherwise alright?” It’s a bit murky to say that he feels as if he’s been temporarily discorporated and leave it at that. What did it even mean to be discorporated in a place like this? At the whims of Odin and the rest of the pantheon?

Although, mostly, he’s just worried.

Crowley blows out a slow breath, winces a little.

"Think he put me back together right," he says, as if he's not entirely certain. Then again, he's never been an expert on human configurations and he can't control this one at his own whims anymore. He can only say it feels about right and hope for the best. "Alcohol is helping," he adds, because he needs to steady his nerves still and what better way to do that than drinking himself into oblivion?

Well, maybe not completely. Since he has to suffer hangovers now. Human bodies really are such a pain.

Well, that's not reassuring in the slightest.

Crowley doesn't seem certain of his own physical state and there's probably no real way to check. Not beyond the tried and true method of "wait and see", which is most likely their only option. This is the first time that Aziraphale has ever had a truly mortal body and he wouldn't know how to diagnose any issues Crowley might be having if he wasn't able to outright spot them himself.

"Do let me know if you notice anything strange." Hopefully there won't be any need to because Odin had the right sense of mind to ensure that Crowley was put back together again properly, but it still feels worth saying. Aziraphale casts a glance over at him, flicking his gaze over him and his decidedly not empty glass, before pushing forward. He'll wait until at least the first glass is finished before he continues the conversation about today, which leaves only one other question that's lingering.

"Have you ever been discorporated before?" he asks.

It wouldn't be surprising, but he doesn't recall ever being aware of such a thing.

He blinks at the question frowns sideways at Aziraphale and blows out a slow breath.

"Noooo no no," he says, "avoided that. I'd have had to apply for a new body! Paperwork is appalling, not to mention that backlog -- you wouldn't have seen me for a decade, angel, not to mention I'd have had to explain what had happened and that is not appealing."

Just the thought of it makes him take another big sip of wine. Nnngh. This explosion had, at least, not ended with paperwork. Trouble is, he's not actually sure that's any better. He frowns in thought, fidgeting with his nearly empty glass of wine as he tries to settle on how to go about this.

"What do you know," he begins slowly, "about the tree?"

Big tree, magic tree, one everyone keeps talking about. Has a name, but he can never remember it for some reason. Too many letters.

That sounds right. Heaven was fairly efficient when it came to paperwork, although slow and with an overwhelming amount of procedures, but Aziraphale always imagined Hell to be. . . Well, he had seen the place during his brief stint there. He couldn’t imagine anything really got done there in that aspect.

It was Hell, after all.

“Oh, I know,” he says. He is both sympathetic and understanding. Certainly a blessing that Crowley had never met such a fate on Earth.

Then Crowley is moving on, pushing the conversation where Aziraphale wanted it to go without his prompting. He pauses, for just a second, as he thinks over both what he had already known through Norse mythology and the beliefs that the natives held. The two didn’t fully line up, there were little odds and ends that were just different enough. “Yggdrasil? The World Tree?” he asks, knowing good and well that could be the only thing that Crowley could mean.

“Not much, I suppose.” Or a lot, depending on how you’d like to think about it. “I’m told that it is the source of all creation. The Mother. But, of course, something is wrong the magic.”

Crowley's face scrunches up at that, because a tree being the source of all creation doesn't quite scan for him. A tree being the mother is definitely wrong.

Still.

"Right," Crowley says. "That tree. So. Apparently, all things return to the tree at the end of their life. Somehow, though, the tree also wants to... absorb us right now. Maybe because we don't belong here? Little bit fuzzy on that. Anyway, that is apparently the reason we have to wear the bracelets. So, I tell Odin to just take them off. Don't believe him on this 'wear it for your own good' business. Next thing I know, I'm discorporated and feel like something is trying to unravel me."

Maybe that's not a good explanation, but it's what it had felt like. Like he was being unravelled, slowly being unmade again into nothingness.

At the beginning, Aziraphale had a lot more to say about topics regarding Yggdrasil and overall background-slash-history of the place, but he’s started to learn how to simply go with the flow of things. You know, as one would say.

Or would it be better to think of it as something like ‘play the hand of cards you’ve been dealt’? Was that it? He feels a bit like he’s remembering part of that saying wrong.

“I believe that is exactly the case. With us not belonging here,” he comments, making it known that he’s listening to everything Crowley has to say at the moment. The demon has his full attention to speak as he pleased. He does wonder, however, about how much information Crowley had prior to starting this whole. . . adventure. He’s starting to get the impression that Crowley had not been as well informed as Aziraphale was previously expecting for him to be. Or had Aziraphale forgotten to explain parts to him?

“Hadn’t anyone explained the tethering of magic to you when you arrived?” As soon as the question leaves his mouth, he’s struck with the immediate realisation that Crowley had spent that first day drunk and out of it.

Oh, right.

It would have been a wonder if he remembered anything at all.

Crowley scrunches up his face.

"Mmmm," he says, "when they told me I needed to pick someone to become best friends with, yeah, I didn't believe it though. The thing is --"

Crowley turns sideways on the bed, pulling one leg half up on it so he can look at Aziraphale better.

"Aside from the part where a tree being the mother of all creation sounds a bit fishy, whatever... happened... it wasn't just a matter of being destroyed."

This, really, is the point he's trying to get at. The point that, in Crowley's wild mind, is connected to the original problem he had. The memory problem. The I-don't-remember-holding-your-hand problem.

"See, it wasn't just unravelling me. It was unravelling my history too. Quite a lot of it to get through, probably would have taken a while, but it was definitely trying to."

Immediately, in one terrifying moment, Aziraphale realises that he is far too sober to have this conversation. Crowley had been right. Completely right! Far more right than Aziraphale wanted to give him any credit for, but there you have it. He was damn right. Wine was an absolute necessity for this conversation and Aziraphale just hadn’t brought enough for the two of them.

Not by far.

He tightens his grip on the glass in his hand, fingers suddenly feeling loose and weak as he feels a sense of horror climb its way back up his throat. His eyebrows pull inward as his mouth sets into a hard frown.

“Your history?” he asks, hoping for the sake of hoping that his initial understanding was wrong. Perhaps, he had misheard or simply gotten something confused. Was this to say that the memories Crowley had lost were gone forever? Unravelled into nothingness the last time he vanished? That he would have to know them through Aziraphale alone? Would he always have a hole in his memories?

A long drink is taken from his glass. Then he asks, “Do you mean it was. . . ripping you out of time? As if you were never there?”

Your history? Aziraphale echoes, and Crowley nods -- takes a large sip of his own wine to cope with the conversation. Yes. His history. Unravelling.

As if you were never there.

Crowley flits his eyes around, twitchy. Uncomfortable. He clearly wants to deflect, to say it wasn't that bad or it was fine but he -- can't. He can't. He can't think of any way out of admitting it that isn't lying, and Crowley doesn't like to lie to Aziraphale. Doesn't want to start. Especially not about something that might be -- important. Might explain something.

"Doesn't make sense, does it?" he says finally, talking around it instead. Picking at the logic distractedly. "A magic tree shouldn't be able to interfere with -- with Her creation. To undo things in that way. To change reality now and all the way into the past and just... write me out and -- and replace me--"

Nnnngh. He winces, cuts himself uncomfortably.

"Anyway," he says, voice low and miserable, "you were right I suppose. I just --" He takes a breath, lets out a frustrated sigh. "I was hoping I could get us both out."

What?

Out of all of the things that Crowley had just said, one of them was so much more important and frightening than the others. He doesn’t care to debate about the Damned tree and what it should or shouldn’t be able to do—a moot point regardless when none of the things it does from the start should be possible.

“Replace you?” Aziraphale asks, repeating the words back to the demon. Just saying it makes his skin feel cold, the warmth draining from him at the idea that not only would an extended period without the bracelets have removed Crowley from existence, but it would have put another in his place.

Aziraphale doesn’t think he could possibly hate an idea more than he hates that one. For as much trouble as Crowley is, he occupies such a special and unique space in Aziraphale’s life and in his heart. No one else could possibly fill that role.

It was only Crowley. There was no point in anyone else.

“Crowley,” he starts, moving to gently place his hand over Crowley's on his leg. It's a gentle thing, soft and undemanding with room for him to pull away. This likely isn't the Right Time that Aziraphale had been wanting to wait for, but if there were ever time that Crowley needed confirmation of how important he was, he imagines it would be now. “What makes you think it was going to replace you?”

Crowley feels all of his attention pull sharply toward the hand on top of his.

This isn't the angry hand-holding attempt from earlier, this is gentle. He feels his chest constrict, feels a dizzy mix of panic and hope. Maybe Aziraphale won't be so angry at him. Maybe it will be fine. His face feels hot and Crowley is torn between letting go to fish for his sunglasses and not wanting to pull away from the warmth of the touch.

Snakes like warmth, and Crowley likes the touch -- as undemonic as the thought is.

"Uh," he manages, and feels the insane urge to soften it all. Maybe he shouldn't worry Aziraphale, after all. Shouldn't worry him. How can he manage that, though? He's said it now. Already told him about it. He can't, exactly, backtrack. That'd be obvious, and then Aziraphale might be angry. "Just," he tries, "something I saw. For a minute."

At this point, there is nothing that Crowley could potentially do or say to keep Aziraphale from being worried. Actually, no, that isn’t quite right. There was nothing that Crowley could have said or done to keep Aziraphale from being worried from the moment that Aziraphale had watched him vanish into thin air.

That’s something that is going to stick with him for quite a bit of time, a heavy weight settled underneath his ribs. Just as he imagines that the idea of being replaced will stick with Crowley. It seems so pointless for him to attempt to side-step it. Just something he saw?

No, there must be more than that.

“What exactly did you see? Whom was it that replaced you?” Aziraphale presses, still wearing that same worried frown. He tries not to think about Crowley's reddening face and the sudden wild look in his eye. He hopes he hadn't made a misstep. The only relief is that he hadn't pulled away from him yet, so Aziraphale is determined to keep them both on topic in the meanwhile. It's easier if they don't address this part.

“I want to know everything that happened.”

Nnngh.

Everything that happened.

Crowley's hand turns under Aziraphale's, fingers lacing hard through the ones above.

"Might want another glass of wine for it all," he advises, and admittedly that would involved letting go of Aziraphale's hand. Which he is showing no sign of doing of his own accord. Still, though. Crowley thinks of himself floating, discorporated, in the middle of nothing. Of the bright light. Of his memories slowly unwinding, of himself disappearing from them. On the whole, he doesn't find himself terribly enthusiastic to go over this all with a fine tooth comb without the aid of alcohol to softened the general sense of terror.

If the rest of what Crowley has to say is going to be anything like what he’s already said, Aziraphale knows that he’s correct in the assumption of needing another glass. He’s probably undercutting it a bit actually, if he were going to be honest about it all. Conversations about actual, true death were at least worth an entire bottle of wine. At minimum.

However, the process of retrieving it does require him to get up again. It would be a little weird if he grabbed Crowley’s hand after that, wouldn’t it? Irritating. Once again, Aziraphale sorely longs for the abilities that he had on Earth. It wouldn’t even be so much as a concern then. He could just bring the bottle to them instead.

“Do you mind if we sit here like this for a bit longer before I do that?” gently asked as he curls his fingers around Crowley’s, securely locking their fingers together. He makes a gesture with his other hand, encouraging him to continue.

Does he mind?

Crowley doesn't know why he would, not with Aziraphale holding his hand this way. The lack of more wine might be a problem, but...

Well.

He downs the rest of his glass, reaches to set it on the edge of the table. His shoes are toed off, and Crowley draws his legs up onto the bed properly so he can turn toward Aziraphale. His now-free other hand covers the one laced with his, sandwiching it between his warm palms.

"I'm sorry," he says. He hadn't, after all, said that bit yet. Crowley feels he should, before he forgets it -- before they get so wrapped up in the existential horror of him potentially erasing himself from history that they get way past the fact that upset Aziraphale with all this nonsense.

Oh.

This time, the pair of hands wrapped around his feel so much different. It’s hardly like the same thing at all when it isn’t blanketed in anger and frustration. It feels more like it had that night at the not-quite-end-of-the-world with warm palms and an inexplicable buzzing feeling within him. Mysteriously, in this mortal body, he can also feel his pulse kick up.

How strange.

Almost as strange as it was that somewhere during all of this (or maybe it was Crowley’s apology), Aziraphale’s anger had completely melted away. He’s no less determined to resolve the issue, mind you, he’s just less emotional about it.

"I forgive you," he says and he means it. "What is important is that you're still here."

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