maskormenacelogs | [CLOSED] I thought about the world, drank gin and watched the news

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[CLOSED] I thought about the world, drank gin and watched the news

WHO: Crowley and Aziraphale [CLOSED]
WHERE: Their assigned housing, Nonah #003 (sorry roommates they'll keep it down)
WHEN: Several days after the Swear-In and the appearance of the not!Moon
WHAT: Two timeless supernatural beings discuss the philosophical implications of-- no just kidding, an idiot angel and an idiot demon get drunk and talk at each other
WARNINGS: Not responsible for lost brain cells as a result of reading this thread

The truth is, Aziraphale has no real idea what to do about the fact that the moon seems to have been replaced with a less attractive mechanized monstrosity of a substitute. He doesn't have the depth of pop culture knowledge to place any particular significance on what it is, but he has the definite sense it's probably not anything good. He's an angel, after all, he has a sense for the general goodness of things. It's in his job description.

And this is not good. It may even be bad.

Of course, there's really only one solution to something bad and confusing turning up in his life. The old tried and true method -- alcohol and Crowley.

Well, it worked for Armageddon. Sort of. Whatever, the details weren't important.

What is important is that the angel is currently knocking on the door to Crowley's room with a brown paper sac tucked in the crook of one arm. Inside are several bottles of wine and a bottle or two of single malt Scotch. Because variety is the spice of life. And it's not like either of them need to be concerned about their livers.

"Crowley? You're in aren't you?" He's certain he is, but it's important to be polite.

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Crowley, unlike Aziraphale, has a bit more of an idea of what the thing in the sky is.

He's still not terribly concerned by it.

But he'll always take any excuse to drink with the angel, so he opens the door rather affirmatively.

"Not many people interested in purchasing reptiles the past few days, can't think why," he says by way of greeting. "Oh, a mystery bag. I do love a nice mystery bag."

The angel jostles the bag in his arm so that its contents clink in a fairly unmistakable manner. "Hopefully you'll like what's inside as well. Care for a drink?"

Drink being step one anyway. After the drinking comes the talking, as it usually tends to. "I wasn't entirely sure what to get, so I... brought options. I really do miss my collection. It took time to put that together."

His nose wrinkles just faintly in a rueful sort of look. Oh well. They'll manage if they must.

Crowley just finds himself smiling at the angel. It's so familiar and comforting, his fussing over drinks.

"It was getting rather nice," he concedes. "But let's be honest: we've dealt with a lot worse. Remember Wessex. Nothing but piss-water to drink."

He holds out a hand to inspect the offerings.

"Yes well, you do have a point there. This should be better than that at least." He hands the bag off to the demon to look through -- several bodies of various reds, all decent looking vintages a couple from France, a Chianti from Italy. Bottle of eighteen year old Scotch. And once the demon has the bag in hand, the angel will have a pair of wineglasses in his own. Tiny miracle. It barely even counts.

With that he more or less invites himself straight into Crowley's room and takes a seat at the end of the demon's bed. "Everyone really is up in arms about the appearance of that... thing... in space. Very poorly crafted, whatever it is. I much prefer the moon."

Ah well. Crowley's space is Aziraphale's space. He's far too interested in examining the vintages to worry about where the angel decides to sit.

He decides to start with the chianti. Always a good place to start, that.

"It had a pretty stupid name, too, if I remember correctly," he adds with a snort. "Death moon or something. Completely unoriginal."

Aziraphale nods, holding out the glasses to Crowley, if he's decided where to begin on the drinking. "Cliche even, yes. Though, strangely informative I suppose." So there was that.

He doesn't particularly like it. "Do you expect it's something we should be concerned about? We are, technically, living on this planet for the time being. It might be fairly unpleasant for everyone here if there's suddenly less planet. Death raining down from the heavens and all."

"And what are we supposed to do about it?" Crowley pours, handing a glass to the angel before swirling his own a bit and giving it a sniff. Not bad.

"These superheroes they've got here, they'll take care of it, then they might get a medal or something and another little tribute video. If they don't succeed, then we'll probably wind up back home."

"Be concerned, mostly. Fret some. Maybe hand wringing," the angel admits, taking the glass with a quiet thank you, following suit and breathing in the wine's scent. Maybe his wine instincts are still on point.

But he frowns. "I suppose there are, yes. Superheroes. Quite a few really." And that is a point, he does have to admit that much. But.

"But what about the people here? They seem like decent people." And Aziraphale likes people, broadly.

"What, if it all goes to pot and the not-a-moon vaporizes this planet?" Crowley takes a sip of his wine. Hm. Not bad.

"I imagine they'll all wind up back home, too. Can't say I'd be too thrilled about the prospect if I lived in a zombie film, but that's not up to me, either."

Oh, angel. You just care so much. It's very endearing.

"This is home, for people. Not the other... imported or whatever the term is, but there are natives." Of course he cares. The people of this world didn't ask for all this mess, he's certain. At least not all of them.

He's still staring down at the wine in his glass before he takes a sip. Then another. He's far too sober for all this, really. And there is one way to stop that.

"You really think we'd all wind up back where we belong? Not just obliterated on the spot?"

“The natives might not be real,” Crowley points out. “Who knows, this whole thing could be some sort of construct, built for the benefit of ImPorts.”

He’s seen too many sci-fi films, probably.

He could add that, being mortals, they’re all going to die sooner or later, but Aziraphale knows that as well as he does, and it won’t make the angel feel any better.

“They’ll figure it out,” he says instead. “That’s the whole point, innit? The hero-types will save the day.”

Far too many sci-fi films. Aziraphale frowns, considering it, and downing the remaining wine in his glass before reaching for the bottle. He's not sure he buys that bit. All the people here, imPort or native or anything all feel real, and that's enough for the angel to believe they are.

He shifts further back on the demon's bed, leaning against the wall and making himself at home.

"Yes, yes I expect that is the point. I'm sure you're right." Probably. But also there goes most of his next glass.

Crowley studies Aziraphale for a moment. Ugh. He looks so worried. He hates that.

"What would you do about it, anyway?" he asks, almost curious. "Neither of us knows anything about - that sort of thing." He waves a hand vaguely.

"That... that is the thing. I don't know. It's so far beyond..."

Well. Beyond anything. That's half the problem. This world is strange and the angel feels more than a bit out of his league.

He gestures upwards, despite the fact that only the ceiling is visible, in the general vicinity of the death-base-not-moon. "How the Hell is it even possible?" Now the angel just sounds grumpy, offended at the thing for daring to exist in the first place.

Crowley has no answer for that. Instead, he refills his own glass (and downs most of it in one gulp. Oops.)

“I... suppose you could perform some blessings,” he suggests eventually. “Y’know, help out the ones who are trying to stop it.” Hey, if it’ll make the angel feel better, feel like he’s doing something so he’s not just moping about, Crowley will call it a win.

"I suppose I could. Yes. That's something..." even if in a way it feels a bit like just patting them on the back a bit and shuffling them off to space. It's still something, and that makes him feel a little better. Talking with Crowley does have that effect.

But onto the next glass goes the angel. He's starting to feel it, but only just, and that is nowhere near enough for what he's going to say next. "Do you think we can die here? Rather than just... discorporate, as it were."

Because he can't feel Heaven. What would even become of the non-physical part of him without a physical vessel to ground himself in in that situation?

Oh, angel. Why do you have to drop the really existential questions before either of them are properly drunk? Ugh.

"Nah, we'd be fine," he says automatically, waving his glass about a bit. "I mean... these bodies are probably just copies, anyway. And it'd take a lot more than a space station vaporizing a planet to actually kill us. Nah, worst case scenario, we'd get discorporated and wind up back home. Painful and annoying but we've been through worse."

It's possible he's trying to convince himself as much as Aziraphale.

He's asking himself the same question and drinking his wine while forgetting entirely to taste it -- which is high up among the cardinal sins, isn't it?

"Do you think so?"

The angel wants to be that optimistic. He really does. A frown and he wrinkles his nose at the memory. "It is painful. And disorienting. ...discorporating, I mean. I don't recommend it. At all."

Once in six thousand years was more than enough.

Crowley would also like the angel to be that optimistic. That's supposed to be Aziraphale's job. He's the optimistic one! Crowley is supposed to be the downer in this relationship!

"Imagine how I felt," he mutters, trying not to mentally relive the moments when he found the bookshop burning, the angel nowhere to be found - or sensed. His mouth twists a little and he decides to switch to something harder, reaching for the single malt.

It's a good thing his soul is already damned for all time, because he's not giving the whiskey any time to breathe before downing two fingers of it straight.

Oh good lord, there it is. They should've apparently started with the whiskey to begin with, given the direction he's taken the conversation. ...which really he is control of and should have realized, but that involves a level of thinking ahead that he has not been practicing.

He does however, wave his empty glass at Crowley once the whiskey is open. Give give. Give. Please?

If they weren't what they were, mixing wine and hard liquor would be a hell of a hangover. Perks of being ethereal-slash-occult beings, he supposes. Aziraphale does pause though, considering. "How you felt?"

Not drunk enough for that question either. But there it is. Because he certainly does recall finding Crowley across the nebulous time and space of being a discorporated entity.

Crowley squishes his face up into something that looks rather pained, even as he reaches out to pour some whiskey for the angel.

"Aw, c'mon, do I really need to rehash that? It was embarrassing enough the first time," he mutters. "I told you I thought I'd lost my best friend..."

Annnnnnnnd drink.

In Aziraphale's defense, he'd been a little distracted that first go around, trying not to vanish into thin air. He takes his glass back -- does let it breathe, but not nearly long enough to count -- before sipping at it, thoughtful.

"So... you did mean me?" He's really not this stupid. He isn't. But he is remarkably talented at self doubt at times. It's a genuine innate gift. The smile on his face is a little pleased though.

"I really did expect to find you halfway to Alpha Centauri. Or some other star. But I'm glad you weren't."

"'Course I meant you, what other best friend did you think I have?"

Honestly. Aziraphale is so dense sometimes!

He needs another drink.

"Would've been boring without you," he adds.

"I don't know. You could be popular in certain circles." Maybe? Yes?

...no. Probably not, given that as long as he's known the demon, they've both been the most consistent figure in each other's life.

And now he's just plain beaming at him. Boring without him. That's right. Because he's a very interesting and fun angel. Probably the funnest of all angels -- though let's be fair that bar is so low they had to dig a ditch for it. "Because I'm fun."

Oh. Oh, he really doesn't want to encourage Aziraphale. But...

"Well, yeah, you're a lot more fun than any of the demons, that's for sure," he says finally.

It's possible the alcohol is starting to work its magic.

"You like music and theatre and alcohol and food."

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