Ever since he first opened his eyes, darkness has been the only thing that he can see. It's the only thing there is. There is no light, only dirt and rock, and he hasn't the faintest idea of how it had ended up like this. How could something like this have happened without his notice? Where was he? Underground? Had he been buried alive?
Panicked, he acknowledges that the alive part of his current condition might not be the case for much longer. He seems to be able to breathe just fine, but how long was that to last? How long was he going to be left down here? Had they gotten Crowley as well? He feels angry, terrified, and hysterical all at once. He needs to get free, but he's dug against the dirt for ages without any result. The ground seems to fight him, pushing back and throwing more dirt back against his face and hands. It only makes the situation that much worse, that much more terrifying.
Was he only going to help bury himself?
It feels like all he can do is scream.
By some blessing of luck, eventually he's heard. He's heard by Crowley. Oh, thank goodness, it's Crowley. He can hear him yelling back and digging at the dirt from the other side, sounding no better than how Aziraphale feels. His face and eyes feel hot, on the verge of tears, from the sheer relief of getting to hear his voice. It doesn't matter how distant and muffled it is. He knows Crowley won't leave him here, won't abandon him here underneath the dirt.
He won't, he won't, he won't.
He sticks his own hands back into the aggressive dirt, ready to try again. His hands and clothes are already more than ruined. What was a little more? The ground still fights him as if it had some sort of sentience, but it feels easier this time. Easy enough for his hands to hit rock, haphazardly shoving them out of the way to wiggle his fingers through an opening. He feels air.
Was this it? Was this it?
"Crowley!" he yells again for what must be the hundredth time, voice still frazzled and frantic.
dig him out like a sexy root vegetable
Ever since he first opened his eyes, darkness has been the only thing that he can see. It's the only thing there is. There is no light, only dirt and rock, and he hasn't the faintest idea of how it had ended up like this. How could something like this have happened without his notice? Where was he? Underground? Had he been buried alive?
Panicked, he acknowledges that the alive part of his current condition might not be the case for much longer. He seems to be able to breathe just fine, but how long was that to last? How long was he going to be left down here? Had they gotten Crowley as well? He feels angry, terrified, and hysterical all at once. He needs to get free, but he's dug against the dirt for ages without any result. The ground seems to fight him, pushing back and throwing more dirt back against his face and hands. It only makes the situation that much worse, that much more terrifying.
Was he only going to help bury himself?
It feels like all he can do is scream.
By some blessing of luck, eventually he's heard. He's heard by Crowley. Oh, thank goodness, it's Crowley. He can hear him yelling back and digging at the dirt from the other side, sounding no better than how Aziraphale feels. His face and eyes feel hot, on the verge of tears, from the sheer relief of getting to hear his voice. It doesn't matter how distant and muffled it is. He knows Crowley won't leave him here, won't abandon him here underneath the dirt.
He won't, he won't, he won't.
He sticks his own hands back into the aggressive dirt, ready to try again. His hands and clothes are already more than ruined. What was a little more? The ground still fights him as if it had some sort of sentience, but it feels easier this time. Easy enough for his hands to hit rock, haphazardly shoving them out of the way to wiggle his fingers through an opening. He feels air.
Was this it? Was this it?
"Crowley!" he yells again for what must be the hundredth time, voice still frazzled and frantic.