[She stuffs her PCD into her pocket and, a bottle of extremely nice, extremely rare scotch in hand, takes flight slowly. The flight is meandering and really much longer than it should be, and she comes thunking down with an obnoxiously loud cacophony of wings one house away from Crowley.
Also, she's on the roof. It seemed like the thing to do. It's cool up there, and she can feel the wind in her hair and blowing ticklishly through her noncorporeal wings. It might not be wind in literal feathers, but it still feels funny blowing through them. She keeps them out, letting her arms fall out into the breeze while wind and lighting and leaves wrap around the shape of her wings like shadow.]
[When Crowley hears the crash he sighs, shrugging into his coat before stepping outside, peering around until he sees Naomi... nextdoor. Another disgruntled sigh before he walks next door, stepping into the building before walking up the stairs, hopping over a half-rotted stairwell before pulling himself up through a hole, cursing at the dust.]
Ruined --
[With a soft huff, dusting off his coat, aggravated.]
Except not, because "dreamy" is not something that happens to Naomi. Still, it's the closest she's come since basically ever, since the days back home when she still had naivety to lose.]
I'm listening to the stars. You have to listen very closely, because the water movements in clouds are deafening.
[It is somewhat familiar -- nostalgic, even, and Crowley sighs to himself before carefully stepping along the roof, taking care not to tread near the massive shadows of her wings even though they can't truly be stepped on.]
I have little interest in the stars tonight, love.
[Despite that, Crowley takes a seat next to her, folding his coat underneath himself.]
[She turns towards him and her wings billow out like eagles', arcing out and curving around them enormously with a whispering that only an immortal could see and feel. Her eyes are actually sparkling- both with alcohol and what the alcohol brings, an unbridled ability to take joy in what's around her.]
Everything. Solar flares and explosions. Have you ever heard nuclear fusion? It sounds better than sex. I mean, I can hear sex all the time. Have you ever tried to look through a mind that wasn't perverted? Fusion is- you have to listen.
This is more like he remembered her, brilliant and crafty and curious about the world around her, full of life and curiosity, and then Heaven just... beat it out of her. Crowley is certain he helped her along the way, corrupting influence that he is, but what a bright light that was smothered by an even brighter one.
He supposes he should enjoy this week while it lasts.]
In my forty thousand years walking on the dark side, I've never heard of anything better than sex.
[She grins and moves closer, grabbing his shoulder and leaning more than a little. Look, high heels are tough for drunk girls, even immortal all-powerful ones. One hand reaches for the sky just a little, like that could make it easier to touch, for just a moment before she finds his gaze again.]
[He catches her around the waist to keep her steady (the idea is laughable, because Crowley is certain Naomi can keep herself steady no matter how intoxicated she is), though the demon gives her something of a look.]
Are you asking me if I want to allow you into my head?
[Because Crowley is so not going to allow her fingers near his eyes.]
[She lays one hand on each side of his head, essentially cupping his face and leaning in with her eyes shut, concentrating. There are actually much simpler ways to do this, but they take finesse and the angelic godly equivalent of motor control. This is easier. It's not especially fine-tuned, but Crowley will hear a kind of volume control go up in his mind, slowly, wavering at first, before ratcheting up and letting in-
-Everything. Crickets, birds, people talking four houses away, the wind rustling trees on the other side of the city. The sound of houses settling and cats thundering across soft grass and the watery gaseous tumble of water over water in the clouds high above them and, above all, comes what she's actually trying to get him to hear, what comes through after a few more seconds when their foreheads touch.
It sounds like crashing, like tiny sonic booms, with rushing and sucking and great low booms that thrum inside their bones. It's awesome, not like the casual slang of teenagers but like the awe and might of the dawn of the Earth, like the memory she has of the days when they all built the city and the earth and the sky together.
[At first, Crowley looks bored. Nothing is really happening and Naomi's hands are kind of cold and he's about to tell her to piss off when suddenly, he can hear everything.
He almost jolts away, but forces himself to remain calm and quiet. He listens though the feeling of Naomi being connected with him is generally uncomfortable and itchy and then she rests her forehead against his and everything gets put into pretty stark perspective.
It's beautiful, as she says. Crowley has a general appreciation for the creation and order of the universe, though he defies it more often than not. But the more he forces himself to listen, the tinier he feels, and that's not a feeling he enjoys much at all. His brow furrows, trying to figure out what's bothering him so much, and his chest tightens uncomfortably as the feeling continues. Tiny, generally powerless, extraordinarily worthless.
The angels are just as, but they put into motion something powerfully significant, and Crowley won't ever be able to do something so grand.
And suddenly he's in the church, with Sam leaning over him, injecting him with that damnable sacred blood, and he's screaming at him something about Band of Brothers (was that it?) and reduced to panic and failing to understand the most basic facets of himself and he just wants to be loved --
-- Crowley abruptly jolts away, drawing in a shuddered breath as the sounds in his head abruptly cease, back to silence. He doesn't say anything, but he's rattled, and he closes his eyes to get a grip.]
[her hands fall from his face suddenly, thrown off when he slipped away. the sounds don't make a dent in her concentration since she can always hear them, but with her concentration broken the sound of the stars fades back to silence laid under everything else she can always hear. her eyebrows knit in confusion.
what did she just see? it was a church and Samouel over him with syringes and vials and a strange book, tying Crowley down and doing something to him, and there was screaming, and shouting, and Crowley panicking and crying (???) and noise-
she trips back a step. it doesn't make sense. that's Sam, that's her friend, she knows him. he wouldn't do that and a lord of the dead wouldn't either, and-]
[It's said quietly, almost instantly, and Crowley draws his coat around him even tighter though he doesn't feel cold. He almost buttons it but his fingers are shaking just enough to make it difficult and the demon instead decides to just cross his arms, clearing his throat to get it out of his system.
Calm.
Crowley lets out a slow breath and suddenly he is in control again, closed off and nonchalant -- but the act has faltered and cracked and Crowley can't help himself, caged and cornered and somewhat bitter -- ]
I don't do that anymore.
[Aggravated as he turns away, sorely tempted to kick a rock.]
[Amazing, how she can slur four-syllable words. She looks at him harder, trying to figure something out that she is hopelessly too drunk and too affected by the Animus to fathom.]
Where was that?
[She steps closer, aggravated by his refusal to look at her or helpfully vomit up every piece of information she wants.]
[It's unintentional, please, and Crowley almost says it aloud when he realizes (again) that Naomi is affected and taking it out on her is unfair. Especially when by the end of this week she will know precisely what she saw and probably have no idea how to deal with it.
Great.]
It was in a church.
[It's said finally, and he looks up at her, eyes narrowed.]
But I would much rather ignore it ever happened, so -- if you would.
[She doesn't say anything at first, her mind trying to makes sense of what the hell she's processing. Samouel, the nice guy, the guy who feels like a jackass for doing the work that keeps him alive and breathing, torturing and shooting up a god of the underworld. IT's bizarre, weird, impossible, what?
Maybe it's an underworld thing. Her mind latches onto that conclusion and fists it tightly, letting her stare at him a moment longer but without the same need to understand it.
Finally she speaks, a little softer, wings mantling around her in a kind of resting position, wind still blowing in distinct shapes.]
Why now? Why- remember it now? They're just stars.
I don't even know why you came. I didn't call you, you just-
[She sort of gestures and then gives up, because wow, balance. Hard. She sways a little and, finding nothing to lean against, decides to sit down. Right now.]
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Also, she's on the roof. It seemed like the thing to do. It's cool up there, and she can feel the wind in her hair and blowing ticklishly through her noncorporeal wings. It might not be wind in literal feathers, but it still feels funny blowing through them. She keeps them out, letting her arms fall out into the breeze while wind and lighting and leaves wrap around the shape of her wings like shadow.]
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Ruined --
[With a soft huff, dusting off his coat, aggravated.]
Do you have a listening problem?
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Except not, because "dreamy" is not something that happens to Naomi. Still, it's the closest she's come since basically ever, since the days back home when she still had naivety to lose.]
I'm listening to the stars. You have to listen very closely, because the water movements in clouds are deafening.
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I have little interest in the stars tonight, love.
[Despite that, Crowley takes a seat next to her, folding his coat underneath himself.]
But I'll humor you -- what can you hear?
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Everything. Solar flares and explosions. Have you ever heard nuclear fusion? It sounds better than sex. I mean, I can hear sex all the time. Have you ever tried to look through a mind that wasn't perverted? Fusion is- you have to listen.
action;
This is more like he remembered her, brilliant and crafty and curious about the world around her, full of life and curiosity, and then Heaven just... beat it out of her. Crowley is certain he helped her along the way, corrupting influence that he is, but what a bright light that was smothered by an even brighter one.
He supposes he should enjoy this week while it lasts.]
In my forty thousand years walking on the dark side, I've never heard of anything better than sex.
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Because you've never heard fusion. All sex sounds the same.
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[A bit dryly, though Crowley does look up at the sky with a careful frown, almost... contemplative at Naomi's point.]
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Do you want to hear it?
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Are you asking me if I want to allow you into my head?
[Because Crowley is so not going to allow her fingers near his eyes.]
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[She used to, back when one of her names was Mnemosyne and another was Lethe and her name carried fear.]
I don't need your memories, Crowley, alright? You'd just hear what I hear.
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The phrase causes his stomach to turn a little, but Crowley offers a lazy smile, almost apologetic, before he sighs and lets her shake his arm loose.]
If you insist.
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Perfect.
[She lays one hand on each side of his head, essentially cupping his face and leaning in with her eyes shut, concentrating. There are actually much simpler ways to do this, but they take finesse and the
angelicgodly equivalent of motor control. This is easier. It's not especially fine-tuned, but Crowley will hear a kind of volume control go up in his mind, slowly, wavering at first, before ratcheting up and letting in--Everything. Crickets, birds, people talking four houses away, the wind rustling trees on the other side of the city. The sound of houses settling and cats thundering across soft grass and the watery gaseous tumble of water over water in the clouds high above them and, above all, comes what she's actually trying to get him to hear, what comes through after a few more seconds when their foreheads touch.
It sounds like crashing, like tiny sonic booms, with rushing and sucking and great low booms that thrum inside their bones. It's awesome, not like the casual slang of teenagers but like the awe and might of the dawn of the Earth, like the memory she has of the days when they all built the city and the earth and the sky together.
She opens her eyes to see his reaction.]
action;
He almost jolts away, but forces himself to remain calm and quiet. He listens though the feeling of Naomi being connected with him is generally uncomfortable and itchy and then she rests her forehead against his and everything gets put into pretty stark perspective.
It's beautiful, as she says. Crowley has a general appreciation for the creation and order of the universe, though he defies it more often than not. But the more he forces himself to listen, the tinier he feels, and that's not a feeling he enjoys much at all. His brow furrows, trying to figure out what's bothering him so much, and his chest tightens uncomfortably as the feeling continues. Tiny, generally powerless, extraordinarily worthless.
The angels are just as, but they put into motion something powerfully significant, and Crowley won't ever be able to do something so grand.
And suddenly he's in the church, with Sam leaning over him, injecting him with that damnable sacred blood, and he's screaming at him something about Band of Brothers (was that it?) and reduced to panic and failing to understand the most basic facets of himself and he just wants to be loved --
-- Crowley abruptly jolts away, drawing in a shuddered breath as the sounds in his head abruptly cease, back to silence. He doesn't say anything, but he's rattled, and he closes his eyes to get a grip.]
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what did she just see? it was a church and Samouel over him with syringes and vials and a strange book, tying Crowley down and doing something to him, and there was screaming, and shouting, and Crowley panicking and crying (???) and noise-
she trips back a step. it doesn't make sense. that's Sam, that's her friend, she knows him. he wouldn't do that and a lord of the dead wouldn't either, and-]
What was that?
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[It's said quietly, almost instantly, and Crowley draws his coat around him even tighter though he doesn't feel cold. He almost buttons it but his fingers are shaking just enough to make it difficult and the demon instead decides to just cross his arms, clearing his throat to get it out of his system.
Calm.
Crowley lets out a slow breath and suddenly he is in control again, closed off and nonchalant -- but the act has faltered and cracked and Crowley can't help himself, caged and cornered and somewhat bitter -- ]
I don't do that anymore.
[Aggravated as he turns away, sorely tempted to kick a rock.]
I should know better.
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[Amazing, how she can slur four-syllable words. She looks at him harder, trying to figure something out that she is hopelessly too drunk and too affected by the Animus to fathom.]
Where was that?
[She steps closer, aggravated by his refusal to look at her or helpfully vomit up every piece of information she wants.]
Tell me.
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Great.]
It was in a church.
[It's said finally, and he looks up at her, eyes narrowed.]
But I would much rather ignore it ever happened, so -- if you would.
[Drop it.]
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Maybe it's an underworld thing. Her mind latches onto that conclusion and fists it tightly, letting her stare at him a moment longer but without the same need to understand it.
Finally she speaks, a little softer, wings mantling around her in a kind of resting position, wind still blowing in distinct shapes.]
Why now? Why- remember it now? They're just stars.
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[He speaks as if Naomi hadn't said anything at all, his tone blunt.]
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[She sort of gestures and then gives up, because wow, balance. Hard. She sways a little and, finding nothing to lean against, decides to sit down. Right now.]
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You should go inside.
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[So there. :| She indicates over yonder, elsewhere on the roof.]
I took scotch. From the party.
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