Eviction [closed]

[bibliophale]

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.

Comments

oh right that

[bibliophale]

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?"

[noteasybeingblue]

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."

further tw for ptsd! whoops

[bibliophale]

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.

tw for woooo more violence

[anguiform]

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.

[noteasybeingblue]

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."

[bibliophale]

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."

[anguiform]

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.

[noteasybeingblue]

"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.

[bibliophale]

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.

[anguiform]

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?'

[noteasybeingblue]

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."

[bibliophale]

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.