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(catch-all) (open & closed) smile through the discontent
Who: Aziraphale & Others (OTA - with some closed prompts)
When: Various points of Mareuer
Where: Across Aefenglom
What: Catch-all
Warnings: Language and some drugged alcohol
i. in most cases, sugar solves the problem. (OTA)
ii. no greater enemy than the whims of others. (OTA)
iii. an angel and a demon walk into a bar. (Crowley; A Study in Bars Left)
iv. little rips in the timeline. (Geralt)
v. roll the dice (Wildcard)
When: Various points of Mareuer
Where: Across Aefenglom
What: Catch-all
Warnings: Language and some drugged alcohol
i. in most cases, sugar solves the problem. (OTA)
Everyone, as far as Aziraphale has seen, has been desperately trying to pretend as if things were back to normal. As if something terrifying and nightmarish hadn't just recently occurred, but Aziraphale doesn't intend to pry too much into it. Rather, he is grateful for the little things. Or, perhaps, they're big things depending on how one might look at it.
That is, the relative safety of those he cares about.
His co-worker has even already returned back to work, which displays a remarkable amount of resolve on her part. She's quite listless and out of it, which is understandable and he knows it'll get better in time. Eventually. He's seen the same look on several of the customers who have come by the bakery as well, each one looking thoroughly worn out.
"Here," he says, looking over at the current exhausted individual lingering by the counter. Aziraphale extends out a square slice of lemon-frosted pound cake that's been neatly wrapped up in a cloth napkin, sliding it over across the counter.
"You look as if you could use something sweet to nibble on right now."
Then, he smiles.
That is, the relative safety of those he cares about.
His co-worker has even already returned back to work, which displays a remarkable amount of resolve on her part. She's quite listless and out of it, which is understandable and he knows it'll get better in time. Eventually. He's seen the same look on several of the customers who have come by the bakery as well, each one looking thoroughly worn out.
"Here," he says, looking over at the current exhausted individual lingering by the counter. Aziraphale extends out a square slice of lemon-frosted pound cake that's been neatly wrapped up in a cloth napkin, sliding it over across the counter.
"You look as if you could use something sweet to nibble on right now."
Then, he smiles.
ii. no greater enemy than the whims of others. (OTA)
More than occasionally, Aziraphale gets the impression that many of the unique quirks of this city were designed entirely to vex him. It feels as if it were almost too much to ask for him to be able have a peaceful and quiet day without some strange incident.
Today, one of those such incidents takes the form of some curiously small fae who had been upsettingly successful at pickpocketing him. The little thing had yanked his watch right out of his pocket and then nosedived itself into a mound of dirt just by the pathway that lead up to his home.
Despite himself, Aziraphale had leapt after it much like any cat wound and dug his hands into the ground in hopes of retrieving the little thief. He has already made two solid holes during his search effort.
"I assure you, I am not angry. I am not angry with you at all," Aziraphale mutters in a terse tone that makes it undoubtedly clear that he is not being entirely truthful. He might not be angry, but he is definitely upset.
"But, you see, I do—" he begins, slamming his hand down at the first sign of movement against the grass. "—really need that back!"
Today, one of those such incidents takes the form of some curiously small fae who had been upsettingly successful at pickpocketing him. The little thing had yanked his watch right out of his pocket and then nosedived itself into a mound of dirt just by the pathway that lead up to his home.
Despite himself, Aziraphale had leapt after it much like any cat wound and dug his hands into the ground in hopes of retrieving the little thief. He has already made two solid holes during his search effort.
"I assure you, I am not angry. I am not angry with you at all," Aziraphale mutters in a terse tone that makes it undoubtedly clear that he is not being entirely truthful. He might not be angry, but he is definitely upset.
"But, you see, I do—" he begins, slamming his hand down at the first sign of movement against the grass. "—really need that back!"
iii. an angel and a demon walk into a bar. (Crowley; A Study in Bars Left)
When Crowley suggests, in that easy way that he always does, that the two of them go out drinking after a particularly mediocre dinner, Aziraphale cannot imagine declining. Not only was it one of the best ideas he had heard in quite some time, it was also something he felt that they both sorely needed. The recent days had been so stressful and so eventful that he truly did believe that the both of them needed to spend an evening doing something fun.
Although, a part of him does wonder if it would be considered a date? What exactly defined something as a date as opposed to one of their regular outings out together?
The bar they end up at is nice enough, but in a way that implies that the owners of the establishment had spent more time on the menu and drink quality than the decoration of the space. It isn't entirely to Aziraphale's preference, but Crowley seems to like it somewhat if his expression is any indication. He assumes that to be because of its similarities to a dive bar.
"Have you given any thought to the idea of starting your own business?" Aziraphale asks after they settle in at a table and have their respective orders taken.
Although, a part of him does wonder if it would be considered a date? What exactly defined something as a date as opposed to one of their regular outings out together?
The bar they end up at is nice enough, but in a way that implies that the owners of the establishment had spent more time on the menu and drink quality than the decoration of the space. It isn't entirely to Aziraphale's preference, but Crowley seems to like it somewhat if his expression is any indication. He assumes that to be because of its similarities to a dive bar.
"Have you given any thought to the idea of starting your own business?" Aziraphale asks after they settle in at a table and have their respective orders taken.
iv. little rips in the timeline. (Geralt)
Among the handful of letters that Aziraphale sends out to inquire after the wellbeing of some individuals he had not otherwise seen, there is one addressed to Geralt of Rivia. Each letter has been impeccably penned and closed with a wax seal and the one sent to Geralt is no exception. It actually might be a little more eye-catching than the others with the intention of trying to make sure that his envelope isn't accidentally looked over.
Within the letter, he asks after his health as well as Jaskier's—despite not having met him yet because Aziraphale is nothing if not polite—and invites Geralt out for a nice lunch and a brief walkabout at his earliest convenience that day. It is short notice, he is well aware, but Aziraphale thinks that it could serve as a temporary but decent distraction. A little bit of fresh air and walking always did wonders for the heart and soul.
Although, a part of him does believe that he had been a bit too brash in his correspondence and that might not encourage Geralt to come meet with him. Nonetheless, he still waits for him on a bench in Haven, exactly where he promised that he would be.
Within the letter, he asks after his health as well as Jaskier's—despite not having met him yet because Aziraphale is nothing if not polite—and invites Geralt out for a nice lunch and a brief walkabout at his earliest convenience that day. It is short notice, he is well aware, but Aziraphale thinks that it could serve as a temporary but decent distraction. A little bit of fresh air and walking always did wonders for the heart and soul.
Although, a part of him does believe that he had been a bit too brash in his correspondence and that might not encourage Geralt to come meet with him. Nonetheless, he still waits for him on a bench in Haven, exactly where he promised that he would be.
v. roll the dice (Wildcard)
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> A Study in Bars Left
Slumped into the seat in the corner Crowley manages an artful sprawl that looks as if it should be uncomfortable, yet somehow appears not to be.
Business.
In truth, he has thought about it repeatedly. He's quite enjoying the freelance life -- consultancy work, mostly a cover for extreme nosiness -- but he knows it may well eventually run dry. The problem is, setting up a formal business is so...
It's committing to consistency, which Crowley isn't good at, but it's also committing to staying here long term, which Crowley isn't keen on.
"Would need to find a niche, I suppose," he says. He knows he should do something, because a regular steady income would be more practical, but the thought makes him writhe in his skin. Face scrunching, he darts his eyes about the bar. Would a bar be a good idea? His own bar, best way to get all the gossip. Strip bar! Aziraphale would hate a strip bar. Jazz bar? That has potential, maybe. Even better, could get someone else to run it once it's established. Maybe he's only thinking about bars since he's in one, but if Aziraphale presses him to voice ideas at least he can present that as an option.
no subject
A business would be a great idea. More so if he could get it staffed and operating well enough to not require his constant presence.
"Yes," Aziraphale begins, rubbing a finger over one of the squishy finger pads on his opposite hand. "I have thought about that a great deal."
He pauses.
"What if we opened our own record shop? One with the ability to record new music?"
It isn't a terrible idea, he thinks. He has met a couple of people who used to make their living in entertainment and it might be a nice way to revive some more pieces of people's homes. Not to mention, he wouldn't have a hard time parting with anything in the shop.
no subject
"How much do you know about recording music, then?"
Professionally, that is. If they're going to make a record shop that can also record new music that seems... ambitious? Ambitious is the correct word.
Difficult, alternatively. Expensive.
Crowley can only assume that Aziraphale is hoping to inspire more music to his taste this way, but it seems the sort of thing that might well... potentially backfire. His skull face paint friend being one such potential example (though if he'd record without his bandmates around is in question).
If it's just music he wants, though, perhaps the jazz bar idea might be worth a shot? Live music, after all, just not... recorded live music.
no subject
"I am not very familiar with it," Aziraphale answers with a strong degree of confidence. "However, I do know someone in particular that is."
Undoubtedly, he would be more than delighted to help out if this were the route the two of them were going to take.
"I thought something involving music might be enjoyable for the both of us."
no subject
Huh. He didn't expect that! Who, he wonders? What sort of music did they record?
Would be funny if it was Styx. He'd have liked to witness that interaction, honestly, and be disappointed if he missed it.
"Yeah," he says after a second, "was thinking the same thing, honestly, only I was leaning more the jazz bar route instead of record shop. You know. Some good drinks, good music, must be a universal thing right?"
Probably. He hasn't actually investigated, given he birthed the idea only a few minutes prior, but probably it is.
no subject
Now, isn't that something of an idea? Aziraphale wasn't actually expecting for Crowley to be very useful on this front, but he did genuinely like the idea of such a thing. Simple enough to set up for a bar and include a stage for musicians or perhaps even poetry reads. Plenty of uses for a stage!
"I do wonder if it would be better to have a bar that played other types of music as well? It's, uh, what do you call it? Is that a piano bar or music bar?"
Jazz in particular doesn't seem like something many of the other mirrorbound would be familiar with. It might be a little too niche and he is certain that none of the locals know anything about it either. Although, he does like the idea of Crowley in a suit and hat to fit the general aesthetic of a jazz bar.
no subject
Jazz bars just are, in general, cooler than the generic option. Still, he can see the point -- wider appeal. Crowley sighs as he leans back in his chair, clearly resigned to potentially having to endure this less cool version of his plan and considering his options. A waitress reappears beside their table and sets down both their drinks with slight more aggressive clink than Crowley thinks is entirely necessary -- still, probably had a rough day. He imagines working at a place like this involves long hours and plenty of unwanted attention. He'll be sure to tip.
"You like the idea of a bar, though?"
He's got a foot in the door there, at least. Now he just needs to sell Aziraphale on the jazz side of things.
no subject
He clears his throat, aiming to move on.
"I am hardly concerned about coolness," he explains. Coolness isn't an important factor for him and neither should it be for Crowley. The point, the entire point, of even considering operating their own business is for the sake of income. Therefore, whatever they agree upon needs to be appealing and speak to more than a small, niche portion of individuals. He didn't intend to run any sort of business for fun!
"Well, it's not bad," he says after a moment. "The bar idea, that is. I think we could make it our own."
no subject
Hardly concerned about coolness?
Honestly, Crowley supposes he could have guessed that considering Aziraphale's... well, everything, but still. He is, in fact, very concerned about coolness. How is he supposed to maintain an interest in running anything he particularly hates? There's gotta be something! Got to be some sort of fun he can have!
"Oh, well I'm glad it's not bad," he echoes.
Not bad. Honestly!
no subject
Did he not have more to say or did he simply just need the moment to find some time to pout? And over what exactly? The topic of coolness? Oh, how ridiculous!
Reaching across the table, he taps a nail against the glass of Crowley's drink and not his own. He almost thinks to push it off entirely before he recognises the thought and promptly dismisses it.
"Well, do you wish to speak more on it? Offer some ideas towards what sort of bar you'd like if we're going to try to make it suitable for a general audience?"
He must have thought about this for time already, so surely he knew more about what he wanted than simply 'a jazz bar'.
no subject
Those thoughts were, 'music is fun jazz bars are cool'.
Time to improvise.
"Was picturing something classy, you know? Moody dark interior, high end drinks, not much in the way of food beyond bar snacks."
He scrunches up his nose, picks up his drink to take a sip as he thinks. What else? Jazz bars really were about aesthetic as much as anything else, the feeling you got while in one. If Aziraphale doesn't care about coolness then it might be a hard sell. He sets down his drink again, lets out a slow sigh.
"Yawyna legna, s'ti ton--"
Crowley blinks once, then again. He runs presses his tongue against his teeth.
"I dias s'ti -- tahw?"
This is, potentially, a problem.
no subject
There is, of course, a chance that this is a jest. Crowley could very well be having a laugh at his expense, finding it fun to distract him away from their conversation. He could, he could, but Aziraphale doesn't really think he is. Not with the face that he makes, he just looks just as taken aback as Aziraphale feels.
"Crowley?" he asks, tentatively. Reaching across the table, he presses his fingers against the back of Crowley's hand. "Are you alright?"
He's looking at Crowley, but he's also trying to see if he can notice anything unusual in his view. Something that might be the cause.
no subject
"Ton erus -- gnikcuf --"
He shakes his head, leans back in his chair and scrubs his hands over his face. His thoughts are fine, he knows what he's trying to say! But even he knows it's all coming out like nonsense. This is, on some level, reasonably frightening. He sits a moment, trying to think, then drops his hands and makes scribbling motions -- begins to pat himself down. Pen and paper! Maybe if he can write something down, then he'll know if he can make words work outside his brain at all.
no subject
"Here," he says, sliding it across the small table for him. "Try this."
He should still be able to write, shouldn't he?
no subject
Crowley grabs the pen and notepad, blinks a few times as if trying to focus himself then angrily scrawls on the paper:
What the fuck is happening?
That comes out right, at least, which is a relief. He's not sure what he'd do if even everything he wrote came out garbled. Panic, mostly.
Leaning back in his chair Crowley lets out a sigh of frustration, trying to work out what could have caused this. Why would he suddenly be unable to talk? He could a minute ago! Nothing had happened! One minute, fine, the next -- bam! All nonsense!
Reaching out for his drink he draws it forward again, frowning in thought. In fact really all he'd --
Freezing Crowley drops his eyes to the drink again, shoves it away from himself again and begins gesturing wildly to it. The drink! He'd drunk some of it, right before! That's got to be it.
no subject
He glances back down at the paper, now actually taking the time to read over Crowley's words in earnest. He wishes that he could answer him, but he hardly knew. It seemed to just happen so suddenly!
Although, more importantly—
"Let's not be crass," he remarks, taking the pen to cross out the word 'fuck' from the page. He doesn't want that in his notebook. He glances back up as soon as he's done, gaze flicking over Crowley as he gestures animatedly towards the drink.
"What-? The drink?"
Was that what he thought it was? Pulling it closer to himself, he leans forward to try to get a good whiff of the liquid. Nothing about it smells off. Actually, it smells exactly like he would expect it to. Was Crowley all that sure that it must be the drink? Thoughtlessly, he picks it up to take a sip from the glass.
"No, it seems alright to me."
It was a ludicrous idea from the start! Why would the bar poison any of their patrons?
no subject
Well.
He supposes Aziraphale did take a sip of it, but what else would it be? What else could have rendered him cursed in this way?
For that matter, why? It's such an obscure curse!
He mutters something under his breath, which blessedly comes out incomprehensible but which (from the tone) is likely unpleasant.
Reaching for the notebook and pen, since Aziraphale is busily holding the drink now, Crowley writes down Well what else could it be?
If it isn't the drink, then what? Obscurely, it's only impacting him. What has he done that Aziraphale hasn't? They go everywhere together! They're so rarely apart!
no subject
"You haven't been doing anything unpleasant here, have you? Upset anyone?" he asks, flicking his gaze over Crowley.
He would like to think not, but he knows that this place can be terribly dull. Crowley isn't the biggest fan of things being dull.
"I—" he begins. There's another suggestion he could make, but all that comes out of his mouth is a low-pitched meow. Immediately, he presses a hand to his lips, eyebrows furrowing.
no subject
Oh, but that's good though.
Crowley, who moments ago was very annoyed, forgets all at once that he ever was. He eyebrows slowly loft, and his expression brightens into the most luminously delighted smile he's sported in some days. It's the kind of smile that has an edge to it, the kind of smile someone offers you after luring you into a childish trap and watching it activate. It's the smile of someone who is watching chaos unfold and enjoying every second.
There's a brief silence, long enough to be almost tense, before Crowley bursts into peels of laughter so intense his sides start to hurt.
no subject
Aziraphale thinks that he could handle the meowing, imagines himself considerably hardened to strange feline occurrences, but it's the laughter. Oh, it's the laughter. In a stunning display of pettiness, he swipes his hand across to where he'd placed Crowley's drink back in front of him. He cares little if it spills onto the table or onto Crowley himself.
He would deserve it.
He opens his mouth to chide him, closes it upon second thought, and then gestures to the notebook in a request for him to hand it over.
no subject
It's probably a blessing Crowley can't talk properly, as it saves Aziraphale some of the exaggerated dramatics that he might otherwise be subjected to.
A wave of Crowley's hand cleans up the desk, then another some of the drink that had dripped onto his clothing.
He holds up the notebook and pen, waves them temptingly. Oh, these? You want these? You're sure? Definitely these?
The second Aziraphale reaches for them, Crowley is well prepared to move his hand away a little further then tap his glass.
He was right. He's just saying. He was right about the drinks.
Nobody will ever hear the end of this.