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]

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 her (he wouldn't force anything on her, never on her), but he hoped more than anything that she would accept. There had been so many times he'd been rejected, because the object of his attention believed with all their heart that they didn't deserve what he was offering.

If she believed that...he honestly didn't know what he would do.

[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 coldness and his questions, and her protests and her sickness and pain as the torture progressed. His assertion that he would prefer to die and his hollow, horrid laughter as he'd turned the machine all the way up. How it had broken her.

She told Crowley everything.

[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 difficult. Where had he been while this had been happening to Polly? Lost in the bottom of a cocktail glass somewhere, wallowing in his own pitiful misery. And Polly considered him her friend? He was hardly fit to be called that.

But he would berate himself properly later. Right now all of his attention needed to be - was - for Polly. No one in the restaurant noticed his transition from one side of the table to the other. He pulled her close to him, the strong, physical embrace corresponding with the psychic one he'd begun as soon as she'd taken his hand. He would hold her, stay with her, in whatever capacity she needed, for as long as she needed. It wouldn't in any way make up for his absence when she had most needed help, but it would, at least, help her now. Because that was important, too.

[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..."

[yellow_snakeyes]

He held her close as she wept, silently supporting her and sending a few pointed glares at the curious glances they were drawing from the rest of the diner patrons. Most turned back to their meals without further provocation, though a few muttered unpleasantly to their tablemates. Crowley didn't care.

He held her while she cried, offering all the comfort he could, and then carried right on holding her as her tears subsided and she seemed to regain control of her physical reaction. He would hold her - physically and psychically - until she pulled away.

"Don't worry about it. It'll dry." It was the last thing he was worried about, at any rate.

"Do? I'd have your locks changed, for a start." For all Kiriko was a very interesting gentleman, he was also - as was now glaringly obvious - a complete psychopath. Crowley wasn't surprised, persay; he'd been alive for thousands of years, and witnessed the absolute worst humanity had to offer, and he'd had some inkling given past conversations with the man. This wasn't the worst, but it was definitely a contender. Amplified, perhaps, by the very vested interest Crowley had in Polly's well-being. He could wait until after they parted to really think about what she had shown him, and become properly disturbed then.

[curious_copycat]

Head rested wearily on his shoulder, she nodded.

"I have... I couldn't... sleep, until I made the door promise not to let anyone in without my permission. I'm still afraid I'll wake up and he'll have me back there... But I miss him, and..."

She shook her head, hiding her eyes against the warm cloth.

"It's worse than when Mother used to hurt me... She always did, it was normal. But it's supposed to be different when a person really loves you, isn't it? It's supposed to be better...?"

She pulled back enough to look up at him, eyes questioning to the point of pleading. When she spoke, her voice was an urgent whisper.

"He said he loves me, and he was going it because he loves me, but... It doesn't make sense, Mr Crowley, I don't understand!"

[yellow_snakeyes]

"I don't understand either, Polly. I'm sorry." It was a rare occasion when Crowley apologized for any reason, much less with any sincerity, but...well, it wasn't that often he allowed himself to get close enough to another person to require sincerity, either. Life was much easier without the added burden of emotional attachment, and Crowley did so enjoy easy living. Some things couldn't be helped though, it seemed. Keeping one arm firmly wrapped around her, he brushed the thumb of his other hand gently across her cheek, wiping aside some of the residual moisture from her weeping, and followed the gesture by smoothing stray strands of damp hair away from her face and tucking a lock behind her ear.

"Sometimes the things people do only ever make sense to themselves."

[curious_copycat]

The gentleness of the gesture sent a little shudder through her calm, and she leaned into the touch with a weary sigh. She had needed this contact, this comfort. She'd been needing it ever since that night, and the upwelling of warmth it caused, after such a long time of keeping everything that had happened and that she'd felt pent up, was nearly dizzying.

The girl found herself leaning forward before she quite caught the impulse, lips just a fraction of an inch from his, close enough for breath and warmth to pass between them, the barest shadow of a kiss, when she realized what she was doing and came up short.

With a soft gasp, she pulled back, fingers pressing to her mouth again, eyes wide. It wasn't...! And she was sure he hadn't meant... And she hadn't... Had she...?

"I-I'm sorry, I... "

She scooted away a little more, huddling in on herself again, cheeks burning. He was trying to be her friend and she'd almost...

[yellow_snakeyes]

"Hey. Don't apologize." He could easily sense her confusion at her own actions, as close as they still were. In hindsight he probably shouldn't have done all that tender tear-brushing and hair tucking, but she'd responded so positively to it...no, it was better for her that he had; the gesture had done more good than harm. So he slid his arm around her shoulders and tugged her close again, projecting as much reassurance as he knew how...which was quite a lot, actually.

...And it was right at that moment the insect-like waiter appeared with their order, which he placed in front of them with a swift and efficient manner.

"...Hungry?"

[curious_copycat]

He was so nonchalant about it, she calmed again almost instantly, settling against him with a silent relieved sigh.

The appearance of the waiter almost startles her--she'd completely forgotten about the food! She gives a small contemplative frown.

"Yes... I think."

It was hard to be sure, after everything that had happened since they'd ordered. She felt a bit drained, which she supposed was close enough to being hungry.

She pulled the milkshake over, fidgeting a bit by rubbing the condensation off of the glass.

"Thank you, Mr. Crowley..."

[yellow_snakeyes]

"You don't have to thank me." It was his own way of saying 'you're welcome.' He moved his chips to a more central location on the table (for easier sharing), and nudged her plate closer to her. He knew from experience, both by watching people and by some more personal occurrences, that food did a lot to ease the aftershock of intense emotional upsets. Merely one of the many odd quirks of having a physical body.

"Just do me a favor, okay? If you ever get into trouble again, call me." The memory of her terror and confusion when she'd discovered that not only was the man she had been calling for not coming, he knew perfectly well what was happening to her and wasn't going to stop it was still very fresh in his mind. "If I can hear you, I'll find you."

[curious_copycat]

Polly gave a somber nod, stealing one of his chips. For anyone else it might have seemed strange that she had something of a guardian demon, and the person she was in the most danger from considered himself something of an angel...

"I will, I promise."

The fry was warm and crisp and somehow tasted vaguely of cinnamon, and it did manage to make her feel a little better.

"I... If I ever have to call you... because of him... Please promise that you'll try not to hurt him?"

[yellow_snakeyes]

"I don't hurt mortals. They do that well enough on their own." It was mostly true. Crowley didn't care for physical confrontation. Never had. A few well-placed words, on the other hand, were more often than not just as effective as physical blows, and had the added benefit of remaining long after bones healed and bruises faded. Whoever had coined the phrase about sticks and stones had been deluding himself.

Kiriko's actions would catch up to him eventually, whether or not Crowley did anything to him. He was more interested in protecting Polly, anyway.