tramitem_log | The Holiday from Hell

Entry tags:

The Holiday from Hell

Who: Alec, Anthony, Ellie and Fell
What: Going on a house sitting holiday to ~~terrifying~~ jolly old England.
When: 09/20-09/30
Where: Across the Pond.

Alec squinted at the house as it rose on the horizon. He was tired and jet lagged from the plane. Tired and sore from the long ride over bumpy roads in a small cab, crowded against one window by Ellie who was smushed in the middle with Anthony on the other side. Fell, being the guest, took up the front seat and was probably cramping Anthony's legs all to pieces with how much room he left which Alec felt strangely justified in.

Anyway, that house held memories, both good and bad and, mostly terrifying, but he was oddly looking forward to it. After all, everything was a little bit frightening until you knew its secrets.

---
Info on Abaddon House and the environs

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He followed, tin of biscuits in hand, mindful not to step on Alec's blanket as they went along.

"I'll promise, but only because I'm sure you don't just mean more Kettle Men and lost souls." He was giddy with anticipation at the house having actual secrets.

He opened the door that lead under the stairs, though he had to duck through to get in and gestured Fell closer, then whispered softly near his ear.

"And of course a secret is a secret." He brought out a little key ring torch that he had gotten here with and flicked it on, holding it between his teeth as he pressed a panel on the fall wall which swung inward with a creak to reveal a narrow corridor that ran between the walls.

"Welcome to Neverland. Home of lost souls and wandering spirits."

A secret passage! Undoubtedly used by the butler who would have once upon a time resided in Alec's room, but it was mysterious and magical regardless of its original purpose. A place for creepy Ms. Danvers types to skulk. Or ghosts to lurk. Or little cousins to spook their playmates.

A secret is a secret. The words themselves, surely not Alec's voice against his ear, caused a flutter of excitement and suspense in his chest.

"You shouldn't, not between your teeth," he protested quietly before Alec swung open the panel and he gasped. It was more magical than he anticipated.

"Oh--" He feels like a character in a book. His eyes sparkle even in the dark, perhaps catching the illumination from Alec's torch. "Alec, it's marvelous. How far does it go?"

He tried and failed not to enjoy himself entirely too much at Fell's delight. It was a dangerous place in more ways than one. He ignores the statement about holding it in his mouth because he only has two hands and can speak well enough around it.

"All around." And he wants to show him something he's never shown anyone, maybe a place Aunt Ashteroth doesn't even know about. "But there are steps and blind corners so hold onto me so you don't get lost.

He hesitates for reasons he can't explain. There is nothing untoward about the request or anything they're doing. It's fun. It's friendly. They may be a little giddy on plotting childish shenanigans and tiny bit tipsy on whiskey and secrets, and maybe they are sneaking around in dark hidden passages like schoolboys after curfew, but he's family.

So he fumbles around for a place to set the tin and places his hand on Alec's shoulder.

"Lead the way," he says softly.

"Not me, the blanket for fuck's sake." He snaps before he means to, the touch startles him and sends a shock through him so much so that he feels it's lucky he doesn't bite through the torch. "If I fall we'll both be wiped out."

He waits until Fell has hold of appropriate thing and starts out, grateful for the sudden draft from a side corridor that sends icy thrills down his neck.

"You said 'me,'" he grumbled, shifting to pinch just a bit of the blanket which he used to remain tethered as Alec began to move. "It's not my fault you weren't specific."

He took a face-full of cobweb, and sputtered indigently.

"Thought you had more sense." He grumbles, then frowns. "Don't breathe too deeply either. Don't know what might be in the air." This house wasn't the healthiest place at the best of times.

He lead him through the narrow hall, having to twist sideways to get around a tilting beam that was probably Concerning, and then reached the head of narrow spiraling steps. Here the rain beat a harder rhythm, which meant they were close to the outside wall, and his breath frosted in the air.

"We're going down. Carefully now. Step on the sides, not the center."

He huffed out a breath of annoyance just as Alec advised against breathing in the dust and mildew and whatever else god knows was in here. It didn't warrant thinking about. There were probably mice and rusty nails and good grief, what was going to be on his slippers? In his hair?

"If I didn't know you better, I'd suspect you of taking me to taste a rare vintage of wine in your cellar." Though he groused, he continued to follow at just enough distance to not lose Alec's light or his presence, but not close enough to step on his bedding. The stairs creaked under each step and he imagined young Alec going up and down these very stairs, the sounds of his steps haunting an unknowing Anthony.

"Oh it's a very nice cask of Amontidallo. I've been saving it just for you." He did a poor impression of an evil laugh, but it was poor. He was no demon.

"Ah hang on. Do you see this?" He took the torch in his fingers so he could point it at a rusty length of pipe climbing up the damp wall. "That pipe runs into the washroom right by the guest bedroom. That's what the whistling sound is you can hear sometimes. More importantly." He leaned over, a bit precariously in the dark and knocked the butt of torch against it three times.

"The Kettle Man always rings thrice."

That said he puts the torch back between his teeth and continues on his way. The steps creak even more as they get further down but thankfully they land at the bottom without incident. He shows the torch around again.

"Sub-basement. Made before the manor house was built. It used to be a garrison once upon a time and a convent before that. The convent was the first actually, built in 1366 for Benedictine Nuns. I can show you some of the old stone work if you're interested. Anyway we're almost there now, just got to go through a bit of damp to get there."

Edited 2020-09-26 03:05 (UTC)

"I'm sure." Not even their resident demon is much of a demon so far, and for that Aziraphale is grateful. He finds he prefers his demon with his humanity intact.

"Oh, no, don't," he insists through a hushed laugh, not really trying to stop Alec's antics. "You awful thing." Although he hopes it didn't rattle Anthony too much; it was difficult not to feel a wee bit guilty for not going back to bed.

A convent. How lovely. What a rich history this place has. He would very much like to see the stonework, but then the thought reminds him of the date at the Met, and he wonders if anything about the foundation may have retained holiness, if he should worry about Anthony. He casts his gaze back towards the upper floor. Is his demon sleeping, is he warm and comfortable, unaware of Aziraphale's grand adventure into the damp circles of Hell?

"It is a bit damp. Perhaps if someone didn't spend his childhood banging on the pipes, they might be in better sorts."

Edited 2020-09-26 03:43 (UTC)

A chuckle.

"I'd get on my knees and pray for forgiveness but you'd never get me back up again."

There are some lingering patches of holiness perhaps, but not here, and not anywhere he'd show Anthony. The funniest thing was, there was no reason not to show Anthony. He might even get a kick out of it. But this place had always been his secret and his alone.

Still it was nice to know that it would live on after him, maybe into eternity if this Angel thing panned out. Not that it would last that long.

Across the sub-basement then to a tiny door which he pushed open and ducked through. The wood gave way to concrete with a room or two branching off, not that you could tell in the darkness.

"They started to build a bomb shelter here in 1943." His voice is a whisper as he sweeps the torch around in the cold empty rooms, barely looking big enough to hold a dozen families let alone everyone from the village. "But the man in charge of planning it died under mysterious circumstances not far from here. Some say he was strangled in the dark."

There were actually several tales about him, though the one Alec knew was probably true he wouldn't relate to Fell. Spooky stories were one thing, but depressing reality no one could quite shake even if they wanted to.

A sharp turn left here through what seemed to be a crack in the wall, the cold damp reaching up through the soles of his feet, and then he took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy wooden door.

There was a soft sigh, a gasp, a rush of air pressure no doubt, but nothing had changed here. Taking the torch in his fingers he let Fell glance around in the darkness. It was a crypt. An old one. So old that some were merely shrouds tucked into alcoves, rosaries sunk into their ribcage.

But in the center is a raised tomb, a woman in stone effigy, clutching a sword, her hair curled around her. She was no nun and no saint and who she might have been, he has no idea. He doesn't even dare touch the forehead though he used to do when he was younger, tracing the lines of her brow and nose and wondering.

"I used to sneak down here all the time just to get away, bring some books. One time I spent so long reading I fell asleep in the corner there and when I came back found they'd sent out a search party."

Edited 2020-09-26 04:12 (UTC)

"Oh, now you're just pulling my leg," he said softly, because it sounded like a ghost story. He wondered, though, about the man. And about the bomb shelter. If lives were lost without it.

And then, through the next door, another grim reminder of mortality, another fragile relic. He looked, but he didn't dare touch. It wasn't his place.

A secret is a secret. This was Alec's secret and it was morphing from the fun, silly secret of playing Anthony's boogeyman, to something more somber. A solitary little boy found comfort in the dark depths of this house. It was holy, maybe not in the traditional sense, but this was a scared place to Alec and perhaps Alec alone. It was a bit, Aziraphale thought, like touching a piece of his soul.

He no longer regretted not going back to bed. He and Anthony had time, but this was a rare moment. It was an honor. It was humbling to be custodian of such a treasured secret and he wondered if he would ever have anything of equal value to share in exchange for the secrets the Crowleys had separately entrusted him with.

But, also... He once accompanied a friend up the coast to Maine. They walked the shoreline together and the man spoke in detail about visits in his youth, about his sister and his mother, now estranged from him, and about what those times meant to him. The man was dying and he was asking to for his ashes to be cast out here during the fall, when the leaves changed, because he had always loved the sunlight through the copper leaves. Maybe Aziraphale was wrong, maybe this wasn't that at all. Maybe.

"Alec." He let out a stunned breath as he reached out for Alec. This place felt the opposite of spooky. It felt sentimental and, maybe, a bit loved.

A bit of a smile at that tone, though not an altogether happy one. He knew Fell would know and he should have guessed that kind of gesture would follow. He pretends he doesn't see that outstretched hand, instead moving further into the catacombs to sit in his spot, an old spot, worn a bit but still a groove that lines up with his spine. He looks at Fell, wrists on his knees.

"It's funny... in the other life, this isn't here. In the other life -- there is murder. A little girl somewhere but I can't imagine I was any good to her. I didn't kill those kids at least, but... I was apparently investigating their deaths." He closes his eyes and leans his head back.

"Only the first one, I botched it up somehow. That poor girl in the water. I don't even know her name. I just know I was disgraced." He'd had that just before he left. That memory. That chilly knowledge. "And now this boy... so young... just lying there on the beach. Death shouldn't happen to the young, Fell. It should only happen to the old and weary and -- and the people that deserve it."

He wishes he could have been better, could have done more, even if he were an angel or a demon or anything except being someone just like he is. Maybe his heart is in the right place, but if he can't succeed in helping, what good is it?

The idea that Alec was a detective, probably a policeman, is both surprising and fitting. Fitting because he's a natural investigator and problem solver; has been since the first moment Aziraphale met him. Surprising because, well, Aziraphale has opinions about policemen, very few of them good, and because Alec is so-- He doesn't seem the type to abide by an unfair and unjust system and the system is exactly THAT.

The deaths of innocent children was a price they paid for Free Will. He wonders if it is truly worth it.

"I agree." How could a 'benevolent' God have allowed for such things in the world, he'll never understand. "However, he adds, hovering nearby, "I think people are perhaps too liberal with the term 'disgraced." He considers sitting down, but god knows what's down there. "I cannot imagine you doing anything that would rightfully justify falling from grace. You're a difficult man, but you're good, and human, and doggedly just."

He spares Alec from whatever emotion might be welling up in his eyes and settles his gaze on the dimly lit sword-bearer. "I don't imagine you would ever give up on those children. I imagine you would be their champion in a world that wronged them, even when the world wrongfully cast you out. That's not botching the job at all. That's commendable."

He wants to say that trying is never good enough. He wants to say that people will always let you down and he was hardly a saint. But for once he kept his gob shut and just accepted it. Maybe Fell was wrong, maybe he was right, who knew. Maybe there was a standard there to live up to or one he never could. So he gave Fell a gift, for coming down here, for understanding.

"Thanks... That means a lot." And oddly enough, it did. "And who knows, if I'm still alive there, maybe I'll solve it. Maybe I'll give some families peace if nothing else. That's better than nothing, isn't it?" But then he's done, his optimism is used up. He feels tired and weary and even the now cooled cocoa isn't doing much for him.

"And thank you for coming to see this place."

He's known Alec long enough to recognize the gift for what it is, so he accepts what he has been given and doesn't press his optimism further.

"You're welcome. Thank you," he says, "for inviting me." He wants to say more, to be better appreciative of this moment they've shared, but he leaves it at that, hoping Alec understands all that he means and has left unsaid in his brevity.

After a moment more of taking in the quiet serenity of the place, he holds out his hand to help Alec up. "Care to head back before they send out a search party?"

As for that... well...

"Right so, first of all, let's just pretend to have the conversation where I send you on ahead and you protest and we argue until you finally leave with a sad face. It really saves a lot of time." He hands the torch up to Fell.

"It's just a straight shot and don't go anywhere else if you can help it. I'll show you around more later but some of the floors are just gone. Also don't worry about me, I still know this place in the dark."

He rolls his eyes and accepts the torch with an unimpressed glare and a very VERY put-upon sigh. You know? He knew this was coming. But you can't fault a man--an angel--for trying.

"Alright." He leans down to fuss with the blanket, pulling it tighter around Alec's shoulders before stepping back, pleased enough with his handiwork. "Don't be late for breakfast, please."

Aziraphale wants to stay, lingering a moment longer as he fights off a protective instinct, disguising the dawdling as taking a last look around. But, trying to be respectful of Alec's wishes, he finally stops at the door.

"Goodnight, Alec."

"Don't mother me." Grumbling as the blanket is adjusted but not minding it as much as he ought. He watches as Fell heads to the door and then snuggles a little further under the quilt.

"Night, Fell. Sweet dreams." He listens to him walk away, traces his passage as much as he can and subconsciously listens for the noise of splintering wood and high pitched screams. When, after a while, there's nothing but the quiet and the sighing of the wind, he relaxes.

The silence falls around him he closes his eyes, but doesn't sleep. There will be plenty of time for that and a short time coming.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The Holiday from Hell

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject