bigapplesauce | Eviction [closed]

Current Location: Aziraphale's bookshop, 1st & 87th
Current Music: 4th August (backdated)

Entry tags:

Eviction [closed]

Aziraphale arrives at his shop on the morning of the 4th, only some hours after meeting Crowley in the park, after meeting Gabriel at the diner, after his difficult discussion with Melanie, after that dream, and finds Illyria sitting in the back just as he'd left her. All that had gone on and she'd just been here, contemplating space. Right. His mind's been made up. It was a trying night for many, many reasons, but he's refreshed now, and he's ready to finally face this unfaced problem.

"It's time for you to move out," he tells her sternly. "Come on now. We're getting you a proper place to stay. Can't have you in here all the time. Up you get."

He will suffer no further God-Kings. He'll put her somewhere close by, where he can keep an eye out - he's still concerned about Winifred Burkle showing up again, for instance - but his shop will go back to being his, thanks very much.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Good." He's relieved at her tolerance; at least she's accustomed to accepting situations, instead of arguing against them tooth and nail. The purpose of their venture now accomplished, he finds himself hovering awkwardly. He feels a little belatedly guilty for fobbing her off like this. He stands there, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet, wondering what to do, before another thought occurs to him, mercifully.

"Oh, and - one other thing." He holds out a hand and produces a phone, quite like the one he has, miserable little device, but useful nonetheless. He holds it out and hands it to her. "This is for you."

She accepts the tiny square object out of automatic aplomb. It has yet another button and an opaque screen that covers most of its face. Whatever purpose it may have, Illyria cannot guess.

This is concerning.

"It is very small." A neutral observation. A God-King will not appear inept before a mere principality, so she depresses the single button with her shell's fingers with utter certainty. The object makes a soft noise and the screen illuminates.

Illyria has no idea what this may mean, but she doubts very much it is a beneficial thing. She regards the object with wary disaste.

"Yes," he says, watching her bemusedly. "I've connected it to the network, so you may contact me or anyone else. But try to use it sparingly. You don't want to advertise yourself, I wouldn't think."

He watches her fuss with it for a moment, and then says, a bit delicately, "You do know how to operate a phone, don't you?" It's not as though he did, or indeed does, but one might think such a mighty entity would know everything. He thinks, pretty sarcastically.

The object issues a series of sounds in response to contact with her shell's fingers, all of which whose purpose escapes her.

"Yes." No. This device is unfamiliar to her. Illyria looks at the principality accusingly. "You have done something to it." This object is tiny and unimpressive and it will not yield to her. This is the only explanation.

"Wh- no I haven't," he says, just as he feels his own phone buzz repeatedly in his pocket. He fishes it out and stares at it, aghast. "What are you doing? You're specifically doing the thing I just told you not to do. Stop that!" He shows her all her ridiculous texts on his phone, as if that will clarify things for her. "Here, let me show you." He reaches out and tries to take the phone back, hopefully to keep her from sending anymore absurd messages to everyone everywhere.

Now the object is vibrating. Illyria glowers at it in absolute fury. What does it want from her? Why will it not simply acquiesce to her commands?

The principality reaches to take it and she immediately retreats, eying both contemptible beings balefully. "It is mine." The principality surrendered it to her. It is not entitled to break its word.

~~So no take-backsies~~

He stares at her in profound displeasure as she continues to fiddle with it, apparently responding to the texts she's receiving. "Stop acting like a bloody child," he snaps, reaching out again. "I can show you how to use it, if you'd just behave."

"I am a god," Illyria snarls. "Do you recall the last time you angered me?" The principality, after all, is not human. She would miss this willing opponent if she were to meet it in battle again and subsequently defeat it, but perhaps the satisfaction of besting it would be worth the loss.

She looks at the thing in her shell's hand with complete repugnance. Now it will not stop making noises. She is certain this is the principality's fault in some capacity, though the specifics are unclear.

"I do, and I'm still standing here to tell you you're being ridiculous," he says irritably. He's not looking for a repeat of that, but he doesn't want her egging on whoever it is texting her. He holds out an impatient, expectant hand. "Give me the phone."

Illyria very deliberately places the object - the phone - on the nearest lateral surface, then puts herself between it and the one that would take it from her.

"Order me again," she growls, "and I will remove your wings."

Her shell's hands tighten into fists. This place and the phone are now her only subjects. She will not allow the principality to take them from her.

"Are you serious?!" he exclaims. "I just gave it to you. I'm trying to help, you're blowing this all quite out of proportion."

He doesn't order her again, trying instead to manuever around her, making a grab for the troublesome device.

One of her shell's hands snaps around the principality's wrist and twists, viciously, in a maneuver meant to bring the creature to its knees.

"It is mine and you will not touch it."

He should have expected the grab, but it still manages to catch him off guard, the sudden violence of it startling him enough that he does in fact stagger to his knees. His cry is a little bit from the pain but much more from exasperation.

"You are insufferable," he snaps, and seizes her upper arm with his free hand. He doesn't want to damage her body in case Fred is still in there, capable of feeling the pain, but he is firm in pushing back, climbing to his feet and attempting to shove her away. "Why do I even bother trying to help?"

"You have." It gave her a means for housing. It gave her a phone. That is perfectly sufficient, and its continued intervention is severely grating. It surges back to its feet in a burst of energy that only takes her off guard for an instant, then she braces her shell's feet and holds ground.

"You need not remain." And she releases its wrist to slams her shell's hand into the thing's shoulder and force it away.

On another day, he would leave it there. He would let her be, or at least calm down and try to explain slowly. But last night was too much. He slept against his will, suffered a terrible nightmare, upset Melanie, and appeared pathetic and destitute to both Gabriel and Crowley. He has had enough. He has been bottling aggression with nowhere to go for days, and now he's been provided a convenient excuse. It's not very angelic of him, but for once he can't be buggered to care.

With a thought he surrounds them with a sort of metaphysical steel cage - soundproofing the apartment, reinforcing the structure so that they can't do any damage except to each other. If she wants a fight it's going to be a contained one.

He seizes her hand as it slams into his shoulder, gripping tightly to anchor her and turning sharply to flip her onto the floor. It's been a long time since he had a real physical fight like this - he's reminded of the really early days with Crowley - and there's something offhandedly satisfying about it, knowing that he still has "moves."

The principality lashes back with an unexpected display of force. Illyria - had not anticipated this. Her shell crashes to the ground with a startled cry.

She spares no time for questioning or commands. The principality desires violence. She will deliver it thus. Her shape now may have sacrificed power and grandeur, but it has one thing her true form could never have boasted in this capacity - she is fast. She swings her shell's legs in a sweeping arc, entangling them in the principality's and bringing it to join her on the ground.

He thuds down hard beside her and immediately turns to shove at her with a burst of ethereal energy, pushing her across the room, pinning her briefly to the opposite wall. He scrambles up and seizes her phone off the counter, trying to get a read on how much damage she's done before she gets loose.

Crowley's answered her. Oh how brilliant. He starts texting back furiously, not sure why - it's not like he needs help exactly, but it wouldn't hurt, either.

The metaphysical force sends her shell sliding into the wall, but it does not crumble as it should. An oddly sturdy establishment, but this is not the core of her focus. The principality has taken her phone regardless of warning, and now it will suffer for it.

She pulls her shell upright, strides forward, radiating purpose, catches the wrist holding the phone and deftly disarms it, thrusting the other hand into the center of the principality's chest with all the force she can muster.

Illyria looks at the phone, the tiny black words scripted on its faintly glowing screen. The principality was calling for help. This thought is distantly satisfying, and she attempts to communicate her domination of her foe accordingly.

He lets out a loud grunt when she hits him, staggering back, breathless. She's texting and Crowley's already responding again, but he can't bother about that. If Crowley is really curious or concerned he'll be able to find them. He lunges up again and grabs her around the midsection, pulling her back.

"Stop that," he demands. "You're only drawing attention to yourself, can't you bloody understand?" He hurls her across the room snatching the phone back in the midst of it.

The principality is overly fond of throwing her shell about. She rights herself yet again, seething.

"Good," she answers savagely. She darts forward, seizes the principality by the back of its neck, and slams its head into corner of the blocky surface she'd originally set her phone upon. The shock of the force sends the object skidding away. She does not pursue it. She will ensure the principality never pursues it again. For attempting to relieve her of it, she smashes the principality's head into the surface again. And again.

"Ungh!" His hands go to grip at the counter as she slams him into it repeatedly, like they're having a bloody bar-room brawl. This hurts, though fortunately he's a bit more fortified than a mortal, he can take a lot more damage. He miracles his glasses away and struggles to get enough leverage to resist her. Finally his wings burst forth, extending and opening to force her back. He turns and braces himself against the counter, dizzy and marginally bloodied, his wings flared out defensively.

The emergence of wings from its back press her away, but only for a moment. The angel immediately turns to face her and leaves itself incredibly, unbelievably exposed. Illyria does not hesitate. She sinks a fist into its midriff, then whips back to strike the back of its head in fluid motion meant to floor it.

"Do not touch," she hisses, "what is not yours."

He crashes to his knees - he's sluggish because of all the beating about the head, and now he's paying for it. This is absurd. They shouldn't be fighting like this - why did he allow this to happen? What is wrong with him?

He takes a moment to gather himself, his hands braced on the floor, before he looks up at her, raising his hands to her. "Has anyone ever told you," he says between shallow breaths, "that you are an abysmal host?"

Illyria scowls.

"You would take what is mine."

And one hand fastens itself around its throat, forcing its head back. The principality is still squirming, so Illyria grasps a fistful of its wing. The mass of feather and bone feels so fragile beneath her shell's fingers; it feels that she could crush it with little effort but she merely holds it in an iron grip, her warning.

"I have been left with so little," the God-King says, "and you would elect to take even that."

At this he goes completely still. Suddenly this is not all so juvenile and absurd - suddenly it is dangerous, terrifying. She could break his wings, crush them, rip them off as she threatened. It was stupid to bring them out. She has absolutely no qualms about hurting him for the most asinine reasons, and he knew that, and he practically encouraged her. It isn't about the stupid phone, it's a symbolic struggle for her, her obsessive need to assert dominance.

But he can't speak, can't try to talk her back down. He stares up into her cold blue eyes, breathing sharply against the press of her hand. All he can think about right now is the memory of Lucifer's hands on his wings, the overpowering pain as he broke them. He's frozen up by it, afraid that it is about to happen again, this time for no reason but his own incredible stupidity.

Normally he'd just leave Aziraphale to whatever nonsense he'd got himself into, he would, except-- well, except. If last night in the park had shown him anything, it was that Aziraphale isn't doing particularly well for himself just at the moment, and there's not been an answering text from him or whomever he's fighting with. Which, that's another thing; who in Manhattan is strong enough to take Aziraphale in a fight, other than Lucifer and Gabriel? And Aziraphale had said she. So Crowley might go so far as to say he's concerned.

Concentrating on the divine pinprick of angel on his mental map, Crowley tucks his phone away, and wills himself away. With a clap of air suddenly occupying the space previously taken up by his body, he vanishes into the aether.

He reappears, somewhat winded (travelling like that, without the aid of anything more than the air, is tiring), in what looks like an unlived-in flat. The air is thick with power, a faint uncomfortable backwards scratch like static on Crowley's skin, and his eyes flick about until they land on Aziraphale, over by the little kitchenette. He's accompanied by-- someone. She looks like a woman, if a peculiarly blue one, though she certainly doesn't feel human.

Crowley doesn't really care who it is, though, because she's got one hand on Aziraphale's throat, the other buried in the feathers of his wing, and Aziraphale is kneeling on the floor like he's frozen, eyes wide and frightened. It's a far too familiar tableau, and Crowley flushes suddenly hot. What is the idiot doing?

'Oi!' he shouts, striding forward and sticking out a hand to manifest the first thing that comes into his head and swinging it at the back of the blue woman's head like a baseball bat. It's only after it's connected that he realises it's the bloody tyre iron.

Edited 2015-01-18 07:46 (UTC)

That subdues the principality magnificently and without any further effort. Perhaps now it will not be so eager to -

Something smashes into her shell's head from behind and a stunted cry of alarm tears from her as her shell jerks beneath the unanticipated impact. She releases her prey reflexively and swings to encounter the new foe.

Oh, now this one.

This one she can hurt.

Its composition is different and unfamiliar, but the mass of darkened, demonic energy is clear enough to her eyes. She advances upon it with adamant menace.

"You will not touch me again."

The moment Crowley appears, Aziraphale feels a surge of relief, as well as some irritation and embarrassment at being caught in this position, and when Crowley strikes Illyria in the back of the head he only feels the clench of oh, shit. He pitches forward when she releases him, gasping, disappearing his wings immediately. He looks up to see Illyria advancing on Crowley, and Crowley has no idea what it is he's just accosted.

"Illyria," he barks, struggling back to his feet. He's not too terribly hurt, but he's still annoyingly shaky after that too-close brush with his wings. "Leave him be."

Well, bollocks. Crowley's not really surprised that the blow to the head seems to have accomplished little other than annoying her. She's powerful, that much is obvious, but Crowley's blood is up, and frankly it feels good not to be too busy being scared shitless to fight. So he just grins, brittle and mocking, and hefts the tyre iron in demonstration.

'Haven't touched you yet.'

He twirls the tyre iron, just because he can. 'Let's make a deal, yeah? You don't touch the angel, and I won't try worse than a bit of a tap on the head.'

It's almost certainly partially a bluff, but Crowley isn't sure exactly how much. He's rather playing this by ear.

"The principality," says Illyria with every fiber of regal self-possession in her being, "attempted to lay hands on my phone." It attempted. Its success was brief, and the God-King triumphed, clearly.

She looks at the demonic thing, her shell's expression smoothing into one of disdain. Why a creature of a Hellish nature would defend a divine being is somewhat beyond her understanding, but she does not care to investigate it.

"I do not fear you. Pit-creature." Not even in her diminished state.

Oh no, no-no-no, Crowley does not understand what it is he's challenging, it's not that Aziraphale doesn't think he could hold his own against her, necessarily, it's just he'd really rather this not get any worse than it is. Something twists in his gut at Crowley's suggestion of a deal, something that is mostly secondhand embarrassment at the idiotic notion, the bravado, all of it, Crowley can be so bloody insufferable sometimes¹.

And then Illyria has to go and say that.

He looks at Crowley a bit helplessly, spreading his hands in a sort of 'I don't know how I can possibly explain this' gesture, because really, she's not wrong.

"It's been a trying morning," he says, as if that clears it up.

¹ It has nothing at all to do with embarrassment over the sort of protective undertone, that is certainly not something he's feeling at all, deeply or otherwise.

Edited 2015-01-18 08:30 (UTC)

That brings Crowley up short. He might as well have been suddenly tugged backwards on a lead for all the momentum it takes out of his proverbial sails, and the tyre iron dips slightly in his grip. He cocks his head incredulously.

'He, sorry, he what? You were-- because he tried to take your phone?'

And then Aziraphale, going from pinned down and helpless to that, hands spread and shrugging like he's in some dreadful 50's television programme and cheekily breaking the fourth wall to say oh, what scamps we all are. Crowley huffs, loudly. 'Has it?' he asks, deadpan. Now that the rush of-- whatever, worry, protectiveness-- has receded somewhat, he finds himself faintly embarrassed at his position. 'Who is she, even?'

Not bothering to wait for an answer, he turns back to the woman. 'Who are you?'

The aggression drains from the demon and the principality both. Illyria eyes them both with mingled suspicion. And disappointment. She was given to understood there would be more violence. There was every implication.

"Illyria." The word alone is a dare, flung spitefully in the demon's direction. "God-King of the Primordium." Obvious victor in the Battle of Phone. Triumphant, she stalks to the room's edge to retrieve the little object, the source of their conflict. It is still making noises.

"It is mine," she tells the principality firmly. "Do not come near it again."

This is so embarrassing. Aziraphale drops his face into one hand, willing himself to remain patient with the God-King's absurd, childish display. He looks wearily at Crowley.

"You may recall I was housing on elder god in my shop," he says, gesturing limply at her. "I thought I'd get her a place of her own, as well as a means of communicating with the outside world, which she's wasted no time in abusing, as you've seen." He shoots her a reproachful glance. "I have no interest in taking it," he tells her irritably. "I wanted to show you how to use it. It didn't have to become a whole event."

He glances again at Crowley, this time vaguely apologetic. He does appreciate that Crowley actually deigned to show up and - defend him, or whatever it is he's doing - but there's no way to really articulate that just now.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Eviction [closed]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

somewhat belated tw: for violence and mild ruination of phones

oh right that

no subject

further tw for ptsd! whoops

tw for woooo more violence

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject