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

[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.