Shaken, Rattled and Rolled. Open log

[curious_copycat]

Who: Polly (curious_copycat)
What: Polly trying to drown her sorrows in a chocolate malt. Come help her cheer up? (and possibly find out what happened... maybe.)
When: Tonight
Where: Daddy'O's Burger Joint
Warnings: PTSD and poodle skirts.

Comments

[yellow_snakeyes]

Crowley was in one of his rare periods of sobriety between bouts of crippling inebriation. He'd quickly decided this was going to be one of the shorter ones he'd allowed himself over the past month, as he'd sobered up just enough to realize the station had gone back in time to an era Crowley liked to pretend had never happened: The 1950s

[curious_copycat]

The girl, who had seated herself in a corner booth, the better to watch the people and aliens in their retro garb, looked up from the frozen chocolate drink. She blinked as if mildly surprised at being spoken to. Focusing on Crowley, her smile took a moment too long to light up her face, a little less bright than usual.

"Hi, Mr. Crowley," she said, trying to sound cheerful. He was one of her favorite friends, after all.

She held up the tall glass a little.

"Have you tried one of these before? They taste funny..."

[yellow_snakeyes]

If he'd been less preoccupied with his own miserable little problems, he might have noticed Polly's smile was not up to its usual brightness. As it was, he just seated himself across from her - uninvited - and settled right in.

"Yeah, I have. They're pretty good, though I like plain milkshakes better." He paused for a moment, almost at a loss for something else to say. Spending so much of the past month pissed out of his mind seemed to have affected his capacity for conversation. "Do you like it?"

[curious_copycat]

The weary smile widens a little as he sits down, a little grateful for the company. She settled back in her seat, as well, turning the glass absently on the table, leaving a little trail of condensation as it scooted across the surface.

"I think it's okay... But I think you're right."

She glanced up, noticing that he looked a little weary himself. She'd known Aziraphale's disappearance was hard on him, but for the first time she really realized how hard. This wasn't a place for the kind of imbibment he'd offered her, when she'd been feeling down, but at least she could try to return the favor a bit...

"Would you like something too?"

[yellow_snakeyes]

Crowley slouched where he sat, trying to get comfortable. When the booth seat solidly resisted this attempt, he thumped it with the palm of one hand, and it was immediately much more accommodating.

His first instinct was to say 'no' because he really didn't, but then the thought that she was trying to help him the same way he'd helped her floated serenely through his mind across a lot of otherwise chaotic thoughts, and he paused for a moment to process it.

"...Yeah. Sure."

[curious_copycat]

Polly gave another smile, not quite so wan as the first, and waved the waitor-- a green, betentacled, vaguely insect-like alien in a leather jacket--over. It helped her to forget about her problems, focusing on helping him with his, even if it was only a little.

"We'd like to order things, please."

[yellow_snakeyes]

"A double side of chips and a chocolate milkshake, I guess," Crowley said. "No malt."

"Chips?" the waiter repeated with a confused blink of its multi-faceted eyes.

"Fries," Crowley substituted with a vaguely irritated glare.

"Oh, yeah, right. Got it. Anything else for you, Miss?" the waiter asked, turning to Polly.

[curious_copycat]

Polly fiddled with her malt a little, then glanced up at the weighter.

"Can I have a regular milkshake, too, please? And a hamburger?"

The waiter gave an insect-like chirp that hopefully meant yes. When he'd gone, Polly turned her attention back to her friend, a little edge of concern showing up in her eyes as she took him in, unfocused and irritable and Aziraphale-less.

Were it not for the table between them, she probably would've hugged him.

"How are you doing, lately, Mr. Crowley?"

[yellow_snakeyes]

"Eh," Crowley said with a shrug, avoiding her eyes (which wasn't too difficult anyway given his ever-present sunglasses). "I've been worse." Which was the truth. He always felt bad lying to Polly. Or, that is to say, if he ever did lie to her, he knew he would feel bad. He'd managed to avoid it so far.

"What about you?" Polly was always well, or seemed to be. He'd much rather talk about her. If nothing else, changing the focus of the conversation to her was much more likely to cheer him up than if it remained on him.

[curious_copycat]

At the question her face falls a little, and it's her turn to avoid gazes.

"I'm...."

She scowls, just as unhappy with the prospect of lying to Crowley as he is at the idea of lying to her.

"I'll... I'll be alright."

She's pretty sure that's true at least. She's always alright; healing is what she does, right? She's practiced it a lot... Nonetheless, if Crowley has a look at the psychic side of her, he'll find a roil of betrayal and pain and uncertainty and sorrow under a thin veil of protective numbness.

[yellow_snakeyes]

That was such an uncharacteristic and totally unexpected response, she immediately had his full, undivided attention. No longer slouching, Crowley was sitting up straight and leaning ever so slightly on the table between them. His glasses had slid down just enough he was looking over the rim, seeking eye contact where just a moment before he'd avoided it, and finding none. Her aura - which he hadn't looked at directly before simply because he was in the habit of tuning them out - told him much more than just her eyes could, anyway.

"Polly. What happened?"

[curious_copycat]

The direct question earned him the eye contact that he sought, a look of
startlement that bordered on panic crossing her face before she seemed to
collapse in on herself, shrinking back into her side of the booth, gaze falling.

She wanted to say nothing. She wanted to tell him not to worry--she
never wanted him or any of her friends to worry. And she didn't want them
hurting Kiriko, either, and she knew there were a few who might want
to...

She covered her face with her hands, trying to shut out the memories that even
thinking about talking about the torture stirred up. Huddled wretchedly,
she managed to force one word out.

"Kiriko..."

[yellow_snakeyes]

He'd seen auras like hers before. Hundreds of thousands of times. He could infer what had happened, even if he couldn't guess the specifics, and the thought troubled him. Simple break-ups didn't look like that. Abuse did.

Comforting and understanding were really more Aziraphale's area of expertise, but Crowley had covered for him enough over the millennia he had a fairly good handle on it...and never before had he been more thankful for that than he was now.

"Tell me what happened, Polly." Even as he reached across the table with a hand, offering physical contact, he reached out gently with his mind as well, not far enough to touch but just close enough she couldn't help but sense him. Projecting comfort and safety and love (though he would call the last something else if asked, as he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that as a demon, fallen and damned, he was incapable of feeling love [despite all evidence to the contrary]), he waited for her response - It was up to her to accept what he was offering. He wouldn't force it on

[curious_copycat]

She looked up at him, hands still pressed to her mouth, tears brimming in those gasflame eyes. She hesitated for a long moment. She had no thought of deserving, one way or the other. For all that she'd learned about morality, it did not come naturally enough to her, for the depth of shame he feared to be possible.

She simply didn't want to think of it. She didn't want to acknowledge it further--it would make what had been done to her all the more real. But she couldn't deny Crowley's request--especially not when he was offering the very things she needed right now--had been needing since it had happened.

If he'd asked for her soul in return, she might have given it. As it was, all he wanted was an answer. All he wanted was to help her.

Hesitantly, tentatively, her hand slid across the table to grasp his, and her mind opened to him, giving him in thought what she couldn't give in words: the helplessness and terror of waking up to darkness, the blindfold binding her eyes and the rope binding her to the chair. Kiriko's

[yellow_snakeyes]

He held her hand tightly as she poured her memories into him, and opened himself fully to accept them. He took in all of her pain, helplessness, and terror, and accepted it. He couldn't take it away, couldn't make it as though it had never happened, but he could share it, take it into himself, lessen its burden on her. He could give back peace, calm, and safety. He could soothe the rough edges of her raw betrayal, ease the pain the memories brought, reassure her that he was here with her and that he was far more real than her memories, which - unlike a mortal's - were sharp and solid, heavy, almost tangible. They had the potential to overwhelm him if he wasn't careful, though the anger he felt toward Kiriko for what he had done to this innocent creature did more than enough to keep that danger at bay.

He was careful to keep that particular emotion separate from her, however, though as he quickly grasped the full scope of what Polly had been put through, the anger he felt at himself for not being there made that suddenly

[curious_copycat]

While the rest of the diner did not notice the change in Crowley's location,
Polly most certainly did. As his arms slid around her, she burrowed against him, no longer able to hold back the tears. She had not wept since that night, and she found that, now she had started, she couldn't seem to stop.

So, she just... clung to him.

If the sobbing drew attention, which it surely must have, she did not notice or care, her world narrowed down, as it was, to the lifeline Crowley provided. True to his efforts, she felt no sense of his anger--toward himself or her lover--only the safety and peace he intended her to feel, and, slowly, it began to soothe her through the tumult the memories had stirred.

Gradually the sobs died away to soft, hiccuping sniffles, but she continued to huddle there against him, as if he were the only thing holding her up.

"Mr. Crowley, I don't know what to do..." she whispered...

Then, as an afterthought, her tone apologetic.

"... I made your jacket all wet..."