logsinthenight | ansa vilt í náttini svørtu // catch-all // semi-open

Entry tags:

ansa vilt í náttini svørtu // catch-all // semi-open

characters: Aziraphale and... you?
location: Miner's Castle #3, or your home, or town square
date/time: Jan 7th-25th ish?
content: Catch-all up to the total blackout event (??? i forgot what this was called again and i just looked it up)
warnings: Extremely fussy angel

It's cold outside (open)
[ Aziraphale took all of the vegetables and the meats and seasonings that Crowley had gotten from the grocery - braved the cold to go retrieve him, bless - and naturally used it to make soup. A lot of soup. Way too much soup. In fact, this is a miraculous amount of soup for the ingredients used, and quite tasty. It helps that it's been bulked up by some sort of grain - rice, noodles, perhaps both. It's not as hearty as a stew, but it manages to fill container upon container.

Which means that, naturally, at your door, stands a snowman-looking being. He has pale blue eyes and frosty eyelashes peeking up over his scarf. He appears to have either fashioned a coat out of a comforter, or just to be wearing one tied around himself, since he looks more marshmallow than human at the moment.

But what is really, really important, is that he is holding an impossibly hot container in his hands. ]

May I come in? I've made some soup for your household.

Let's stay in (closed to Miner's Castle #3 Residents)
[ It's cold outside, so once everyone's in and there appears to be enough supplies for everyone to hunker down for duration of the cold snap, Aziraphale starts to place pieces of fabric or fuzz or whatever is available around the sides of windows, around the edges of doors, to try and fill in the gaps.

He frowns at the sheer amount of items needing covered, wonders if he shouldn't just draw the curtains and tape them shut. Occasionally he'll either enlist the help of one of his housemates, or go check up on them to make sure they're not in need of tea or a blanket. ]

You'll catch cold like that.

[ He'll say this, regardless of how warmly the other is dressed.

Eventually, he might pull out a boardgame from a previous resident, and blow off the dust, set up the pieces, and see if his family would like to stay snowed-in and play. ]

Oh look, yarn! (open)
[ Aziraphale can't knit or crochet to save his life. But what he can do is make frames out of sticks, and wrap the yarn around them to make snowshoes. It doesn't look like this is going to melt anytime soon, or quickly, so he thinks this might be a pertinent venture. If you ask, he'll make you a pair. Or, he'll teach you! ]

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"Oh, alright. Well, let's have a seat then," he says, as he smiles reassuringly and then moves over to somewhere more comfortable for the two of them.

Like last time, the Soldier settles on their knees on the floor in front of the couch, letting Aziraphale sit on the couch. They don't really need a calming blessing this time; despite the general undercurrent of fear, the spike from a moment ago is gone, and they've done this before. It's not an unfamiliar thing.

And they want. The memories of Hannukah. Of family. Of something. If it comes with something bad, this time they're ready for it, and accept that sometimes good just comes with bad attached. It's fine. They want to see how it's done, and only practice will help them do that.

So they kneel, and wait expectantly. Hopefully, even.

Aziraphale takes a seat and looks at Bucky with the sort of scrutiny that seems to be too intimate for anyone, but there's nothing unsavory behind his eyes.

He steadies himself before he dips into the memories as if putting a toe in a pool, guiding himself gently towards the lightest memories, those of Hanukkah or family or anything that might have Steve in it.

He doesn't know what he'll find this time.

Like before, the Soldier's mind is pretty clearly divided between accessible and inaccessible memories. Compared to Aziraphale's last trip inside, though, the barrier between the two spaces is... fraying, a little. The holes are easier to find and a little bigger, both the darkness and the light of life before Beacon leaking out a little more than before. It's not a flood, but there's definitely a noticeable change. The Soldier's mental presence still can't follow through, though they try their damndest to try and feel what Aziraphale is doing anyway.

Whether both of them thinking about what they want to find helps, or the recent knowledge dump sifted them closer to the surface, what Aziraphale is after is surprisingly close and ready to bring to light. Steve, plus family, plus holiday leads to:

He's dragging a ten year old Steve to the house, trying to explain again as they go. "You don't have to do any of it," he's saying. "If you don't want to. But it's fun. Pa and Becca only do the fun stuff, not the fasting stuff, since Pa isn't Jewish or anything and Becca's a whiner. Ma made a good dinner, you can have that either way."

"I don't know," Steve says, reluctant, even though he's walking after him, hasn't yanked his hand away or turned back, even though the last friend he'd tried to bring along for a non-Catholic holiday hadn't even gotten this far. "You're sure your folks won't mind?"

"They said I should invite you," he repeats, stamping one foot a little harder on the next step, as if that will emphasize the point. "And I want you to."

"Well, if you want me to, sure," Steve drawls, and he lets Steve's hand go to punch him in the shoulder, but they're both grinning.

"We even got chocolate for the dreidel game," he says, pushing open the front door to the apartment, letting out heat from the oven, noise from three little sisters all yelling at each other, and Ma yelling at them to shut up. Steve looks overwhelmed. He just grins harder. "It'll be great, you'll see. Ma, Pa, I brought Steve!"

That's where it ends, and the Soldier sits blinking on the floor, digesting it, trying to settle the idea that they had sisters, parents, people who wanted to know their friends. People he came from.

When it's all over, Aziraphale wipes a tear away from his eye. "Thank you for sharing that with me," he says, quietly. "It was a beautiful memory." His family had never been like that, or much of anything at all. Sure, he loved all of them dearly, but it was in the way angels loved everything. The only one he'd personally loved more than strictly necessary was God Herself.

"I think we should have-- should've looked for these sooner," he says. "We could've helped you celebrate Hanukkah." Well, without a menorah. They could've made an attempt.

"You shared it with me." And now the Soldier is wiping their eyes, too. "Wouldn't have found it without your help." And now they know, at some point, some time in the distant past... they had sisters, a mother and a father. They know something more concrete about... heritage. Whatever that means, exactly.

He smiles at Soldier and that somehow triggers more tears. It seems that he can sort of feel the high emotions coming off of him. "Perhaps I could find another one, if you like. Of Becca."

Becca. Dark hair. Blue eyes. "I. Think I have one. Pinky promise." They look at their own (metal) fingers and frown, though at least it doesn't look like they're trying to extract one of those from Aziraphale-- just thinking hard. "Daylight wanted to do a pinky promise and I saw. Little girl. Think that was her."

Oh, what a sweet memory. "Yes, it's a gesture often made by children, a vow. Do you remember what was promised?" he asks. "Would you like to?"

"Yes," they say quietly, still looking down at their hands on their knees. "I didn't know she was." They don't say sister. Not out loud. It feels too fragile and strange. "I didn't know who she was."

"Oh," he says. "Oh, well, she loved you. Your whole family did, I could tell." He tries to give Bucky a smile. "I can try to find more about them."

You didn't even see them, Aziraphale, just got a mental earful of them bickering with each other. But the Soldier wants it to be true. Wants to find out more, even if it's fragile and strange. Even if it's dangerous. "Okay. Okay, yes."

Well, maybe not, but he does feel love. It radiates its warmth. "Yes, alright. Just close your eyes for me, and try to think about the memory we just found. It'll be a good starting off point, I think."

They do so. The Daylight memory that sparked the association is strong, and the very brief flash of the earnest little girl is much less so, but they try to hold onto it. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Pink ribbon in her hair. Not smiling-- serious, holding out her finger to hook into-- into his, because back then it was still "he". It was only a flash, but there are little details to fixate on. Just no context.

Aziraphale can find the context, though it takes a minute of hunting, following the train of thought, and tossing back more malicious memories. It's a little less happy than the last, but it's clearly the right one:

"You have to pinky swear," Becca says soberly. She's all of six years old, and she's very serious about this.

He understands. He's a whole seven and a half, and he's serious about this, too. He has to be a good big brother, especially since their Ma is so sad right now she's not even cussing, and their Pa is mostly not talking to anybody at all. "I swear," he says, letting her take his hand and hook their pinkies together. "I won't go nowheres."

"Me, neither," she says, and shakes their joined hands together. "Swear you'll help take care of Susie and Jeanie, too."

"Aw, Becca," he whines.

"Swear!"

"Okay, okay. I promise." It's the least he can do. Little Toby's gone to the heaven now, or so their Pa said, but even so it feels like nobody's going to be happy again. The least he can do is look after his sisters until his Ma and Pa feel better. Hopefully they feel better.

Like last time, though, the second wanted memory comes with something much less savory right on its heels. The Soldier was half-expecting it, though, and manages to scramble back and out of angellic range before he can get more than a sensation of smoke everywhere, overlaying the smell of death, the sound of sirens growing in the distance, a flash of the metal hand pulling someone small and clearly dead out of a pile of rubble.

He still smells acrid death singing his nostrils when Bucky pulls away abruptly, but he also did live through six thousand years of humanity, so it's not a new sensation. It's always an unwelcome guest.

He chooses to focus on the positive. "Susie and Jean. Lovely names for good, strong girls." He surveys Bucky for a moment, trying to gauge if he'll be alright.

They're okay. Well, all right, they're not okay, but they will be. It's enough like last time that they have a baseline for this kind of thing. They're wedged against the wall, but that's normal, that's fine. Sorting through the more complete memory, the Soldier answers automatically, "They. Yeah. Good names. Good kids. They were really young when Toby... died."

Maybe that's the connection. Dead children. Jesus, what a fucking awful mission that was. They can't let Aziraphale think they wanted to do that shit. "I didn't know there would be kids. On the mission. When the building blew. Briefing didn't say that. Tried to get some out before the handlers came for me."

"I'm sorry," he says. "I know you didn't want to harm children." It's something no normal person would want. He can see why the Soldier wouldn't want to remember something like that.

He takes a breath. "Let's take a break; I'll get you a tea." He thinks they should take it easy for a little bit.

Tea. One of these days they'll convince Aziraphale that cocoa is much better for soothing. But they're gonna sit there on the floor, by the door now, and get themselves in order and let him make whatever he wants. Something warm in a warm cup will feel nice, either way.

Two incidents doesn't quite make a pattern, but it's enough for the Soldier. Feels like two memories is the hard limit for this kind of thing, if they don't want the worst things to break loose. "Most of my missions I killed people," they say quietly after a moment, half to themselves, only about half to Aziraphale. "That's what I was for. Does it even matter that much. If they were adults or kids."

"But it wasn't you," he says. "It wasn't your idea, and you didn't want to do it. They put you in a state where you couldn't refuse; this wasn't your fault," he says. "Those lives, you regret taking them. If you had been in your right mind, you would never have done it."

The Soldier rests their elbows on their knees and tucks their head between their arms. Hiding, just a little, hair covering what little of their face would otherwise still be visible. It's gotten really long. "Still did it." That's still on them. It's still in their head. They're pretty sure they're still capable of doing it again.

They'd really felt good during the siege, when they were fighting again in earnest.

"You weren't even given a choice to take another option," he says. "But come now. Milk? Sugar?" he asks, pouring hot water into cups.

"Both, please." If they're having tea, they're having sweet, creamy tea. They stay in their comfortably curled position until Aziraphale comes back out of the kitchen, at which point they unwind and climb back to their feet. "Thanks, Aziraphale." And not just for the tea. They've got six additional memories-- three good, one okay, two bad; better than even trade-- because of him.

"Oh, it's no problem," Aziraphale responds, understanding he doesn't mean the tea. "As I said, I'm happy to help. You know that, or I hope you know that, you are a friend of mine."

The Soldier did not. Generally one is not friends with technicians, no matter how friendly they might be, how much said technicians wished to be liked. And there's been that lingering certainty that Aziraphale would be happier if they'd never come to live on his couch in the first place. They blink at him owlishly over the teacup, looking flummoxed and actually a little bit lost at the idea. "I am?"

Aziraphale blinks, also owlishly, both of them confusingly looking at each other like they didn't make sense.

"Yes?" he says, more questioning than anything.

"Are we not ...friends?"

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