ᴡᴇ ᴘɪʟʟᴀɢᴇ, ᴡᴇ (plunder) wrote in crownplazaic, @ 2020-09-26 12:15:00 |
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Killian remembered, he did. Lying there in that field of godawful pink flowers, a bleeding gash on his neck, dying, expiring before Emma’s eyes. Only she refused to accept it. We can do it together, she said. As if that would make everything better, her infusing him with a curse as old as time itself just to keep him alive. I’m not as strong as you are. He’d begged, he’d pleaded, told her not to do it - that he’d spent centuries fighting the darkness after everything he’d done and been through; he did not think he could do it again. And yet that darkness came anyway, summoned by her. It curled toward him in shadowy tendrils of liquid onyx, beginning to seep into his lifeless form... Well. That was in the past, wasn’t it? This was the here and now, a mysterious hotel of mysterious origins - he’d gotten his room assignment and hadn’t bothered to take the elevator up, just disappeared in a puff of red smoke and then reappeared in the correct space, shucking off his black leather duster and hanging it up. Electric blue eyes, smudged with kohl, took in his surroundings and - it looked disturbingly modern, that was a bit disappointing. He’d always preferred, say, a room above a bawdy tavern. Without luxurious amenities - he never needed anything fancy, but then again, he wasn’t quite sure what exactly he needed right now. To say that Aziraphale was feeling put off was an understatement, but his emotions were too mingled with confusion and worry to muster anything more. He and Crowley had not taken two steps out of the Ritz to begin their new lives together free from the constraints of Heaven and Hell, when the angel suddenly found himself in this hotel lobby. As courteous as the receptionist on the other end of the phone receiver was, and as lovely the lobby architecture was, Aziraphale couldn’t shake the dreadful thought that this was somehow retribution. A punishment for what he and Crowley had done. Speaking of which, where was Crowley?! That had to be the most concerning thing of all. Holding his room key with both hands at waist level, he anxiously fiddled with the object while taking the lift up to the fourth floor. If this was punishment, was it mandated from the Almighty? And if that was the case, was there ever any hope to return to London? Oh! Crowley was much better at sorting these sorts of things out. Hadn’t he come up with a way to foil Satan and help put an end to Armageddon? If he were only here, Aziraphale would feel so much safer. Apartment number 413. It had been over a century since he’d lived anywhere else besides his bookshop, and he internally balked at the thought of anyplace else. The only way Aziraphale stayed encouraged was to tell himself that this was only temporary. It had to be! He put the key into the lock and turned… And found himself looking at some raggedy, suspicious sort of man, who looked like the type to be seen at a seedy club, and felt more demonic than Aziraphale was comfortable with. All of a sudden, the culmination of all his insecurities tangled into a ball of anger that issued past his lips with a strong, and clearly enunciated, “No.” Oh, really? It wasn’t just Killian who glanced up, looking toward the man with eyes that were almost too bright. But the other Dark Ones who were with him, they saw this fellow too - every voice of the past, every whisper of previous Dark Ones. Not only Rumpelstiltskin, but Zoso (who ultimately grew too soft to host the Darkness, tricking the infamous wool-spinner into stabbing him with the dagger to transfer the curse) and Gorgon the Invincible, a human with the ability to turn into a fire-breathing Bandersnatch. He had many tidbits of wisdom to share. Then there was Nimue, the first Dark One - such power she wielded, such immortality. She was present in his peripherals, observing with those glittering reptilian eyes of hers. Killian tilted his head, perhaps a bit too reptilian for his own good too - but he was transitioning anyway, every second of every day. His hair was black as an oil slick and disheveled, shadows rung beneath those bright eyes; he didn’t sleep. He never slept. “No? Yes? Maybe? Are we playing Twenty Questions?” he asked curiously. Aziraphale was not spooked by the other man’s reptilian mannerisms. After all, he was accustomed to Crowley’s snakey behavior. If anything, it was the coy response that set him off into a rant. It was an angelic rant, but one nonetheless. “NO to being brought to this place, and NO to this room at its…” he waved his hand around, dismissively, “... ridiculous furniture. And NO to you as a flatmate.” He suddenly switched course to apologize, “No offense, I’m certain you have some very nice, positive traits. But you must agree that this really too much! How do they expect us to share one tiny room? It’s absolutely preposterous!” Absolutely preposterous, well, Killian supposed he couldn’t disagree. “There’s nothing nice about me, mate,” he flashed polished teeth in a grin which crinkled his eyes, glinting through the smeared black of the kohl. “But I appreciate the sentiment. As for being flatmates well - “ Admittedly, it had been some time since he’d had to share a space with someone else - even on the Jolly Roger, he had his own Captain’s quarters. Those days felt like eons ago. He missed them, especially since it felt as if he’d given up everything for one Emma Swan (literally, he once sold his ship to broker a way to get back to her and what a stupid decision that was) and now he had nothing to show for it. “We can work something out,” he shrugged, gliding the dull edge of his hook across the back of a plush chair, idly. “I don’t sleep. Chances are I won’t be in here much anyway.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes so high, they nearly shot out from the top of his head. He’d just been to Hell, so between the man’s frightful appearance and dark vibrations, he assumed, “Are you some sort of demon? You don’t frighten me.” Okay, maybe he was a little disturbed, but he was currently far too annoyed to bother with this consideration. With mincing steps, he went over to the window to give the seat there a disapproving look. “I don’t sleep either, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want a retreat for some privacy.” Regarding the chair, he then muttered, “I wonder…” “Some sort of demon,” Killian agreed; that seemed to be the easiest way to describe the situation for the moment. Not that he planned to go into too much detail about it - there were more important matters to discuss. “Cursed, really. But anyway - like I said, we can work out a schedule or something, for when you want privacy for a wank.” He just said it so shamelessly too, but why beat around the bush? It was a natural inclination, to beat the meat. Though given the sheer amount of magic crackling and sparking, slithering through his veins, Killian was quite attuned to the fact that his snowy-haired flatmate wasn’t exactly human himself. He felt a bit like Emma, in fact - before she too took the Darkness into her. That sizzle and burn of light magic. “....you wonder?” Aziraphale was very much offended. He stiffened his posture and held his head up high before emphatically declaring, “Angels do not wank!” He then realized what he’d done, and froze for several moments at the weightiness of his declaration. It wasn’t saying the wanking part that was so remarkable as much as it was admitting to this perfect stranger that he was an angel. Since the beginning of his assignment to dwell among the humans, a long, long time ago, he’d been careful not to reveal his true identity. It was Heavenly protocol. Against the rules. But he was no longer obligated to follow those rules. Not anymore. He’d only gained his freedom a few short hours ago, and this was a personal revelation for him, one that he took as very significant. Proud of himself, he gave a little nod and affirmed, “Yes. I am an angel.” Now, whether he was a fallen angel or not, that was an entirely different matter. He looked down at his own hand, gently rubbing his forefinger and thumb together. Usually, whenever Aziraphale called for a miracle, he would snap with a downward motion. It was another one of those Heavenly protocols. It reinforced the concept that Aziraphale drew his power down from Heaven, while Crowley would snap upwards, calling his demoniac miracles from Hell. The motion wasn’t required: both angel and demon performed plenty of miracles throughout human history without doing so. The question on Aziraphale’s mind was, would he be able to perform any miracle at all now that he’d severed his ties with Heaven, completely? He was nervous about finding out. Before he could let his mind worry himself into a frazzle, he waved his hand, cutting through the air horizontally. The powder blue lounge that came with their room instantly transformed into a much more acceptable version, one that he’d actually owned in the early 19th Century. Aziraphale’s smile beamed, and his eyes twinkled with delight. “Oh, yes! This is much better!” He quickly turned his attention to the nearby drapes, which he also transformed. “Much better, indeed!” Oh, grand. Killian had an angel for a flatmate - and, well, he definitely wasn’t going to believe any hogwash about that particular brand of divine miracle or whatever not bopping their bologna, because didn’t everyone? But regardless, in the meantime he just let the fellow bibbidy-bobbity-boo the room into something that wasn’t so drab (because even Hook had to admit that this decor was a little on the lacking side). “You might need that fainting couch at some point, so good on you,” he chuckled throatily. “Have you got a name, then? Or am I just to call you ‘angel’?” He hoped not. Of course, that begged the question of what an angel was doing here - weren’t they supposed to be elsewhere, performing miracles like curing diseases or watching over people? Aziraphale pointedly chose not to respond to the fainting couch wisecrack, instead focusing on changing the wallpaper. Which color should he go with? A blue to match the couch, or maybe something with a gold design weaving through it? Was he going to ask his roommate for any input or preferences for decor style? Hell, no. If the cursed man was going to be a jerk, Aziraphale didn’t see any reason to be polite himself. He could be terribly petty if provoked. However, being called angel struck a chord that he couldn’t ignore. That was the special name Crowley called him, and as far as he was concerned, only Crowley could call him that. Glowering over his shoulder, he coldly said, “Aziraphale, if you please. And yours?” Aziraphale was a mouthful, but alright then. It was committed to memory, even if it was doubtful they’d be spending much time in here together, bonding, singing kumbaya, or painting each other’s nails (though the pirate was easy when it came to manicures - only one hand to worry about, ha). “Killian,” he introduced himself, beginning to rummage about the room - there was a laptop and a mobile phone, though he hated both of those things especially the little phone; the keypad was too small and pushing buttons was cumbersome. Likely he’d just figure out the voice option and call it a day. Pulling open a drawer revealed clothes - generic, boring clothes. Nothing too exciting. Just a bunch of dark denim, dark slacks, and dark shirts - as long as he could keep wearing black, he’d be alright. Probably. “But most call me Hook,” he added, with a crooked smile directed toward his flatmate. “I’m sure we’ll get along splendidly. Like a house on fire.” “I’m not surprised,” Aziraphale blandly commented. It figured that the man’s first name would have the word kill in it, and he’d noted the hook that replaced one of his hands the moment he’d entered the room. Initially, he’d felt compassion for the loss of the man’s limb - now he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Pirate?” he asked. It was a backhanded question, but given everything about him, Aziraphale again, wouldn’t be surprised. “Yes,” he said, turning his back to Killian to continue redecorating. “Splendidly, so long as we stay out of one another’s way.” “Aye, good guess.” It wasn’t that difficult, given the look of him, Killian supposed - and the scent of him. Salt of the sea, leather, woodsmoke, maybe even the earth itself - though he much preferred a rolling deck beneath him rather than anything landlocked. This place was an island, at least, so he assumed he could get in at least a wee bit of sailing. While figuring out a way to leave, of course. The Dark Ones he was saddled with, those cloaked figures, wouldn’t stand for being idle and neither would he - he’d go mad well before his time (provided he wasn’t already there). But if angel flatmate wanted to redecorate, he ought to just go ahead and do that. “I’ll go on and get a head start at staying out of your way,” Killian offered. “But, oh, it was a pleasure. Enjoy the fainting couch,” he added, heading for the door. |