[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.]
[That gets his attention and Crowley looks over, his expression still wary and carefully locked away, but at least a little more relaxed at the show of good will.]
[The scotch comes to her hand obligingly and she just looks at it.]
It was for Gold. I hate him.
[She added the latter in the kind of placid tone in which you might say "I know him from work" or "he makes really good pulled pork." It's not especially convincing.]
[She presses the bottle into his hand happily. This is actually the happiest she's been since ever. Wine is awesome. Meanwhile, Naomi pulls her feet in closer Indian-style and keeps babbling.]
We used to have something, a long time ago. He's a cockroach and a terrible person. But he has really good taste in scotch.
[Sounding familiar? Transference of feelings, table for one. She looks at Crowley and then pauses, like she's trying to place him. She knows him- Hades, Crowley, whatever name. But...
Then it passes and she forgets about it. A bottle of wine appears out of nowhere, which she easily uncorks and starts drinking. It's regular-strength so it won't faze her, but it's delicious.]
[Crowley undoes the bottle easily, but not before he goes through his customary examination of the label, half-listening to Naomi talk. But at the final words, Crowley pauses before glancing over at her, almost... amused.]
Well.
[With the softest huff of laughter, not quite taking a drink from the bottle yet.
You don't drink good scotch from the bottle.]
Why do you like him if he's a cockroach and a terrible person? Surely not just for the scotch.
[Screw being classy, she's drinking from the bottle. And giving him a look and clinking the bottles together to tell him to GET HIS DRINK ON already gosh.]
He's smart. And I'm drunk. He's pretty funny, it sounded like a good idea.
[In a slight murmur to himself, allowing Naomi to clink her bottle against his -- and with a slight sigh, Crowley allows himself the indignity of taking a sip from the bottle.
And if I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I'd be an extraordinarily rich man.
[It's said somewhat lazily, taking another drink of his scotch. He lets it sit in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing and allowing the burn to run down his throat.]
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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.
action;
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.]
action;
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?
action;
[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.
action;
[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.
action;
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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Did you.
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[The scotch comes to her hand obligingly and she just looks at it.]
It was for Gold. I hate him.
[She added the latter in the kind of placid tone in which you might say "I know him from work" or "he makes really good pulled pork." It's not especially convincing.]
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The demon looks irritated before he extends his hand for the bottle.
He needed liquor to cope with the week.]
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We used to have something, a long time ago. He's a cockroach and a terrible person. But he has really good taste in scotch.
[Sounding familiar? Transference of feelings, table for one. She looks at Crowley and then pauses, like she's trying to place him. She knows him- Hades, Crowley, whatever name. But...
Then it passes and she forgets about it. A bottle of wine appears out of nowhere, which she easily uncorks and starts drinking. It's regular-strength so it won't faze her, but it's delicious.]
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Well.
[With the softest huff of laughter, not quite taking a drink from the bottle yet.
You don't drink good scotch from the bottle.]
Why do you like him if he's a cockroach and a terrible person? Surely not just for the scotch.
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[Screw being classy, she's drinking from the bottle. And giving him a look and clinking the bottles together to tell him to GET HIS DRINK ON already gosh.]
He's smart. And I'm drunk. He's pretty funny, it sounded like a good idea.
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[In a slight murmur to himself, allowing Naomi to clink her bottle against his -- and with a slight sigh, Crowley allows himself the indignity of taking a sip from the bottle.
-- at least Naomi has good taste.]
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I'm sorry accidentally cracking your mind open. I didn't mean to. I got my chocolate too far in your peanut butter.
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[It's said somewhat lazily, taking another drink of his scotch. He lets it sit in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing and allowing the burn to run down his throat.]
It's nothing.
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[And it's a little heartbreaking, to see her so ignorant (innocent?) of everything, her wide blue eyes freed of so many years of secrecy and weight.]
It looks awful.
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[It's said quietly, his eyes fixated on the bottle of scotch before Crowley clears his throat and takes another sip.]
Something far more personal and private than that.
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[Everything is obviously her business, wow.]
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